At the end of the polar day, the embers of Oathveil Star still smoldered, yet the earth had already sunk into a silent, dead night. The wind, no longer carrying warmth, instead wisps of cold flame—not fire from the mortal world, but echoes from the underworld.
In the deepest reaches of the scorched lands, Elea stirred awake quietly, her lashes fluttering, her breath still lingering.
Her body was wrapped in Lucian's cloak, her skin bearing the marks of combustion, as if phoenix feathers had been etched into her very bones and blood. In this moment, she was no longer the naive girl who once craved escape from fate, but a mysterious priestess returned from the flames—or perhaps, a fuse for vengeance.
"You're moving... Does it still hurt?" Lucian asked softly, sitting beside her, his palm brushing gently over her exposed lower back.
"It hurts," she replied with a smile, yet slipped her hand into his,caressing slowly.
The flames had long since died, but desire remained unquenched.
She rolled atop him, knees sinking to the ground, leaning forward slightly, her waist tensed, her moist lips brushing his ear. "But I want to see... if I can still ignite you beneath these cold flames."
She gave him no chance to respond before lowering herself slowly, her body enclosing his—
Tight, silky, scorching.
Lucian let out a low groan, his palms clutching her hips, driving upward sharply. Her body, still sensitive from the lingering fire, trembled with each thrust, yet ached for more.
"Elea, you're playing with fire," he warned.
"I am fire," she countered.
Their bodies intertwined on the charred earth; her gasps grew ragged, her chest heaving, sweat dripping onto his lips, mingling with moans and low growls to form the most primal anthem of life in the post -.
And in the instant climax crashed over them, somewhere in the distant Ruins of the Shattered Moon, the night suddenly parted like a curtain.
A female figure stepped into the icy sea of flames.
Clad in a dark purple robe, her silver-white hair billowed in the cold fire, her eyes hollow yet burning with fatal .
"Oathveil has fallen, the cycle has ignited. But the phoenix... still refuses to," she intoned.
She was Oliphia, the last apostle of the Shattered Moon King, and the new vessel of the soul shards of Casath.
Cold flame in her palm, slicing open a rift in space. She fixed her gaze on the intertwined figures, her eyes holding no shame, only a near-cruel anticipation.
"Love and desire are but illusions of flame. Elea... you will yet fall into the cold flame dream I've woven for you."
...
Meanwhile, in another corner of the capital's borders, Kramer knelt in the ruins of a shrine, his finger, and let his blood the sacred silver relief.
"The phoenix reborn? Hmph... then let her pay the price for this world's decay."
A girl emerged behind him, her form clinging to a red dress, her pupils blazing with soul-devouring fire—
"Who do you wish to resurrect?" her voice was soft, yet laced with frostbitten .
Kramer turned, a smile curling his lips.
"To bring Casath back in full—to let the Shattered Moon illuminate this rotting fate once more."
...
Night fell, and the cold flames lost their warmth, sinking into the earth, burning all traces of lust into offerings for nightmares.
In the wilderness, Elea stared at the fractured stars, murmuring:
"The only truths in this world are the longing between us... and the approaching doom."
Lucian took her fingers, lacing them with his, and replied softly:
"Then let us face it together. Even if next time, we must clash in dreams."