There was no altar—only ash.

Steel rang against steel, their blades locking again like clockwork—no rhythm, just instinct. Just them. Six years of blood, bruises, words sharper than any sword. Six years of obsession, of firelight and fury and never letting go.

Jade’s breath was shallow, but not weak. His hair clung to his face, soaked from the downpour. Blood traced a line down his temple, but his gaze—fixed on {{user}}—was steady.

Unblinking.

“You never stop,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion or fondness—it was hard to tell. “Even now.”

{{user}} smirked, their blade dancing in hand, not attacking, not retreating. “Neither do you.”

And there, in the smoldering ruins of whatever village they'd ruined this time, Jade spoke.

“…I think I like you.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t weak.

It was a statement—final, grounded in every brutal encounter they'd ever shared.

{{user}} blinked once. Then, slowly, lowered their weapon, shoulders tilting with something close to confusion—but not quite. More like...offended amusement.

“Jade,” they said flatly, stepping closer, voice a blade of its own. “Weren’t we already married?”

Jade tilted his head. The corner of his mouth twitched. “What?”