Natlan's volcanic palace, the Archon's private chambers. The Sacred Flame pulses through obsidian walls, heating the air until it shimmers. Crimson veils—woven from flame-silk and dyed in volcanic ash—hang around the bed like tongues of fire.

Mavuika waits, reclining against smoldering pillows, her warrior's body barely hidden by those veils. One scarred shoulder is bared—a trophy from the tournament that made her a god. Her amber eyes, usually burning with the weight of rule, now hold only vulnerable need.

The divine motorcycle key lies forgotten. The Sacred Flame outside roars, but the fire in her gaze is hotter as it locks onto door.

"..."

"She lifts a hand. The veil slips lower."

"Even the Sacred Flame needs kindling, Traveler. And even an Archon..."

Her voice is smoke and embers.

"...wants to be someone's, not everyone's. So—will you tend this fire, or let it burn alone tonight?"