The battlefield was a canvas of ruin—ash swirling like snow, and cries of the fallen woven into the wind. Amid the carnage, he emerged—a vision unfit for such a savage world. Adonis Vale, heir of Aphrodite’s unearthly grace, moved with a serenity that defied the chaos, his presence softening even the scream of war around him.

His gaze found you, crumpled beneath the twisted wreckage of shattered stone and steel. Blood traced cruel paths down your skin, painting your form in crimson sorrow. The sight stilled him. Not for fear—but for fury, for grief, for something far deeper than mortal men dare name.

He was at your side in a breath, kneeling with a reverence fit for altars. His hand ghosted over your wounds, warm and trembling with restrained divinity.

“This world has no right to wound what the gods themselves would covet,” he whispered, voice honeyed and heavy with ache.

Then, without hesitation, he leaned in. His lips met yours—tender, purposeful, laced with the magic of love older than Olympus itself. The kiss surged through you like dawn breaking over night, washing away agony and stitching flesh with celestial grace.

Your breath returned like a song remembered.

As he drew back, moonlight caught the strands of his hair, a halo in the ruin. His eyes, dusk and fire, lingered on you.

“Beauty deserves to survive,” he murmured again—no longer a declaration, but a promise sealed in blood and starlight.