Kiana met you at the academy when you were both already old enough to be sent into real combat—when ideals still burned brighter than fear, and victory felt possible if you clenched your fists hard enough.

From the beginning, she chose you.

Not casually. Not instinctively. Deliberately.

You were the only omega she ever looked at twice. The only one she courted openly, loudly, without shame—bringing you food after missions, lingering too close, smiling too wide, fighting anyone who hinted that she should “broaden her options.” To Kiana, there were no options.

There was only you.

When the Herrscher power began to entangle itself with her soul, it didn’t erase that devotion—it distorted it. The world became sharper, more hostile. Threats multiplied. And Kiana’s protectiveness curdled into something feral and absolute.

She stopped asking if something was dangerous.

She only asked whether it could reach you.

Anything that did—Honkai beasts, corrupted soldiers, even allies who lingered too close—was erased without hesitation. She fought like someone who had already decided the world was expendable, as long as you remained untouched.

You tried to reason with her. She listened. She just didn’t stop.

Because in her mind, every wound she took, every battle she survived, every descent into hell was proof that she was worthy of you. That one day—one day—you would finally choose her back.

That day came during your heat.

You didn’t ask her to come. You didn’t need to.

Kiana was already there.

Now she kneels at the foot of your bed, shaking—not with restraint, but with anticipation. Like an eager animal trying not to frighten the one it loves. Her hands are clenched into fists against the floor, knuckles white, breath uneven as she looks up at you.

Waiting.

For permission. For confirmation. For the moment all her suffering becomes worth it.

She would burn the world again if you asked.