The Cursed Pheonix

For a moment, there was only silence, stretching thin between them.

Then, he let out a scoff—low, bitter, and utterly devoid of humor.

He turned his head just enough for her to see the sharp edge of his smirk, one that lacked any warmth.

"Have you learned nothing?" His voice was quiet, but there was a weight behind it, like a blade pressing against her skin.

"What kind of people do you think those 'survivors' are?"

Arienne clenched her fists. "No matter what kind of people they are, in a situation like this, what we they need most is help."

She knew how naïve it sounded, but she didn't care.

She had already been betrayed—by the very people who were supposed to protect her.

Yet here, in this wretched place, she wouldn't hesitate to put her trust in strangers if it meant staying alive.

Wasn't that exactly what she was doing now?

She didn't know this man. She didn't know his name, his past, or what he truly wanted.

But she knew one thing—so far, he hadn't let her die. Whatever his motives were, he had kept her breathing, and right now, that was enough.

His expression darkened, the last traces of amusement vanishing from his face.

When he spoke again, his voice was colder than the abyss itself.

"These people are here because of their treacherous sins," he said, each word slow, deliberate. "I've seen people thrown into the Abyss for selling out their entire bloodline for power. For gutting their own comrades just to lessen the competition. For smiling in someone's face while plotting how best to carve out their heart the moment they turned around."

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp as steel.

"Tell me—would you really gamble your safety by letting your guard down next to them?"

Arienne frowned. "I'm not letting my guard down. I'm just saying… it's still better than being alone."

He scoffed, the sound cold, cutting. "I can't tell if you trust too easily or if you just have no instinct for survival. Either way, if you don't realize that you can't trust those people, you won't last long."

But Arienne had caught something in his words.

"These people?" she repeated, eyes narrowing.

There was something about the way he said it—like he wasn't including himself. Like he was something else entirely.

She took a slow step forward, studying him with careful eyes.

"You don't see yourself as one of them—the ones who've committed unspeakable sins." Her voice was steady, but there was a quiet challenge in it.

"So tell me… who are you? And why are you in the Abyss?"

For the first time, something flickered in his expression—an emotion too fleeting to name.

It vanished as quickly as it appeared, buried beneath his usual cold detachment. But Arienne had seen it. A crack in the armor.

He exhaled, slow and measured. "In the Abyss, we don't ask. We don't tell."

Arienne let out a dry scoff. "Then how do you know what kind of sins they've committed?"

His gaze locked onto hers, dark and unyielding.

"Because I was there."

Arienne froze, a strange weight pressing down on her chest. It wasn't fear—at least, not in the way she knew it. It was something colder, something heavier.

The creeping realization settled over her like a shadow—these men might not have committed the same treacherous sins as the others, but there was something more to it.

Something unspoken, lurking beneath their words and actions.

A different kind of darkness.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, but she refused to waver. She met his gaze, unflinching.

"If you weren't one of them—if you weren't thrown here for treachery—then why are you here?"

His expression didn't shift, didn't betray a single thought. But that, in itself, was an answer.

Arienne's fingers curled into her palms. "And if that's the case… why did you save me?"

Her voice was quieter now, yet edged with something raw. "What makes you so sure I wasn't sent here for treachery too?"

For a long moment, he just looked at her.

Not mocking. Not cold.

Just watching—as if weighing something invisible between them.

Then, something shifted.

The distant amusement in his gaze dulled into something sharper. Something dangerously close to frustration.

"I don't."

His words were blunt, cutting through the space between them like a blade.

Arienne's stomach twisted, but she held her ground. "Then why?"

His gaze remained steady, unwavering, as if the weight of his words had already been set in stone.

"I wasn't going to save you." His voice was quiet, almost indifferent, yet beneath the surface, something darker lurked. "But when I saw that you were the one chosen as the vessel, I couldn't let you die there."

Arienne's breath faltered.

"Chosen?" The word barely escaped her lips, unsteady, fragile.

A slow nod.

"The Cursed Phoenix chose you."

The world around her seemed to warp.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as the weight of those words crashed into her. She took a shaky step back, her vision blurring at the edges.

"The… Cursed Phoenix?" The name felt foreign, heavy, as if it carried a truth too immense to comprehend.

He didn't move, didn't speak—just watched, as if he had expected this reaction.

"And that," he continued, voice like quiet thunder, "is why I saved you. Because now, you have the power to get out of here."

Power? Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She felt no power. Only exhaustion, only the unrelenting grip of this wretched place pressing down on her bones.

"What are you saying?" she demanded, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

His gaze, sharp as a blade, met hers. "You'll understand soon enough."

But that wasn't enough. It couldn't be enough.

"Tell me the truth," she said, forcing the words through the storm in her chest. "What does it mean to be the vessel?"

For the first time, something shifted in his expression—not cold amusement, not distant calculation, but something far heavier.

"It means," he said, his voice lower now, edged with something almost unreadable, "that your fate is no longer yours to decide."