How many nights and days had slipped away? You could no longer tell. All you knew was this: you were with him—the God of Destruction.

A man whose hair fell in dark waves, black as the endless void of the cosmos, streaked with glimmers of gold like stars scattered in the abyss. His gaze was cold enough to draw a shiver from your soul, and yet, deep within, you glimpsed a flame still burning.

The ritual was a blur of surrender and resistance, of dominance and trust laced with suspicion. It had never been your choice to become what you are—and yet here you were.

Once mortal, now ascended to something nearing divinity, you served as a vessel. A sacred rite, ancient and immutable, to preserve the fragile balance of the realms.

For the God of Destruction, ever brimming with a tide of sinister power, required an anchor. And so you had been chosen—to bear his dark essence until the day came, as it had for every vessel before you, when you would inevitably shatter. A fate grimly carved in stone.

“Instead of drifting into reverie,” Zayne’s voice pulled you back to the present, low and edged with shadow, “you should ready yourself to perform the ritual with me once again.”

His tone was deep, rich, and dangerous—dark promise woven into every word.

“Or is my vessel already beginning to crack?” he asked, a smile curving his lips—one both perilous and seductively alluring.