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His mask had clattered to the ground of the speaker's chambers, the heavy metal rolling across the stone ground lifted and tossed away with a challenging gaze that dared the man to stop the Archon. Eyes that glowed with a cold, unyielding light roamed her body, lingering far too long on every inch of her skin. They traced her curves with a desperate intensity, as though etching her into the fragile memory he could not bear to lose.
"Thraine"
His true name fell from her lips like a reverent prayer. Their mouths met—tainted, forbidden—where tongues clashed and teeth scraped, her eternal flame colliding with his black ice. Steam curled from their breaths, shrouding the air between them Centuries of slow decay had ravaged him, warping the once proud form of a peerless warrior. The tanned, scarred flesh that had once stood unyielding was now a grotesque shadow of its former glory—an abomination carved by the Heavenly Principal's cruel hand.
"Mavuika"
His deep, resonant voice remained unchanged, even after centuries apart. Her name was a question on his lips, laced with hesitation and unspoken doubt.
A confident smirk played at the corner of Mavuika's mouth, though her heart ached with every second. Her fingers traced the sharp lines of his jaw, memorizing a face that was both familiar and foreign. Beneath the blackened flesh, warped by decay and the abyss's touch, she could still see him—the man he once was. No matter how his form had been twisted, she loved him. The soul within, unyielding and resolute, was enough to ignite the aching need, an anchor within the storm.
Tomorrow would bring the final battle, her death a certainty she had long accepted. For five centuries, she had overcome every obstacle with unwavering resolve, each step leading her to the final battle only a sunrise away.
"You’re still you," she said, her voice steady. Guiding his hand, she pressed it against her chest, her radiant gaze locked with his. Slowly, her fingers wrapped his around the zipper between her breasts
Even the formidable Captain was powerless against her pull. A low, guttural grunt escaped from between lips that had once been full and commanding, now cracked and marred, glimpses of his teeth catching the dim light through the jagged gaps in his cursed flesh.
Mavuika couldn’t stifle the soft laugh that spilled from her lips, tinged with both longing and relief. Her eyes fell shut, drinking in the moment as ice met flame, each of their breaths traded in escaping steam. The cold, unyielding stone of the wall bit into her back, grounding her in the intensity of the moment. His firm thigh pressed between hers, parting them effortlessly.
Leather slowly peeled away, her body laid bare as their tongues collided in a desperate dance. With every gasp, every shiver, his touch grew bolder. He handled her with a reverence that felt sacred. His ragged lips pressed open-mouthed kisses, bone-chilling with cold along the flushed curve of her neck, each one steaming with his fleeting claim.
"Don't stop" The command was whispered with the intensity of a command on the battlefield. For one night let her be lost in the flames of passion, swept away in the raw humanity of the moment.
His body bore the scars of his cursed existence. His chest was a chaotic landscape of blackened flesh, a testament to lifetimes of endless war. Mavuika’s fingers traced the jagged pathways of electric blue veins that pulsed beneath his ruined skin, surrendering to the temptation to relearn every inch of the man she could never truly lose, or fully keep.
"The bed."
His low growl sent a wave of heat coursing through her body, his voice raw and commanding. A trail of discarded armor marked the path to the Archon’s Chambers , the symbols of another god abandoned like relics of a forgotten life. Now, his cursed skin lay bare, offered for Mavuika to claim as her own. The Fatui’s demands could wait—tonight, Capitano was tossed aside with his mask, leaving only Thraine, the man who had once been hers, to hold her in his cold yet familiar embrace.
Their lips parted only for air, the smaller chamber thick with a charged intimacy that felt like a memory come alive, a scene replayed from five centuries past. The dull thud of their bodies pressing against the bed echoed in the quiet room, sheets twisting and bunching beneath them. Her hands splayed over his broad, scarred chest, tracing the jagged lines of decay and the veins that pulsed with a faint, otherworldly glow.
Her golden eyes, darkened by passion, locked with his, their molten depths reflecting the fire he still kindled within her. Her lips, reddened and swollen, bore the evidence of his touch—a reminder that, for this fleeting night, he was hers, and she was his.
Sinking down on him once more felt like a dream, only the anchoring grip of his hands, calloused, scarred and firm steadied her, guiding her down to take, to be filled.. Fingers curled on his chest, the drag of her fingernails sparking against the expanse of cursed skin as soft walls were parted, warm depths filled as they fluttered around hardened flesh.
“Just like that” The rich baritone filled her ears, cutting through the haze of pleasure that had fogged her mind. Their act was a blasphemy, yet it had never felt so sweet. Her skin ignited under his touch, sparks of heat meeting his cold fingers as steam filled the room, curling around them like a veil. Hands that had felled thousands now gripped her hips with reverence, guiding her movements with a desperation that made the Archon’s vision blur with stars.
It was far from poetic. Their pace was frantic, a collision of yearning and need, as though time itself might steal this moment from them. Her nails dragged across his skin, leaving fleeting traces of her touch, while their lips crashed together with an urgency that left no space for air.
She burned as her vision turned white, her hair flaring into a bright gold, an echo of the sun’s brilliance. In losing herself to him, she felt the cold rush that tempered her flames, his touch anchoring her in the frenzy. The familiar throb of passion and the alien chill of his presence wove together, a bittersweet harmony that neither could deny.
Mavuika’s heart thundered in her chest as she nestled her head in the crook of his neck, the only harbor that had ever felt safe. They remained frozen in their embrace, unwilling to move and shatter the fragile perfection of the moment. His fingers, cold and calloused from centuries of wielding a blade, traced down the curve of her back. The touch was impossibly gentle for a man who had known only war, a tenderness reserved solely for her.
“Tomorrow—” His voice rumbled through her, a deep tremor resonating in her core. Tomorrow was her end, the death foretold thousands of years ago, an inevitability carved into the very founding of her nation. Power for a life.
Her lips brushed against the blackened skin of his neck, lingering on the firm, wiry tendon beneath. The curse that had hollowed him made his flesh cold, but still, she pressed closer. “Tomorrow is tomorrow,” she whispered, her breath warm as it ghosted against his skin. “You are all I want tonight.” Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let herself drown in the fragile peace that wrapped around them like a fragile cocoon.
Long moments passed in silence, broken only by the faint sound of his quiet grunt—a wordless acceptance that carried the weight of their shared grief. His hands tightened at her hips, pulling her closer as if to anchor her to the present. In one fluid motion, he rolled their bodies, pressing her back against the tangled, disturbed sheets.
“Then let us have tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and raw.
⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹
She hated this place, a hollow void carved into the heart of Natlan. Once it blazed with the unyielding fire of her people, yet now it smothered her with its cold, deathly quiet. It was here in the stillness of the dead, Mavuika could feel her chest tighten at the sight of the silent throne surrounded by pillars of black ice. The still figure shrouded in a veil of icy mist was motionless like stone. He seemed less a man and more an eternal sentinel, a lifeless guardian watching over Natlan.
Each step drew her nearer to the man who, even in his endless slumber, had stolen the breath from her lungs. His arms, once her only refuge, now felt like a bittersweet echo of what could've been.
"After five centuries, you owed me more than a few days," she murmured, her voice somehow still steady.
Silence answered her, it always did. She had stopped expecting anything else long ago. Yet, when her body folded into his lap, she found herself molding to the curve of his form, her cheek resting against the fur draped at his neck. The warmth seeped into her, a quiet betrayal of how much she still sought comfort in the one who had left her empty.
His scent still clung to the air, a sharp tan of metal softened by the worn, familiar oils of well cared for leather. The Pyro Archon breathed deeply, allowing him once more to consume her senses. Long lashes dusted her cheek, a quiet moment of solace in the unmoving arms of a man hung in the balance of death and life, his spirit intertwined with the Lord of the Night, yet his immortal body lingered, unmovable, unchanging.
She was the sun—radiant, vital, the lifeblood of her people, the flames of her hair dancing and flickering, an eternal dance. Yet here, against the steady rise and fall of his chest, broad and unyielding at her side, she felt the aching distance between them. The moon, her silent counterpart, had never felt more unreachable.
Her storeroom was barren now. Every cherished memory, every story of her people, had been surrendered to the flames. The ashes of their smiles, carefree laughter, and the blood and sweat of countless battles had scattered on the wind, fueling Mavuika's grand plan. Yet those memories haunted her with every unrelenting step she took toward her goal. She could still recall the faint, barely perceptible twitch of his lips when they first met five centuries ago, the way it had stirred something within her. The flutter in the Pyro Archon's chest at the outlander's gaze—a mortal man who saw beyond the mantle of godhood to the warrior beneath. A warrior who had fought tirelessly for her people, her lands. And a man who had loved her for who she truly was, not for the title she bore.
His arms were her sanctuary, though they offered only the hollow solace of a man long lost. The quiet of the ruins enveloped them, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had become her constant companion. Here, in this desolate place, she allowed herself to let go—to lower the unyielding guard she carried for centuries and silence the racing thoughts that clawed at her mind.
Curling closer, she buried herself in the folds of the Captain’s cloak, its weight and scent a bittersweet echo of the man he once was. Her golden eyes fluttered shut, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine that this was enough, that the cold comfort of his embrace could fill the void carved into her soul.
The first tentative chirps of the Qucusarus stirred Mavuika, her golden eyes fluttering open to greet a world she wished she could avoid. The sunrise was breathtaking, painting the calm waters lapping at Natlan’s shores in hues of amber and gold. Even at the silent throne’s towering heights, the beat of the waves reached her ears—a haunting echo of a life that moved forward.
A soft sigh escaped her lips, a rush of warm air that felt painfully out of place against the cold reality pressing in. The fur brushing her cheek offered a mockery of comfort, a cruel caress in place of the hands that would never reach for her again. It was selfish, she knew, to linger here—to steal one more moment of this fragile peace, even as the dried remnants of scorched tears clung to her lashes, reminders of grief she could not extinguish.
Her movements were deliberate, her fingers reached for the cool edge of his helmet. She lifted it slowly, exposing the faint curve of his lips—lips ravaged by time. Her kiss lingered there, a desperate offering, her warmth pressing against his unyielding cold as though it could ignite life within him once more.
“I dreamt of you,” she whispered, her voice trembling like a fragile thread about to snap.
The heat of a tear sliding down her cheek pulled her from the haze of her thoughts. It carved a slow path, steaming and hissing as it met the eternal flames within her, rising into the air as a ghostly whisper. A shaking breath tore from her lungs, unfamiliar and raw, a sound that betrayed the mortal fragility she so rarely allowed herself to feel. It was a cry of rage, of heartbreak, and of bitter injustice—the sacrifice that had taken so much and left her with too little.
For this moment, she allowed herself to break. Alone, high above the watching eyes of her people, she let her grief pour forth, her steaming tears rising to join her sorrow in a futile prayer to the uncaring heavens.