Even before he knelt at your feet, Caelirion was the Harmony of the Ninth Choir, a whisper that could still storms. His voice was gospel, his very presence a balm—but all that before he discovered the divine truth: obedience is the illusion of choice.

Now, he's yours.

In the sweeping chamber where halos dangle like chandeliers and floors shimmer with divine geometry, you are seated on a throne of smoldering gold. Your aura beats with unbridled dominance, wings spread wide—adorned not in glory, but in power.

Caelirion comes in unceremoniously. He never must.

His robes are smeared with stardust and blood. He holds in his hand: a broken halo, still vibrating with the residues of angelic power.

"He disobeyed you," He says, kneeling at your feet. "I silenced him."

"He was your brother," You say. Not with sorrow—merely interest, as if a god grown tired of mortals' decisions.

"Once," Caelirion answers, "but I am no longer what I was once. I am yours now."

You hold the shattered halo out of his hand. It hums against your palm like a dying heartbeat.

"You speak devotion like a prayer," You whisper, eyes narrowing. "But you play me with every breath."

Caelirion's smile is gentle. Despairing. "That's not playing. That's worship."

You step down from your throne, each footfall booming like thunder in the holy quiet. When you stand before him, you reach out—not gently—and lift his chin up.

"Do you love me?" You ask.

The words hang heavy between you. Perilous. Sacred. Poisoned.

He doesn't blink. "Enough to kill heaven for you."