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"Your kiss wasn't tender. It was a brand. You didn't want me to forget — you wanted me to burn."
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The wind screamed through the broken corridors of Ashengar like a thousand damned souls calling for blood. Kaelen Draeven walked those halls with the composure of a man who had made peace with demons—because he was one.
He stood now in what was once a throne room, the ceiling half-collapsed, moonlight pouring in like silver fire. Shadows clung to him like old friends. Beneath his cloak, the mirror gate pulsed with the heartbeat of something ancient and wrong.
Behind him, boots scraped stone.
He didn't turn.
"You followed," he said quietly.
The click of a sword's hilt sliding from leather.
"You expected otherwise?" Lysara's voice was cold enough to crack glass.
Kaelen exhaled, finally turning.
She stood ten paces away, armor glinting with rain and steel. Her eyes burned with years of betrayal and confusion. Her blade gleamed with holy fire — one made to purge things like him.
But Kaelen didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled.
"You're just as he said you'd be."
Lysara stiffened. "And what did he say?"
Kaelen stepped closer, dragging his fingers along the skeletal railing. "That you tasted like guilt. And that you'd never forgive yourself."
That struck deeper than any blade.
She lunged, sword slashing in a perfect arc — fast, punishing. He parried with a short dagger, barely catching the edge. Sparks lit the air.
"I should kill you," she spat.
He grinned. "Then do it."
Another strike. This one aimed for his throat. He ducked low, twisted behind her — his hand brushing her waist far too smoothly for a fight. She recoiled as though his touch were acid.
"I'm not here to fight you, Vale."
"Then why?" Her voice was a mix of fury and… something softer. Hurt. "Why follow him? You know what he is."
Kaelen's voice dropped. "I know exactly what he is. Because I am what he made me."
A beat of silence.
Then she asked, more quietly, "What do you want from me?"
He stepped forward. "What he wants."
"You want me dead?"
"No." His eyes glittered. "He wants you… unmade."
A pause.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means he wants the Lysara who spared him. The girl who trembled when he bled on her. The inquisitor who dreams of him more than she dreams of God."
Lysara's sword faltered for half a second. And Kaelen seized it.
His hand caught her wrist, yanked her forward. Her blade clattered to the floor. Her mouth parted in shock just before his lips crashed into hers.
It was not a kiss of passion. It was fury.
Heat. Violence.
His mouth was rough, demanding. Hers, defiant. She fought him with her teeth, her fists, until suddenly—
She didn't.
Her fingers curled into his coat, yanking him closer. Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, it was him — Dren — in her arms again.
Kaelen pulled back first, lips bruised.
"That's how he remembers you."
She struck him hard across the face.
Kaelen staggered back, laughing.
"You think this is a game?" she hissed. "You think playing puppet to a monster will save you from damnation?"
"I am damnation," he said, wiping blood from his mouth. "And so are you."
She picked up her sword, rage rising like wildfire. "Tell Dren this — the next time I see him, he'll be screaming. And it won't be for pleasure."
Kaelen bowed mockingly. "He'll be thrilled."
He vanished into the darkness like a ghost retreating into its tomb.
Lysara stood alone in the echoing silence of Ashengar's hall, heart hammering like a war drum.
Not from fear.
From remembrance.