The morning mist clung to the marble of the sacrificial platform like a shroud, curling around Ashira's bare feet and soaked silk robes. The city below had long since learned not to look up when the gods gathered—any gaze could be their last. But he had no choice; the platform was not a choice, only a command.
Ashira's fingers brushed the smooth stone, tracing cracks left from centuries of divine footsteps. His heart beat unevenly, not with fear, but with anticipation. They killed them all, he reminded himself. His family. His home. Reduced to nothing under the judgment of gods who called it "cleansing."
Yet here he was, standing among their remnants of power, feeling both vulnerable and dangerous at the same time.
The air shifted. It always shifted when he appeared. Not just any god—him. The Dark God. The one whose name alone could summon storms, whose wrath had burned villages and erased families, whose eyes were said to pierce souls and leave them hollow. And yet, that god was looking at him.
Ashira lifted his chin. Every breath, every step, every slight movement had been measured. He had survived this long because he understood the language of fear—and the language of beauty. Gods could not resist it.
The Dark God stepped forward, each movement deliberate, a shadow consuming the color around him. The air itself seemed to bend toward him. Other gods followed at a distance, glowing with righteousness and fury, whispering judgments and warnings, but none dared to intervene.
Ashira swallowed. He should feel terrified.
And yet… there was something exhilarating about standing in the presence of destruction itself. He met the god's gaze without flinching, letting the faint curve of his lips, the tilt of his head, speak the words he dared not say aloud:
Notice me. Desire me. Fall for me.
The Dark God's eyes narrowed, sharp and cold—and then softened in a way that made Ashira's pulse skip. Pretty things always fascinated him. And Ashira was more than pretty. He was defiance wrapped in delicate flesh, a wound covered in silk.
"You," the god said, voice low, resonant enough to make the platform tremble. "Step closer."
Ashira obeyed. Each step a silent challenge, each heartbeat a drum of seduction and revenge.
Other gods murmured indignantly. "It is forbidden!" one hissed. "He is mortal! He is unworthy!"
Ashira did not flinch. Unworthy? They are blind. He had spent years learning to read power and hunger, knowing exactly how to place himself where it would ignite desire.
And now, even as his knees brushed the stone in ritual submission, he could feel the god's interest sharpening, like a blade turning against him—and yet not ready to strike.
"You will stay," the god commanded, and the heavens themselves seemed to obey.
Ashira knelt fully now, hands pressed against the stone, hair spilling forward like a veil. He killed them. He murdered my bloodline. And now… he wants me.
The god stepped closer, shadow spilling over him like a consuming tide. Ashira's breath caught. His lips parted, trembling. "As you wish," he whispered. And let this be the start. Let it burn. Let him fall for me… so I can destroy him from within.
The platform below and the skies above fell silent. The Dark God's eyes gleamed with obsession and satisfaction, and Ashira felt the weight of the world—both mortal and divine—press against his chest. Yet beneath it all, he smiled faintly.
Let them watch. Let them all watch.