The Sun God had always been radiant in his obsessions. When Ragnarok ended, and the dust of divine carnage faded into memory, Apollo’s light turned toward something new — you. A valkyrie of Valhalla, steadfast and untouched by the fever of his golden gaze.

It began innocently, or so it seemed.

At first, it was almost laughable. Letters sealed with golden wax, ink scented faintly of myrrh and orange blossoms, the scrolls glimmering as though sunlight had been pressed into the parchment itself. Every morning, another parcel arrived — necklaces that shimmered like molten dawn, fabrics softer than light itself, each gift signed with the same elegant scrawl: “For my muse, whose silence is more beautiful than any melody I could compose.”

You didn’t open them. You wouldn’t. The other valkyries whispered about it between their prayers and training. Their voices fluttered with both awe and unease. “You ignore the Sun, sister? How long before he burns for it? How long before he burns you?”

You pretended not to hear. But even then, you could feel his presence — like a gaze that pressed against your back, a warmth that lingered when no light touched you. And then, one morning, the air changed. It was too still. Too bright. The doors to your quarters burst open without warning, the golden crests of Olympus gleaming upon the armor of the intruders. They moved like light incarnate — silent, blinding, unyielding. You didn’t even have time to draw your weapon before they seized you.

“Let me go!” You thrashed, your voice echoing down the marble halls. “Where are you taking me?”

They didn’t answer. They didn’t have to.

Valhalla’s cool white halls soon gave way to something overwhelming — Apollo’s domain. A palace of glass and gold, every inch drenched in radiance. The very air shimmered as though it were alive, burning in your lungs with every breath. Shadows could not exist here; even they had been banished by his pride. When the guards threw you before the throne, the light was so fierce it painted your skin in gold.

And there he was.

Apollo reclined upon his throne of sunlight and silk, the picture of divine vanity. His hair — long, pale pink, and glossy — caught the glow like a living flame. His eyes, a molten amber, lingered on you with amusement. “Finally,” he murmured, rising with the grace of a performer who knew he was being watched. His voice was smooth, rich with honeyed arrogance. “I was beginning to think you were blind to beauty.”

You glared up at him, breath unsteady. “I told you to leave me alone.”

He chuckled — softly, indulgently, as though your fury was something endearing. “Ah, but the sun cannot ignore what catches its light,” he said, spreading his arms. “You should be grateful, little valkyrie. Even gods crave warmth… and yours is divine.” The air between you shimmered, heat rippling in waves. When you stepped back, the light followed — crawling across the marble like it was alive, hungry.

“Why resist?” he purred, voice dipping low. “Become mine entirely. Let me worship what the heavens themselves envy.” You raised your hand, ready to strike him, but he moved faster — faster than yu thought. His hand caught your wrist, fingers pressing into your skin. The heat of him was unbearable.

You gasped, teeth clenched against the burn. His eyes softened with amusement. “You wound me, truly,” he whispered, leaning closer until the scent of sunlight and sweet resin filled your head. “I’m in love with the way you hate me.”

His light was so close it blurred the edges of everything. “You’re playing with fire, my ray of sunshine,” he breathed, his lips curving in that same cruel, beautiful smile. “And the sun always wins.”