Darkness breathed, a living entity that coiled around Seraphina, slithering over her bare skin like a phantom lover's touch.
It whispered against her throat, a promise of hidden pleasures and dark secrets.
The air in the vast chamber was thick, humid, intoxicating, heavy with the scent of smoke, blood, and something forbidden—a primal, animalistic musk that curled in her lungs.
Her bare feet pressed against the cold, polished obsidian floor, grounding her in the surreal reality of her surroundings. She was not alone.
Figures emerged from the shadows, their robes flowing like liquid night, their faces obscured beneath deep hoods.
The Elders.
Ancient beings, creatures older than sin itself, their presence a palpable weight in the chamber.
One stepped forward, his voice a rasp of embers, a sound that seemed to scrape against the very fabric of reality. "She rises."
Another followed, his tone a whisper of ancient power.
"She is reborn."
The third spoke last, his words a decree etched in fate.
"The prophecy is fulfilled."
Seraphina's fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms.
Prophecy?
Her mind still burned with the memory of the pyre, the searing pain, the betrayal. Now, they spoke of destiny, as if her suffering had been preordained.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" she demanded, Her voice came out low, rough.
The Elder ignored her, raising his hands. A soft glow flickered between his fingers—black fire, darker than the void, a pulsating, malevolent light.
"You are the one who was promised. The Queen of the Underworld, the ruler of all that writhes in darkness."
The chamber trembled, the ground quaking beneath her feet.
Seraphina's breath hitched as something deep, primal, stirred within her at his words, a dark echo of power resonating with her newfound form.
The shadows seemed to writhe in approval, their silent presence a chorus of anticipation.
But she—
She was not theirs to command.
"I don't give a damn about your prophecy," she spat, stepping forward, bare feet soundless against the stone. Her crimson eyes burning with defiance.
"I did not ask for this."
The Elders did not move, their forms unyielding, their presence a silent challenge.
"And yet," the first one murmured, his voice a low, ominous rumble, "the mark of the Queen is upon you."
Seraphina's gaze flicked downward.
The black runes scrawled across her skin pulsed, shifting like living ink, a dark, intricate pattern that seemed to breathe with her. They slithered across her arms, down her ribs, curling like whispered secrets over her hips.
Her breath hitched, a mix of fear and fascination gripping her.
And then—
A deep chuckle echoed through the chamber, dark, dangerous, masculine.
The air thickened, charged with an unseen energy, a palpable shift in the atmosphere.
A shiver skated down her spine, a primal awareness of something powerful, something predatory.
And then she felt them. Three presences, each one more powerful, more dangerous, more sinful than the last.
The Elders stepped back, their forms receding into the shadows, leaving her exposed, vulnerable.
And from the darkness, they came.
Kier. The Fallen Angel And The god Of War
The first figure emerged, towering, brutal, carved from war itself. His body was a weapon, broad shoulders, powerful arms, his torso chiseled like something sculpted by the gods and abandoned in battle.
Black armor clung to him, edges sharp, wicked, dripping with an unseen carnage. His eyes, golden, burning with an eternal flame, pinned her in place, a predatory gaze that seemed to strip her bare.
Seraphina's pulse quickened, a dangerous thrill coursing through her veins. Not from fear, but from something far worse—a dark, forbidden desire.
"Kneel," he commanded, his voice a slow, deep drawl of heat and hunger, a command that resonated deep within her.
She bared her teeth in a mocking smile, her crimson eyes flashing with defiance. "Make me."
Kier's grin was slow, predatory, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "Oh, little queen," he murmured, taking another step forward, his presence a suffocating wave of raw power, "I intend to."
The air between them crackled. His presence was a physical thing—suffocating, demanding.
And gods help her, her body reacted.
She hated it.
She craved it.
His gaze dragged over her, slow and deliberate, before he reached out. A single, gloved finger traced the curve of her jaw. "You smell like fire." His voice was a rumble of thunder, "Like something meant to be devoured."
Seraphina slapped his hand away. "Touch me again, and I'll carve out your heart."
Kier only smirked. "I'd like to see you try."
Rael. The Incubus
The second figure was a ghost of shadow, a whisper of sin. He did not move like a man, but melted into existence, appearing at her side as if he had always been there, as if he had always been watching.
His hair was black as the void, his face too sharp, too wicked, his lips curled in amusement.
Seraphina barely caught the flicker of black ink licking up his throat, disappearing into the high collar of his midnight robes, a tantalizing glimpse of hidden secrets.
"The fire did not break her," he mused, his voice silken, laced with cruel delight, a sound that seemed to caress her skin. "Perhaps the shadows will."
Seraphina exhaled slowly, her breath catching in her throat. His scent, night, blood, and something intoxicatingly sinful, wrapped around her like a noose, a seductive trap.
He did not touch her, didn't need to. His power seeped into her skin, teasing, taunting, a slow burn that ignited a dark heat within her.
Rael wanted to watch her squirm, to see her break. She refused to give him the satisfaction.
Instead, she turned her head, met his gaze, and smirked. "You like to watch, don't you?"
Rael tilted his head, his grin sharp as a blade. "I like to see how far things can break before they shatter."
Her stomach tightened.
Orin. The Dragon king
And then, the last one. The one that made the air thicker, the ground tremble, the shadows bow.
Orin stepped forward, silent and wild, his presence raw and untamed. Not a man, but a beast.
His silver hair cascaded down his back, his dark horns curling through the strands.
His body—bare, scarred, primal—was a contradiction of brutal violence and breathtaking beauty.
His eyes, deep, ancient, held a hunger that should not exist, a raw, animalistic desire that made her breath catch in her throat.
"This one fights," he rumbled, his voice thunder, gravel, heat, a sound that resonated deep within her bones. "Good."
His lips curled back, revealing fangs, a predatory grin that sent a shiver down her spine. "I like when they fight."
Seraphina's mouth went dry, her body tensing, not in fear, but in a dark, forbidden anticipation.
Heat curled low in her belly, dark and forbidden, as if the fire that had once burned her alive had been reborn inside her, a smoldering ember of desire.
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to kill the heat rising inside her. She wasn't weak. She wasn't theirs. She had burned once before—she would not burn again.
The three of them circled her, their power pressing against her from all sides, a suffocating wave of temptation, dominance, sin incarnate.
She could feel them.
The weight of their stares. The raw, brutal need lingering just beneath the surface.
Kier's slow, predatory smirk.
Rael's lazy amusement, the way his sharp eyes traced over her like a challenge he intended to savor.
Orin's quiet, simmering hunger, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he were already imagining tearing into her.
Her body was betraying her, her pulse hammering too fast, her skin—hot, too hot,
her breath too shallow. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, a desperate attempt to regain control.
No. She would not bend. Would not break. Seraphina stared them down, lifting her chin, her crimson eyes flashing with defiance.
"I don't belong to any of you."
Kier smirked, a predatory gleam in his golden eyes. "Not yet."
And the shadows closed in, their presence a suffocating embrace, a promise of dark pleasures and forbidden desires.
END OF CHAPTER 2