The cold stench of iron and blood clung to the air.
In the center of the forsaken chamber, Clara hung suspended — shackled by thick black chains that stretched from the shadows above. The jagged metal coiled around her wrists and ankles like living serpents, digging mercilessly into her skin. Her once-brilliant robes were torn and bloodstained, the crimson fabric swaying gently with each shallow breath she took.
Large, ruined wings — neither angelic nor fully demonic — drooped behind her, scorched and torn, dripping with embers that hissed into the dark puddles beneath her feet.
Six cursed swords were driven into the ground around her like grave markers, their blades humming faintly, siphoning her strength into the endless void.
The only light in the chamber was a cold, silvery beam slicing down from above — a mockery of salvation — illuminating the raw wounds and the broken majesty of the girl who refused to kneel.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the prison.
The priest entered, his silhouette cutting through the mist like a reaper. His white hair gleamed under the cruel light, his expression unreadable, carved from divine cruelty.
As he approached, the chains groaned and tightened, pulling Clara's body higher, forcing her to raise her head. Her one visible eye — wild, defiant — locked onto his.
A bitter smile curved the priest's lips as he stood before her, a mockery of mercy in his hands.
The interrogation had only just begun.
"Only the Shadow Lord knows about my Lord... or perhaps someone else," the priest murmured, his voice low and deliberate. He tilted his head, studying her through the misty gloom.
Clara lifted her gaze with half-lidded eyes, a demonic smile curling at her lips.
"Our Shadow Lord isn't certain yet," she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "He isn't sure if Xavier is truly Typhon reborn. That's why he sent us—to capture him, to confirm it with our own hands. And if I fail..."
She chuckled darkly, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. "If I'm not there, another knight will be dispatched. Another upper Shadow Knight. He'll simply command someone stronger."
Her chains rattled as she leaned forward slightly, blood smeared across her torn armor.
"Do you really think your weak Lord and that sixth sword can handle what's coming?" she hissed. "You think you can protect him? Protect yourself? hahaha..."
Her laughter rang out like a broken hymn, wild and cruel.
The priest simply smiled—a calm, infuriating smile.
"I admire your confidence," he said softly, "but you're the one tied up, not me."
Without warning, he moved.
In a single swift slash, the rusted iron chain binding her left wrist shattered, the sound ringing sharp through the silence.
He straightened, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
"I'm growing bored of this," he said, his voice almost playful. "Let's fight."
The air grew heavier, the promise of battle crackling between them.
"I'll give you every chance to kill me, Clara," he continued, his eyes gleaming with an ancient fire. "But you won't be able to. No matter how many times you try, you'll realize it."
He took a step closer, shadows dancing around him like loyal servants.
"I am not like the others. I am the trusted dragon of Lord Typhon... DRAVEN."
His words fell like a divine decree, unshakable and absolute.
"I have never been defeated—and today will not be the first."
The priest reached into the shadows at his side—and to Clara's shock, he pulled out her own sword, the familiar dark blade gleaming under the dim light.
He tossed it toward her, the weapon spinning in the air before landing at her feet with a heavy thud.
Clara's eyes narrowed.
"Why are you...?" she began, suspicion sharp in her voice.
He smiled—a smile that was both wicked and lazy.
"I want you to fight with everything you have," he said simply, almost sweetly. "No excuses."
Clara grabbed the sword, her hands trembling—not from fear, but from rage.
Does he think I'm weak? That I can't kill him even with my own blade?
Her blood boiled as she surged forward, her blackened wings stretching out behind her, chains still dangling from her wrists like broken manacles.
Their swords clashed with a roar, the impact sending sparks showering through the cold mist.
Clara fought ferociously, her strikes wild and vicious, fueled by anger and confusion.
But the priest... he moved like water, flowing around her attacks, parrying her blade with effortless grace.
At one point, as she lunged recklessly forward, he sidestepped her and in a single, smooth motion, wrapped an arm around her waist, spinning her around like a dance partner to throw her momentum off.
Their bodies brushed close—too close—and Clara gasped, her heart stuttering not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
"You're beautiful when you fight," he whispered into her ear, his breath brushing against her skin like a dark caress.
Snarling, she twisted away, slashing at him with renewed fury.
He let her go with a chuckle, easily blocking her strike with his bare hand against her sword hilt, his golden eyes shining with something almost... amused.
Clara gritted her teeth. She poured every ounce of strength into the next blow, black energy crackling down her blade.
The priest caught the blade mid-swing—caught it—and leaned in, their faces inches apart.
"More," he urged in a murmur only she could hear. "Show me more."
Clara's mind spun in confusion.
Why is he... Why is he enjoying this? Admiring me?
And yet—deep inside, something in her chest twisted, a dangerous thrill blooming in her veins.
Their battle raged on, a dance of swords and shadows, of clashing steel and stolen glances.
One fought with fury.
The other fought with fascination.
And in the heart of it, the line between enemy and desire began to blur.