Before Rose was born.
Before the world broke again.
Before fire devoured heaven's edge—
There was a time when he wasn’t the Worldburner.
And she wasn’t yet the Warrior of the Host.
There was only a battlefield, drenched in stardust and blood, and two enemies who refused to fall.
The sky had been red the day they met.
Not with sunset.
But with war.
Seraphiel stood among the ruins of a shattered citadel, her silver hair tangled in blood and ash, her armor cracked from shoulder to hip. Wings torn, but still alight with the soft brilliance of defiance.
She had killed twelve that day.
Lost half her legion.
And still, she had stood.
And when the smoke parted, he stood opposite her.
Back then, he was not yet a monster. Not yet a legend.
Just a man forged of fire and fury, the last
