(Lysandra's POV)
The bells of Vaelora tolled like mourning hearts slow, hollow, endless.
High above the city, the Temple of the Seven Voices blazed with light, a sanctuary built on lies. Lysandra knelt before the sacred altar, her silver armor reflecting the wavering firelight. Blood still speckled her gauntlets. The echoes of her last kill hadn't faded; she could still hear the man's desperate plea — "The gods are not what they seem."
She had silenced him herself.
Because faith demanded it.
The Throne of Light loomed before her — carved from marble, crowned with runes that pulsed softly like a heartbeat. It was said the Throne sealed away the darkness that once tried to devour the world. Every priestess learned that story before she could read, and every one of them learned to never question it.
But tonight, something in the air was wrong.
The light flickered.
The bells stopped.
And in the sudden hush, a voice brushed against her skin — low, deep, and inhuman.
"Little priestess… You've come at last."
Lysandra's head snapped up. Her hand went to her blade, but no one stood in the temple. The air had changed, thick with a strange heat. It pressed against her throat, her chest, her pulse.
The voice came again — not from the shadows, but through them.
"So much light in one body. Do you know what it's hiding?"
Her breath trembled. "Who speaks?"
No answer. Only the faint hum of the Throne. The runes on its surface shifted, glowing faintly red.
Lysandra stepped closer, her boots whispering against the marble. She should have summoned the guards, the council, anyone — but curiosity, stronger than duty, rooted her in place.
The light pulsed again, a heartbeat beneath her feet.
Then the floor cracked.
A jagged line split the temple floor open, revealing a stairway spiraling down into blackness. Cold air rose from below, laced with the scent of iron and rain.
"Saints preserve me," she whispered. But no saint answered.
Her blade drawn, torch in hand, she descended.
The deeper she went, the louder her heart became. The torches along the stairway burst into life as she passed, flames bending toward her as though in recognition. The whispers returned — dozens of them this time — wrapping around her name, tasting it.
"Lysandra Vale… High Priestess… blood of the light, chained by the dark."
Her knees weakened. "How do you know my name?"
"Because you were made from me."
The words struck her like a blade.
When she reached the bottom, the chamber opened around her — vast, ancient, trembling with power. Chains of gold and obsidian hung from the ceiling, binding something at the center of the room. The air burned cold and hot at once.
And there, half-shrouded in shadow, was a man.
Tall. Bare. Bound.
His hair spilled like ink across the floor. His skin shimmered faintly under the torchlight — etched with glowing runes that seemed to move as he breathed. His eyes, when they opened, were the color of dying embers.
He smiled. Slow. Almost human.
"You came."
Lysandra's grip on her blade tightened. "You're—"
"Kaelith," he said, his voice a quiet ruin. "The god they feared. The sin they buried."
She froze. The name was legend — the demon-king of the Underrealm, sealed by the Throne ages ago. Every prayer, every sacrifice, every rule she'd lived by was meant to keep him contained.
He looked nothing like a monster.
"Why are you awake?" she demanded.
Kaelith's gaze trailed over her — the silver armor, the trembling hands, the pulse at her throat.
"Because you called to me," he said. "Every time you prayed and felt nothing. Every time you doubted and stayed silent."
His words found every hidden corner of her. She took a step back, shaking her head. "Lies."
"Truth," he murmured. "They built your faith on my bones."
The chains rattled, the sound like thunder under stone. The runes flared, and the room filled with red light.
Lysandra's torch went out.
In the sudden dark, she felt warmth against her skin — not a touch, but something deeper, older. The air around her shimmered, and her heart answered with a pulse not her own.
"You feel it too," Kaelith whispered. "The bond. The curse they gave us both."
She wanted to deny it. To raise her blade and banish him back into shadow. But her body betrayed her — the light inside her chest flickered, responding to him, reaching for him.
And for the first time in her life, Lysandra felt her faith tremble.
************
(Kaelith's POV)
For centuries, he had dreamed of silence — of the endless white void above him where the gods whispered their poison.
He had forgotten what breath felt like. What warmth felt like.
Until her.
When the priestess descended those stairs, the air itself had changed. He felt her light before he saw her — a blinding, fragile thing pulsing through the darkness. The chains had recognized her immediately. So had he.
Her presence burned. Her fear, her purity, her fury — all of it.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, though every piece of him begged otherwise.
He watched her struggle with faith, with duty, with the part of herself she had never met — the part that belonged to him.
The gods had made her from his stolen power. A sliver of light ripped from his heart and given human form. The perfect cage.
Now that she stood before him, the balance began to crack.
When she stepped closer, the air between them trembled. The runes on his chest flared, pain mixing with something else — something sweeter.
"You will free me," he whispered to himself. "Even if it destroys you."
And as she turned to leave — shaken, furious, afraid — Kaelith smiled.
For the first time in a thousand years, he felt the world breathe.
Because the curse had found its key.
And the gods would soon remember what fear tasted like.