*****************
He'd bled for her before—on broken glass, in shadows, in silence.
"Say it," he rasped, pinned beneath her blade.
Her voice trembled. "You're not him."
But her hand didn't move. Not then. Not when it mattered.
*****************
Lysara followed the shadowed corridor deeper into the cathedral's underbelly.
The further she moved, the colder the air became—like something ancient slept here, wrapped in the chill of forgotten sins. Her steps echoed, steady and slow, each beat of her heart loud enough to drown them. The black walls seemed to breathe, swollen with old blood and the echo of hymns that no longer held holiness.
Torchlight flickered ahead. Dren's silhouette waited at the end of the hall, relaxed and maddeningly poised—like a beast waiting to be touched.
"What game are you playing?" Lysara asked, sword lowered but ready.
"No games," Dren murmured, without turning. "Only memories."
He stepped into a chamber she hadn't seen in years—one that shouldn't exist anymore.
The Chapel of the Pyrelight.
She stopped cold at the threshold.
This was where she had been anointed an inquisitor. This was where she had bled for her vow—willingly, believing in the flame, in justice, in the lies that once held her world upright.
But the altar was ruined now. The sacred flame had been replaced with a brazier of black fire, licking hungrily at the carved symbols on the floor. Around it, twisted remnants of ceremonial robes were burned into the stone.
"It remembers you," Dren said, brushing his fingers across the altar. "The fire. The bones. The oath you swore."
Her eyes narrowed. "I should kill you here."
"You should have killed me seven years ago." He turned to face her fully. "But you didn't, and now we're here, Lysara. At the place you gave your soul away."
"I did it to protect Duskarra."
"And look what your precious Duskarra has become." He gestured to the ruined world above them. "All ash. All bones."
She stepped forward, sword raised, close enough to smell the copper heat of his skin.
"Why here?" she asked. "Why bring me to this place?"
Dren smiled, eyes gleaming with more than magic. "Because here is where you first believed you were righteous. And I want you to question that."
"Why?" Her voice cracked—not with fear, but something older. "Why do you care what I believe?"
"Because I loved you then."
The words fell between them like a weapon.
Lysara's grip on her blade loosened—just slightly.
"I still do," he added, quieter. "Even after what I became."
"You became this," she spat, gesturing around the broken chapel. "The butcher of Velshire. The demon of Blackridge. The man who left his name scrawled in blood on temple walls!"
"Yes," he said. "But I never forgot the girl who held me as I sobbed, shaking, broken... and chose mercy."
"I didn't choose you. I chose what was right."
His voice dipped into something darker. "Then why do you still see me in your sleep?"
She flinched.
Dren stepped closer. Close enough that she felt the heat radiate from his body, soaked in flame-magic and blood memory.
"I see you too, Lysara. In dreams, in screams. In every woman I've tried to forget you with."
The breath hitched in her throat.
"I see your fingers," he murmured, "on my chest, pulling the dagger free. I see your lips, parted, asking me why I ran. I see your mercy—and I curse it. Every. Single. Day."
Lysara shoved him—hard. Her blade dropped between them, the tip nicking his chest. Blood bloomed red, slow and unbothered.
"You think this is love?" she hissed. "You think obsession justifies genocide?"
"No," he whispered. "But it explains why I burned every city that reminded me of you."
"You're a monster."
"I became one… for you."
For a breathless second, neither moved.
Then he reached up—slowly—and curled his blood-slicked fingers around her sword hand. He didn't force it down. Just held it there, warm and intimate.
"You're shaking," he whispered.
"I hate you."
"Say it again."
"I hate you," she growled.
He stepped closer, pressing her back against the cold stone pillar behind the altar. Her blade was between them, but it was her breath that trembled now.
Dren's eyes flicked between her lips and her gaze. "Then why haven't you driven the blade in?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her hand trembled against his chest—remembering what it once felt like to hold him before the curse had taken root, before he'd become this.
"You still want me," he murmured.
Her pulse stuttered.
"You want to hate me," he continued, "but all you've ever done is hesitate. Every time."
She didn't deny it.
Because it was true.
Dren leaned down, mouth near her ear. "I remember the way you trembled... that night, before I fled. The way you looked at me like I was something beautiful and doomed."
"Get out of my head," she whispered.
"I never left."
And then—like a dam broke—he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle.
It was fire and guilt and seven years of agony wrapped into a single, soul-tearing kiss. His mouth crushed hers, desperate and demanding. Her blade clattered to the floor. She hated him, and she wanted more. Her fingers curled into his hair, pulling, pushing, trembling with betrayal and hunger.
For one breathless moment, she gave in.
Then she shoved him back, panting.
"You don't get to touch me."
Dren didn't pursue.
He just looked at her—shaking, lips parted, eyes raw.
"You already let me," he said softly.
Lysara grabbed her sword, turned, and fled the chamber.
She didn't stop until the shadows swallowed her.