PROLOGUE

The world ended in silence. 

Not with screams. Not with war cries. Just the slow, crackling whisper of fire consuming stone. 

The woman had always believed that holy ground could not be touched. That the gods would not allow it.

But the gods had done nothing when the inevitable happened. 

The gods had lied and fled, leaving their children at the mercy of the icy claws of death. Pulling the wool over the eyes of their offsprings before proceeding to dig their graves for them.

Blood slicked the altar steps, soaking into carvings meant to ward off evil. Bodies lay scattered like discarded ragdolls with their hands still curled in prayer.

The pungent scent of burning wood mixed with iron was so overwhelming that she could have sworn she tasted it on her tongue. 

She should have been afraid. She should have been running for her life.

Instead, she stood at the temple doors, sword still clutched tightly in her right hand, its edge still warm from borrowed life. Standing to protect the temple that had already been desecrated.

"I shall fight the dark, and I shall not falter."

That was how they had raised Crystal.

Her fingers trembled around the hilt of her sword as she whispered the affirmations over and over again.

Then, he stepped through the ruined archway. 

And the world, or what little was left of it... Tilted. 

A man borne from chaos and darkness.

Everything he made was a disaster and anything he touched was doomed to fall apart,

His eyes, as stormy as the northern seas of Elyria, swept over the ruined hall with quiet amusement.

His pale skin, almost ghostly in the dim light, made the dark waterfall of his hair even more striking. It was straight and blacker than night, shifting against his back as he walked in an unhurried and unbothered manner, as if none of this destruction mattered...

Because it didn't,

At least not to him,

He was the source of the destruction.

His name burned at the edge of her tongue, It was one she didn't dare to speak. 

How ironic was it? That the monster who brought nothing but pain and suffering to the world, the epitome of wickedness and all forms of evil was named,

Saint

A blasphemy ; that was all he was.

Yet he moved with an ease that made silence feel heavier than it was supposed to, He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that commanded attention without effort.

Shadows clung to him, folding into his form like they belonged there, before spreading out to various parts of the fallen temple.

She had heard the hymns. The warnings. The stories that the elders whispered in candlelight. 

He was the last prince of the forsaken. The one the Sacred Order had sworn to kill. 

And he looked past her, taking in the burning temple, the bodies, and the blood.

Then, he met her gaze. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. "Is this all your gods have left you?" 

His voice was like embers, low and smoldering while he mocked the foundation of her faith. 

Crystal ignored the sarcastic tone of his voice, lifting her chin and raising her sword in response to his godless taunts. 

He laughed. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just like someone who already knew the outcome of her actions. 

"Strike first, my little warrior," he murmured. "Let's see if your faith is sharper than my fangs." 

It was a trap.

A taunt. And It didn't matter. 

Because she had nothing left to lose.

So she moved. 

Her blade flashed toward his throat. A perfect arc, A perfect strike. Years of training and...

Nothing. 

He wasn't there when the sword's blade landed. 

The air behind her shifted, icy tendrils of nothingness choked her momentarily, she gasped as she sidestepped. 

But it was too late. 

A hand closed around her wrist with an ironclad grip and the sword fell to the ground with a dull clang. 

She inhaled sharply, panic, fury, and disbelief clawing at her ribs as the rush of blood pounding in her heart could be heard in her ears.

Saint made a quiet sound, something close to a bored sigh as he whispered. "Too slow." 

And she was frozen, not because she wanted to stay in his presence but his aura was heavy, too heavy.

Even the gods could not escape Saint's wrath.

His fingers brushed her throat, light as a whisper. He wasn't even trying to hold her down.

He didn't have to. 

"There it is," he murmured. "That moment." 

She stiffened as his finger pressed against her pulse point. He smiled as her eyes widened with the fear he craved to see in her glittery blue orbs. 

"The second your body realizes what your mind refuses to accept." He whispered as his voice dipped lower, curling under her skin. 

"You're already mine." 

Crystal let out a slow breath and her lips curled into a smile. 

Saint's eyes flickered at this for it was the first time in centuries that a mere mortal left him puzzled.

Suddenly, she dropped to her knees, not in surrender, but in resolve.

And her hand shot to her discarded blade, fingers curling tight around the hilt. His amusement vanished as she locked eyes with him, pride evident in her gaze. 

"Don't," he said, voice sharp now. Crystal didn't hesitate. She turned the blade on herself. 

A clean plunge. Straight into the heart. 

A gasp, the dull clatter of metal and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth,

Pain. Cold. And Silence. 

Her body hit the stone, blood pooling beneath her as her lips trembled in a last fervent prayer to the gods who she desperately hoped were real.

The firelight blurred.

The temple, the bodies, and him

They all faded into a series of weightless nothings. 

The last thing she heard was his voice, no longer taunting. 

No longer amused but cursing, snarling and angry.

She smiled as her eyes grew heavy and snapped shut, sending her soul down to the depths of a cold never-ending abyss. 

She had won.

But the darkness did not the bring peace she expected from it. 

Her consciousness hovered at the edges of oblivion, a tether she hadn't expected. She shivered as cold seeped into her bones, thick and insidious while it coiled around the wound in her chest.

It should have been over.

Everything should have ended.

She shouldn't be able to feel the pain.

But something was pulling her back. 

A heavy presence. A dark force. Him.

Warm hands pressing against the wound. A stinging pain in her neck paired with a low voice, murmuring words she didn't understand.

Something ancient, something raw. 

She tried to move and breathe but her body was not her own anymore. 

She was floating and drifting.

Caught between death and something far worse. 

Saint's voice came clearer now, edged with something she had never heard before. Something like frustration or was it desperation?

"You think you can slip away so easily?" 

His grip tightened on her wound and warmth spread through her, unbidden, unwanted.

It burned, slow and deep, laced with power she couldn't fight. She couldn't refuse it. 

"Foolish girl, your blood is only mine to spill" He whispered as he leaned closer, letting his breath ghost over her lips.

His words curled into her like a promise of death, a noose around her neck. 

"You're mine, priestess." 

Darkness folded over her once more. 

And this time, she knew it would not let her go.