Mine. Always mine

The dawn in the underworld was not a true dawn.But something like it brushed the bruised skies above Miraye's palace, washing the black towers in a faint, eerie lilac glow. Rivers of molten glass slowed, cooling just enough that they crackled with a sound like distant laughter.

Ren stood at the balcony of their chamber, leaning against the cold stone. Below, demons scurried through markets, oblivious to the seismic shifts that had rattled their queen's court.

Beside him, Lyra wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. Her breath warmed the thin fabric of his tunic.

"So," she whispered. "Do we finally leave this place? Or did you promise the demon queen another midnight dance?"

He snorted. "She asked for nothing more. Not even a final audience. I think she's done with gambits… at least for now."

Lyra's hand slid under his shirt, resting over his heart. "Good. I'm weary of her halls. I want open skies again. Places where your laughter doesn't echo off walls that hunger."

He covered her hand with his own, squeezing gently. "Then we'll go. Today."

When they returned to pack the few things they'd brought, silent servants appeared. They carried crates of exotic underworld delicacies — wines that smoked when uncorked, fruits that bled silver when cut. Rich fabrics threaded with molten veins were laid out carefully, clearly intended as gifts.

Lyra scowled. "Tributes. From a queen who can't bring herself to face us again."

Ren only shrugged. "Let them be her parting confession. A queen's pride is sometimes bound up in the gifts she dares to give."

Before they departed, a steward appeared at their door — slender, eyes like cracked amethyst."Her Majesty bids you take these tokens," he murmured, extending a slim lacquered box. Inside lay a single black feather banded in red, and a ring of cold dark metal, etched with Miraye's personal crest.

Lyra reached for it, as if to fling it aside, but Ren caught her wrist. His smile was faint. "No. Let it remind us there are powers that even desire cannot break. And that sometimes… what we refused becomes our sharpest crown."

They left through the grand gates just past the Hour of Emberfall.No crowds waited to see them off. No courtiers. No taunting banners or sly parting shots. Only a thick, hushed reverence, as if the very stones had learned caution.

The portal shimmered before them — a swirling nexus of pale violet and biting silver. It would return them to the celestial realms above, to Saphira's watchful domain.

Lyra hesitated at the threshold, her hand tight in his. "Do you feel it?" she whispered.

Ren tilted his head. Beyond the gentle pulse of magic, he sensed something else. A breath that wasn't quite wind. A whisper that seemed to sigh his name, then vanish.

"It's her," he murmured. "Watching us go."

Lyra's mouth tightened, but then she exhaled slowly. "Let her. She can haunt our steps from afar. I'll still stand between her and whatever fragile piece of your heart she thought she touched."

He pressed a kiss to her temple. "You already have it all. Always did."

They stepped through the portal together.

The world that embraced them was dazzling.Soft azure skies stretched overhead, scattered with drifting motes of gold like pollen. Great crystalline towers of Saphira's realm gleamed in the distance, ringing with faint, musical energy. Warm winds rushed over them, carrying scents of sun-heated stone and distant blossoms.

Lyra let out a small, shuddering laugh. "I'd forgotten how sweet untainted air is."

Ren pulled her close, burying his face against her hair. "And how sweet you are when you're not braced for war."

Her answering smile was mischievous. "Who says I'm not still braced for war? I simply prefer the kind waged between your hands and my thighs."

He laughed — a deep, unrestrained sound that made passing lesser spirits glance over and smile faintly. For all their recent darkness, this felt almost painfully bright. As if the sun itself was fragile and might vanish if they breathed too hard.

A regal procession met them at the palace steps — Saphira herself at the forefront, draped in robes of glistening amethyst. Her expression was schooled into calm neutrality, but her eyes flickered with relief.

"You return whole," she said simply.

Lyra's chin lifted. "More than whole. We return unbroken. Unclaimed."

Saphira's mouth twitched in what might have been approval. "And the queen of the Sixth Veil?"

Ren's smile was dark. "She learned there are some fires even her shadows cannot devour."

Saphira extended a hand, her elegant fingers brushing briefly against Ren's temple. A rush of cool energy swept through him — gentle, probing. Her brows rose slightly.

"You carry no binds, no soul hooks. Only a lingering echo of sorrow. Interesting." She withdrew, then inclined her head. "You remain free, Ren Zian. More so than many gods I have known."

They were offered fresh chambers, airy and bright, sun pouring through lattice windows. Servants brought cool water, trays of crisp fruits, and soft linens that smelled faintly of crushed lilies.

The first thing Ren did was pull Lyra to the bed. Not with urgent hunger — but with a slow, greedy possessiveness that spoke of all the nights they'd spent under demon eyes, never truly alone.

They stripped each other quietly. No frantic tearing. Each fold of fabric revealed skin that bore faint bruises, love marks, the leftover trophies of their constant battles — both against the world and for each other.

When Lyra settled over him, her sigh was pure relief."This is what she'll never have," she whispered, brushing her lips over his. "Not your crown, not your power — but this. Your trust."

He rolled them gently, settling between her thighs, his forehead pressed to hers. "And yours. Even when I stood inches from her mouth, her claws, I thought only of this. Of you."

Lyra shivered, hands sliding up to frame his face. "Then take it. Remind me why even a demon queen could not tempt your heart from me."

Their coupling was slow, molten. Not the savage claiming of jealous lovers, nor the frantic grasp for reassurance. This was deeper. Each thrust a silent prayer, each gasp a promise. Lyra's fingers dug into his back, not to keep him close, but simply because she had nowhere else to pour all that trembling love.

When she came, it was with tears slipping down her temples — happy, unguarded tears. Ren kissed them away, whispering, "Mine. Always mine."

Later they lay tangled together, the sun trailing lazy paths across their bodies. Lyra traced a circle over his heart.

"Do you think she'll ever come for you again?" she asked softly. No fear. Just curiosity, laced with a strange, almost sad understanding.

Ren considered this. Thought of Miraye's wide, aching eyes. The way her claws had trembled when he touched her like something precious instead of prey.

"Yes," he said finally. "But not to steal me. To see if mercy can be tasted twice. To see if love leaves enough sweetness behind for even a demon to crave."

Lyra smiled faintly, though her eyes shone. "Then let her come. I'll still be here. And you'll still choose me."

"Every lifetime," he promised. His voice went rough. "Every throne. Every battlefield."

Outside their window, the celestial winds carried faint drifting motes that almost looked like petals — fragile, bright, endlessly reborn.And far below, in the underworld's hidden reaches, a queen of shadows sat on a cold throne, cradling her own heart as if trying to soothe it back into silence.

She would chase that mercy again one day.And when she did — it would not be for power.