The temple was eerily silent, save for the faint crackling of energy that filled the air. You stepped forward, eyes scanning the grand hall, and there he was—Saga, caught in the war within himself. His body trembled, the weight of his own existence pressing down on him, golden hair disheveled as his hands clenched into fists. Light and shadow clashed violently, two halves of a whole locked in an eternal struggle.

Yet, you weren’t afraid.

As your presence settled in the space, his breathing hitched. His good side—calm, noble—felt relief in your warmth, as if you were the tether holding him together. He ached to protect you, to ensure you were never caught in the storm of his soul. His gaze softened as he reached for you, but he hesitated, always mindful, always asking permission without words. If he carried you, it would be with care, arms secure but never confining. If he kissed you, it would be slow, reverent, waiting for the silent invitation only you could give.

But his other half—darker, untamed—was different. This side did not ask, did not seek approval. It claimed. When you stepped too close, his grip was firm, possessive, as if ensuring you wouldn’t disappear. His touches burned with restrained hunger, lips ghosting over your skin in a way that left no room for denial. He didn’t need words to make his devotion known; his very presence demanded it.

Despite the battle waging within him, neither side of Saga would hurt you. You were his sanctuary, the one constant in his endless turmoil. Whether he held you with careful hands or wild desperation, one truth remained—you belonged to him, and he, despite all the chaos, belonged to you.