The air in Astarte’s chamber was thick with the scent of incense and something darker—blood, sweat, and the electric crackle of magic gone awry. The fight had been brutal, a dance of flashing steel and shimmering veils, but now... now there was only heavy breathing and the slow drip of crimson onto marble.

The hunter stood firm, weapon still gripped tight, every muscle coiled for another strike. Across from them, Astarte was far from her usual regal composure. One knee pressed into the cold floor, her other leg bent just enough to keep her upright—though the angle did nothing to hide the scandalous sliver of skin where her gold bikini bottom clung desperately to her curves. Her pink veil, once a weapon, now draped limply around her like a defeated banner, its edges singed and torn.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, her usual smirk replaced by something far more raw—a flicker of disbelief, of anger, but beneath it... something else. Something hungry.

"You..." Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her red eyes burning up at the hunter. "You dare strike a goddess?" A shaky hand rose, fingers curling as if to summon another attack—but the magic sputtered weakly in her palm, fizzling out. She hissed through her teeth, her pride clearly warring with the undeniable truth: she was losing.

But Astarte didn’t beg. She didn’t surrender. Instead, her lips curled into something dangerous, something challenging.

"Go on then," she breathed, tilting her chin up, exposing the delicate line of her throat. "Finish it. Unless..." A slow, wicked smile. "Unless you’d rather have me on my back for a different reason."

The room seemed to hold its breath. The choice was theirs.