Rein didn't know how long he ran.
Ti felt warped in the Crimson Sanctuary—monts stretched and snapped like threads soaked in heat.
But eventually, he found it: the end.
Or what looked like one.
A towering wall of black thorns stood at the far end of a narrow bloodstone bridge.
The thorns twisted into a sealed archway, pulsing with faint red light. The gate wasn't massive in size—but it radiated sothing imnse.
Finality.
And it was alive.
He approached slowly, the stolen blade still in his hand, fingers white around the hilt.
The closer he got, the more the gate reacted—its glow brightened, the thorns quivered like they were tasting his presence.
He reached out with one hand.
The thorns hissed back, curling into each other.
Then, as if slling him more deeply, they opened slightly—a crack, no more than a breath wide.
He paused.
Then looked down at the blade.
"Of course," he muttered.
He turned it inward.
And cut his palm.
Blood welled quickly—dark, warm.
He sared it along the arch's edge.
The thorns jerked in response, drinking it.
A sound—wet and whispering—rose from the vines.
Not a growl.
Not a warning.
A whisper.
Not in words. In mories.
Hers.
A child in a ruined temple, burning her own cradle for warmth.
Watching priests drown themselves rather than raise her.
A knight who kissed her hand and called her holy—then tried to poison her wine.
A century spent alone in a ruby tower, waiting for soone to knock and not scream.
The taste of tea. Real. Bitter. Made by human hands.
The thorns shivered.
They opened wider.
Rein stared at them.
His hand throbbed, blood dripping down his wrist.
He wanted to run.
But sothing in his chest—tight, breathless—kept him still.
It wasn't pity.
It was understanding.
He had known loneliness.
Fear.
Silence, so deep it echoed in your bones.
And for one fleeting mont, in that tiny cottage, soone had called his voice warm.
His eyes burned.
"God dammit," he whispered.
Then took a step forward.
The thorns peeled open like eyelids.
Beyond them, the red light faded, and the stone bridge gave way to charred black soil.
A pale, dying sky stretched above—a reminder of the real world beyond the sanctuary.
Distant mountains shimred in heat haze.
Ash drifted on the wind.
Rein stepped through slowly, still clutching the knife, his palm blood-slick and stinging.
The wound wouldn't kill him. But it hurt.
The good kind.
The real kind.
The kind that reminded him: he was still free.
The last vine curled away from his leg, reluctant.
He didn't look back.
Not until he heard the voice.
"You're leaving?"
He froze.
Behind him, Asmodra stood barefoot on the threshold of her domain, half-shrouded in crimson light.
Her hair floated slightly, as if the air itself didn't want to let go.
She didn't wear armor or a crown.
No throne followed her.
No flas.
No roses.
Just a woman.
Watching him go.
Rein turned halfway, eyes cautious.
"I need to breathe."
"I gave you air," she said quietly. "I gave you food. Silk. Rest."
"You also destroyed my ho."
She flinched—barely.
He expected a rebuttal. A justification. Maybe even a threat.
She gave him none.
Instead, she stepped onto the blackened soil, bare feet hissing faintly where the heat touched her skin.
"You made rember what it felt like," she said, voice low. "To be seen. To be touched. To be wanted not as a weapon, or a title... but as sothing warm."
Rein didn't answer.
Her eyes shimred. Not with magic.
But with tears.
Small at first.
Flickering drops of molten gold that rolled silently down her cheeks, sizzling when they hit the ground. Steam curled upward.
She cried like soone who had forgotten how.
Like soone relearning pain.
"I told myself I wouldn't force you," she said. "Not really. Just a little. Just enough to make you see."
She stepped no closer.
"I'll stop now," she whispered.
The wind passed between them.
She looked up at him, eyes bright with fire and sothing rawer.
"You don't have to love yet. But please...Don't forget... that I already do."
Rein swallowed hard.
His chest ached.
He didn't want to forgive her.
Not fully.
But he couldn't hate her either.
He nodded—once.
Turned.
Walked into the ash-blown valley.
He didn't look back again.
But as the wind carried behind him the faint scent of roses and cinder,
he whispered, more to himself than anyone, "You're terrifying... and maybe the first person who ever ant it when you said you needed ."
Reviews
All reviews (0)