Where Choice Reigns

The first step into Luxor's realm was blinding.

Light didn't just shine here—it devoured.

It poured into her skin like fire through glass, filled her lungs until she almost choked on radiance. Every cell screamed. It was too much. Too bright. Too open.

And still, she didn't flinch.

She never flinched.

The warmth didn't soothe. It seared.

She walked barefoot across golden stones that burned like truths she hadn't spoken. Columns stretched skyward, wrapped in sunlight and illusions that shimmered just out of reach. Statues watched her—silent, shifting—moving only when her gaze dared leave them.

In the distance, eternal festivals thrived. Laughter echoed like hymns for gods who didn't answer anymore.

A man waited. Smiling.

Radiant. Tan. Golden-eyed. Drenched in divine confidence.

Luxor.

The God of Light. The First Sunrise. The Beacon and the Blade.

"I was expecting you, Sunshine," he said, his voice smooth and warm, like honey poured over gold.

Her jaw tightened. The nickname stung. A reminder of something soft she hadn't been in years.

She didn't answer.

He stepped forward, gaze gentle but unwavering, head tilted like a curious cat who already knew the ending.

"You've come for your favor," he said.

"Yes."

Her voice was flat. A shard of glass wrapped in velvet.

"You want your rune activated."

"Yes."

"And you understand what that means?" Soft again. Too soft. Like touching a bruise that hasn't finished forming.

"Yes."

Luxor studied her.

The way she stood like a soldier—back straight, fists hidden in the folds of her sleeves. The way her eyes wouldn't meet his. The tremble beneath her skin—buried, but not gone.

"Annie…"

He said it so gently. Like a memory dressed in silk.

And she hated it. Hated the way it curled in her gut like a ghost.

That wasn't her name anymore. Not here. Not for this.

She didn't want softness. She didn't want poetry.

For a moment, she imagined Malvor's eyes in this blinding light. Would he still look at her the same way—if he saw her now? Would he still call her Annie?

"Do it," she said, voice clipped. "Use sex. I don't care."

That was a lie. Of course it was.

That was the point.

The room was gilded in gold. The bed was silk and satin. Even the shadows glowed.

It should have been perfect. He was perfect.

Golden. Gentle. Built of sunrises and soft revelations. He touched her like she was worthy. Like she was more than the sum of what others had done to her.

His hands were reverent. His mouth worshipped .His breath, steady. Grounding. Careful.

He kissed her like she mattered. Like the scars on her body were scripture, not shame.

And she let him.

She kissed him back like it meant something. Like this was intimacy, not penance. Like divinity was rising in her blood instead of drowning in silence.

She moved like it mattered. Like she wanted him. Like she wanted anything at all.

Every moan, flawless. Every sigh, practiced. Every gasp, calculated down to the breath.

She was perfect.

Because that's what they taught her to be.

Her hip rolled at the right moment—not in pleasure, but from years of knowing what men liked. She hated that her body still knew how to do it. Hated more that he responded like it was real.

He whispered something against her throat—something tender. Something beautiful. And she almost sobbed.

Not from pleasure.

From exhaustion.

She gave him everything.

Except the truth.

Because inside?

Inside, she was still screaming.

And gods—she was so good at pretending.

So good, even Luxor—the god of golden clarity—wanted to believe it.

He wanted to believe that the flutter in her breath was from desire, not dread. That her nails against his back were need, not memory. That the tremble in her voice was want, not a ghost dragging its chains behind her ribs.

But the light?

The light sees all.

And where it touched her—it did not glow.

It burned.

He felt it.

The hollowness in her hips, where desire should have sparked. The tension in her shoulders, where surrender used to mean freedom. The unbearable stillness behind her eyes.

He saw it.

The fracture behind her perfect smile. The way she moved like someone reciting scripture, not sharing herself. A beautiful mask with a heartbeat underneath—fragile, fraying, fighting to stay whole.

She was a starlet in a dying play. One last, breathtaking performance before the curtain fell.

But still—he didn't stop.

Because she had asked.

Because she had chosen.

Because for once, it wasn't taken.

And gods do not intervene where choice reigns.

⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁

She had begged the light to save her.

Blind me, she had thought. Wash me clean. Burn away what they left behind.

She had laid herself bare in the most sacred place she could find. Offered the one thing she still controlled—her body.

If she gave it away freely, maybe it wouldn't feel like a cage anymore. Maybe the ghosts would shut up. Maybe the dream would stop. Maybe she'd finally feel clean.

But now?

Now all she felt was exposed.

The light hadn't saved her. It hadn't burned the pain away or wrapped her in warmth.

It had shown her.

It had revealed every fracture, every scar, every twisted corner of her soul still convinced that pain meant penance.

She hadn't come for pleasure.

She'd come for punishment.

And Luxor had given it to her—Dressed in gold ,And kindness, And gods-damned gentleness that made her want to scream.

The rune ignited across her left arm—Shoulder to wrist, hand to fingertips. Golden fire. Sacred geometry. Light made flesh.

It was beautiful .Intricate. Divine.

And she stared at it like it didn't belong to her.

Like it had been carved into someone else's skin.

Part of her wondered if Malvor would still look at her the same—If the light wouldn't blind him before he saw the girl who crawled into the sun just to be burned.

Luxor moved with quiet grace.

No arrogance. No claim. Only softness.

He pulled her into his arms—not as a lover, but as a balm. As if he could bandage a wound he'd only traced.

She let him.

Just for a moment.

Let him hold her like she was worth mending. Let him whisper something gentle into her hair—some ancient word for safe.

For a moment, she let herself imagine Malvor's arms instead.

His warmth. His mouth near her temple. His chaos folded into stillness, just for her.

And she hated herself for wanting it.

Hated the way her breath caught—Not because of Luxor's touch, But because of a memory that didn't belong to this room.

"You were luminous," he murmured.

She closed her eyes. Just briefly. Just long enough to pretend.

Pretend that was true. Pretend she was.

But the lie settled on her tongue like ash.

She pulled away.

Slow. Deliberate. Untouched.

Her body moved with mechanical grace as she dressed. Her fingers didn't fumble. Her hands didn't shake.

She fastened the last button and smoothed the fabric with sharp precision.

He watched her dress with the hollow-eyed silence of someone who had offered a sunrise and been handed a sunset instead.

"I got what I came for," she said.

Luxor stood still—watching her like a sunrise slipping behind storm clouds. Something aching in the way his light dimmed around her, gentle and mournful.

"You came," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "but you didn't feel."

She paused.

Turned her back to him.

"I don't want to."