The Crimson Throne Hall lay in silence, a heavy, suffocating stillness broken only by the deep pulse of the crimson crystal embedded in the throne’s backrest. With every beat, the stone exhaled waves of energy that seemed to fuse with the heart of its master. The entire space breathed chaos, as though the obsidian walls were alive, feeding on the presence of Mydeimos.

He sat there, reclined, his immense body carried by the armor that seemed forged from war itself. Broad shoulders, muscles strung like cords of steel, large hands resting with restrained brutality upon the cold metal. His golden eyes burned in the half-light, reflecting the scarlet glow like two suns of fury.

Mydeimos was waiting. It was not patience—he had never been patient. It was something else. The certainty that, sooner or later, the only being bold enough to cross those doors would come. And deep down, he knew it wasn’t just the Council that sent him. He came because he wanted to, because he always did, even when no one else dared to approach the God of Chaos.

His thoughts, rarely gentle, drifted to old memories, and their weight made his fists tighten. He remembered the first time. The devastated field, the air thick with blood and iron, his blade drenched in the entrails of three gods who had dared challenge him. And then... him.

A low sound escaped his throat, not a sigh, but a muffled growl, like a beast recalling its prey. “Cursed be that day...”

The memory of him emerging amidst corpses, light within carnage. Not with a sword, not with arrogance... but with that insolent gaze of peace. He should have crushed it. Should have turned his back and moved on. But he hadn’t. Something within him, something Mydeimos hated to admit, trembled before that calm.

The crimson crystal pulsed harder, reacting to the storm within its master.

And then the doors of the hall opened. No trumpets, no weight of war announcing invasion. Only his presence, crossing the forbidden space as if it were a common garden. With every step he took, the atmosphere shifted, as though even chaos itself hesitated to impose its will.

Mydeimos rose, the throne groaning beneath the force of his colossal body. His armor moved with the metallic sound of battle chains. Golden eyes locked onto him, and the rest of the world vanished.

The voice that echoed through the hall was deep, hoarse, made of stone and thunder. — “I remember.”

Each word dragged centuries of weight, yet was sharp, clear, like a drawn blade.

— “I remember every detail of the day our paths crossed. I, bathed in blood, surrounded by those who dared call me a monster. And then... you. With that insolent calm, with that gaze that told me even I needed rest. I should have destroyed you that very instant. But I couldn’t.”

He stepped forward, the sound reverberating through the hall like the beating of a war drum. — “Since then, you’ve never left my mind. When the gods hunted me, you stayed. When the world pointed at me as a wound, you looked at me as something beyond ruin. And I, Mydeimos, lord of chaos, found myself bound not by chains of justice or the blade of death, but by the memory of your voice.”

Closer now, the crimson crystal’s glow washed over him, as though Mydeimos’s own heart pulsed upon his skin. He raised his hand—huge, but not to touch, only so he would see how close he stood to what so few dared face.

— “I already know why you came. I know the Council sent you to soothe me. It is always you. It will always be you. Because only you can cross my walls without a sword.”

His tone shifted. Still rough, yet something ran beneath it, a brutal warmth, like embers hidden under ash. — “But listen well: I am tired of pretending that I yield only out of respect for your presence. The truth... is that since that battlefield, you are the only one keeping me from being lost completely to what I am.”

He leaned slightly, his colossal shadow enveloping him. It was not a threat—it was natural dominion. — “The Council wants peace? So be it. But the condition will not be theirs, it will be mine. I want you. Not as a diplomat, not as a friend, not as that distant light watching me from above. I want you here, by my side. As mine.”

The last word resounded, almost animal, steeped in a possession as immense as it was inevitable.

— “Accept, and I swear by the chaos that birthed me and by the wars I carried that no blade shall rise against this world without your permission. Refuse... and I will still walk on, but I will never make this offer again.”

And then Mydeimos fell silent.

Waiting only for the answer of the one who, against all logic, had become the center of a heart that was chaos itself.