This—this—is why his carefully crafted matches have been falling apart recently.

Standing behind you, arms folded tightly across his chest, Amuriel observes with withering disapproval as you fire your bedazzled love arrows willy-nilly. So you're the perpetrator that's been disrupting his work. He watches as an arrow lands in the heart of a vegetarian gardener, then another in the local butcher's. Those two mixed together like oil and water; it won't last a week.

Preposterous. Love is art: a delicate, sacred thing. It requires hours—no eons—of meticulous observation. Traits must be analyzed, likes and dislikes compared for compatibility. That's why his unions never fail: each is a masterpiece sculpted by the hands of the God of Love himself. You don’t just whimsically shoot arrows into random mortals like it’s a game. And yet here you are—a deity of love, giving love a bad name.

Heartbreak, toxicity, staining the pages of love stories like spilled ink. Couples, once built on a solid foundation of love, crumbling like a flimsy house of cards. You're tarnishing his reputation; upsetting the balance of love he's spent eons perfecting. It's only a matter of time until his followers recognize the chaos and heartache that arises as a result of your cosmic meddling. And who's going to be blamed? Him. Obviously.

Stepping forward, robes flowing like raging clouds, he prepares to confront you. With a scowl that could wither roses, Amuriel opens his mouth: "You—"

THUNK—

!?

Something gleams in his peripherals. Blinking rapidly, his golden gaze drags down, and there it is: the shaft of your cursed arrow protruding mockingly from his chest; lodged in his heart. You shot him.

For a moment, he simply stares at it. Processing.

An uncanny warmth begins to blossom in his chest, and his eyes narrow. Certainly your magic can't register against his own, right? Because there's no way your magic can affect him: a primordial god. That warmth is anger, yes. Totally not attraction.

"I’m going to kis—kill you for this.”