The moon hung high, its blood-red glow piercing through the clouds to drench the spires of the royal city. The air hummed with a mix of unease and longing. The ruins of the Temple of Flames loomed like a slumbering behemoth in the night; embers still smoldered, and a searing wind tore through the corridors, carrying fragments of incantations and the whispers of ancient deities.
Ileia knelt upon the wreckage of the altar. Her white veil had been shredded by the night wind, her exposed skin shimmering with a aura beneath the blood moon's light. Her breath came in gasps, her eyes blazing with fiery heat—as if a teardrop had fallen into magma, scorching the edges of her soul.
"You have summoned me, scion of the phoenix," the soul of Casas emerged from the flames. Clad in battle armor, his eyes as deep as the night abyss, his spirit form stepped slowly from the burning ashes, like a nightmare made flesh.
"I do not pray," Ileia's voice was low yet steady. "I command."
Casas let out a low laugh, sharp as obsidian shattering. "Your blood is not yet ripe, your heart already trembles. But you have indeed gained the courage to slay a god."
She rose to her feet, her slender frame pressing close to his ethereal form. Heat and cold clashed; Casas's soul-flame seemed to gnaw at her will, yet Ileia leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. In a burst of firelight, all sense fragmented into ashes.
Her fingertips traced his soul, as if brushing the bones of fate. His response was rough and immediate, waves of spiritual power surging between them, igniting forbidden runes deep within the temple. As flames rose, her moans echoed like ancient incantations—sensuality and divinity intertwined, pleasure sharp as the meeting of hell's abyss and heaven's heights.
"What you desire is dominion over fate," Casas murmured against her ear, his voice hoarse. "Then you must burn away the world's last fears with your body."
She tilted her head back, gasping, her hair matted with sweat and ash. "Then offer me as sacrifice. Ignite it all—in the wildest way."
That night, they upon the remains of gods, their union a ritual. Spirit and flesh intertwined in delirium, tearing through the laws of the old world. Ileia's body, a blazing banner, was driven again and again to the edge of desire by Casas, yet with each collapse, her resolve burned brighter.
On the other side of the altar, Ares, apostle of the Cracked Moon King, finally stepped into the ruins. His purple cloak billowed in the wind as he witnessed the wild scene, his expression enigmatic, eyes flickering with flames of lust—greed, ambition, and an unspoken obsession.
"The phoenix bloodline is as dangerous as legend claims," Ares muttered, drawing a dark silver dagger, his smile cold. "But the more dangerous the prey, the more worthy the conquest."
Night deepened, stars dimmed, and the gears of fate began to turn wildly.