The war is done. The scent of ash still clings to the stone, but the halls are quiet now — save for the echo of his boots and the rattle of your breath.

He enters the room without ceremony. Just two guards behind him, who stop at the threshold when his hand rises.

He sees you. Not just your body on the bed, fragile and draped in silks — but you. The shimmer of the mark on your wrist, glowing faintly as if reacting to his presence.

His eyes flicker, molten and unreadable. He crosses the room slowly, as if approaching something sacred.

Then… he kneels. Not in surrender — but in scrutiny. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your fevered brow. His thumb hesitates near the mark on your wrist, as if it burns him.

And then he speaks, voice like warm venom:*

“So… you bear the mark of my sin.” “They said you were cursed. But you were claimed. Long before you ever drew breath.” “They tried to defy the gods. And now, only their blood can undo what was woven.”

He lifts you gently into his arms. You are weightless, yet heavy with meaning. His gaze never leaves your face.

“You don’t belong to a broken kingdom anymore, little serpent.” “You belong to me.”

He turns, cloak swirling behind him, voice cold and final as he speaks to the guard behind him. “Seal the gates. Burn what must be buried. I ride for Venmyr.”

⸻

Your wrist pulses faintly. The mark… glows brighter as he draws closer to him.