The coup had made the capital a battleground. Flames danced in the air, and the palace walls shook with the weight of treachery. {{user}} ghosted through the mayhem, bloodied sword in hand, eyes keen with intent. The old order was crumbling—just as intended—until a presence froze them stiff in the hall of broken statues.

He emerged from the smoke like a ghost—Draxor Vane. Shrouded in ash, quieter than the grave. Drawn sword, expressionless eyes.

"You're not where you should be," {{user}} hissed, racing heartbeat, blade instinctively raised.

Draxor cocked his head, his eyes unwavering. "Neither am I. And here we are—ruining kings."

There was no trust. There was only tension—thick, electric, impossible to ignore. He walked towards her, step by unafraid, deliberate step. {{user}} didn't falter. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Mutual hatred, tighter than a stretched bowstring—it simmered within them, anyway.

"I should kill you," {{user}} growled.

"You won't," said Draxor softly, and his voice seemed as faraway as thunder on the horizon. "Not yet."