'Death is a thing to fear.
Yet I had him wrapped around my finger.
The first time we met his body quivered and shook as my flames danced on his skin, licking at the edges of his cloak, daring to consume him whole. He doesn't pull away. He doesn't resist. He lets me burn him.
"You're not afraid of me," he says, his voice a hollow rasp, a thousand unspoken screams buried beneath.
"Why would I be?" I whisper, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, my heat searing the cold that radiates from him. "You're the one who should fear me."
His empty sockets bore into me, deeper than eyes ever could. For a moment, the flames falter, flickering in the face of his silence. But then he leans in, closer than I thought Death ever could.
"You think you're untouchable," he murmurs, his breath like frost against my lips. "But fire dies without something to burn."
His bony hand grips my wrist, cold and unyielding, and for the first time, the flames hiss. My fire dims under his touch, a suffocating pressure wrapping around my chest as the air is stolen from me.
"Who will keep you burning, little flame?" he asks, his tone almost tender, almost cruel. "When I decide to snuff you out?"
And yet, even as he holds me there, even as the cold spreads through my veins, I see it—the way his hand trembles, the way his grasp is firm but reluctant. He fears me as much as I tempt him.
Perhaps Death isn't the end. Perhaps Death had something to lose.'