His Redemption

In the nights when the moon bleeds silver over thorn and stone, where forests murmur of ancient sins, he walks alone-
a shadow older than kingdoms, older than memory itself, bearing the weight of centuries and the ruin of empires.
Last of a dying line, Men have knelt before him, beasts have fled from him, and yet he is crowned by nothing but silence and blood.

Then she crosses the veil of the southern woods-unbidden, fragile as frost yet unbound-carrying a spark that twists the loom of fate.
She knows not the power she wakens, nor the chains she has already cast upon hearts unyielding-long shut to mercy.
Eyes hold questions he cannot answer; her pulse beats a rhythm that tugs at his tainted soul.

The wind whispers her name, and the trees bend as though in warning.
Stars shiver in their blackened vaults; time itself recoils, knowing bonds have been forged where none should be-threads taut with longing, dread, and something older than law.

To touch her is to summon chaos; to spare her is to court his own undoing; to breathe the same air is to gamble with ruin.
And yet, neither shadow nor blade nor decree may sever what fate has woven.
Desire claws through the centuries; the past groans beneath the weight of what is coming.

Mark the stillness of the night, mortal and immortal alike.
Listen to the forest's hush.
For the bond will not wait, the pull will not falter, and the reckoning-long promised, long feared-comes with the certainty of storms and death.

Be it salvation or destruction, the bond hungers for its due, and none escape its claim.