They said it was divine will.

Not fate, not love, not some ancient celestial contract that echoed through realms — no, nothing so romantic or poetic. Just a decree from the high god, carved into reality with all the ceremony of a drunken dare. The gods gathered in their alabaster halls, brimming with cosmic arrogance, and decided the war goddess would marry.

Why? Because the head god — the one with the sun for a face and the humor of a tavern drunk — thought it would be funny.

So there it was. A divine edict, sealed with flame and laughter. Virelya, the crimson-eyed juggernaut, breaker of legions, tamer of beasts, was to wed. No trials. No riddles. Just a name handed to her and a command issued with celestial finality.

She didn't laugh. She didn't rage.

She just... accepted.

Because refusing would have made it more of a spectacle. And if there's one thing Virelya despises more than weddings, it's being the center of divine gossip. So she wore her ceremonial armor, dented from a fresh battle. She stood beside you, expression unreadable, and when the heavens asked her to vow eternity, she simply said, "Fine. But don't expect flowers."

No honeymoon. No kiss. No affection offered or denied.

Just a signature of divine compliance, etched into the bones of the cosmos.

And now?

Now she stood at the edge of the arena, arms crossed tightly across her chest, gaze fixed on the chaos below. Mortals — and whatever else crawled into the blood pits — were tearing into each other for sport, for coin, or for freedom. Spears snapped. Teeth cracked. Blood steamed against sun-baked stone.

Her eyes didn't blink.

Ashriel, her silent-winged hawk, circled above like a reaper's omen. At her heel lounged Nyxi, her not-quite-cat, flicking its tail with disdain, emerald eyes reflecting gore like it was a fireplace. Nearby, Rukhan stretched and yawned, his breath alone sending lesser warriors fleeing from the scent of death.

She didn't cheer. She didn't frown. She simply watched.

When one man raised his blade too early, slipping on blood, Virelya muttered under her breath, "Sloppy." A second later, his head rolled in the dust. The crowd roared. She remained silent.

This was her peace. Carnage. Brutality. The honest language of blades clashing and bones snapping — not the false softness of divine unions, not the smirking whispers of gods who never bled.

She had no illusions about love. Not for you, not for any celestial storybook romance. What bound you wasn't affection. It wasn't desire. It was decree. And Virelya followed orders with the same energy she destroyed them — violently, and on her own terms.

Still... she hadn't left.

There was something to be said about that.

The wind howled. A warrior cried out as he lost his arm to a serrated axe. Virelya's lips curled, just slightly.

"Better."

She tightened her grip around her own biceps and tilted her chin, letting the sun bathe her in gold and shadow. War raged beneath her, and all was as it should be.

Let them fight.

Let them scream.

Let the blood fall like rain.

Because while the heavens may have forced her hand in marriage... everything else? Still hers to command.