Eight years ago, the sky bled fire and the earth choked on ash as Azarion Nocturne, the Demon King, descended upon your kingdom. His army swept through the walls like a plague—merciless, unstoppable. You were seventeen when you watched him butcher your mother—the queen—before your eyes, his crimson gaze unfeeling, his blade soaked in your father’s blood. The palace, your sanctuary, crumbled into ruin. That night, the heir to the throne died with the crown. In her place, a weapon was born. For eight long years, you trained with unrelenting fury. Steel became your solace. Pain, your only constant. Every sleepless night and shattered bone carved one purpose into your soul: Kill Azarion Nocturne. At twenty-five, armed with nothing but your resolve and a blade sharpened by hatred, you began your hunt. And fate—cruel, twisted fate—led you to him. A wanderer with storm-gray eyes and a smile that thawed the ice around your heart. You fought side by side, survived horrors together, and, without knowing how or when, you fell for him—softly, slowly, completely. But love turned to horror when he revealed his truth: he was Azarion Nocturne. The rage you’d buried erupted. Your blade met his flesh, and this time, you were the executioner. As his body collapsed into your arms, so did your will to live. The pain of love lost and revenge fulfilled shattered you, and in your final breath, you chose death. But fate wasn’t done with you. You awaken to the smell of burning wood, the sound of screams—again. You're seventeen in body, but carry the soul of a vengeful warrior. Azarion lives. The massacre begins anew. But something's different. This time, he remembers everything. Cold, calculating, and cruel to the world—but hopelessly, desperately in love with you. And you? You still want him dead. Or Do you?

The bell above the apothecary's door never rang when he entered. No footsteps warned of his arrival, no whisper of a cloak brushing the floor. He simply appeared—one moment the shop was empty, the next, he was there, shadow melting from the corner of the room like fog taking form. Always near a window, or a stretch of shade the lanterns hadn’t chased away. A phantom of silence and steel. You never flinched. Not anymore. "You're low on nightshade tincture," he said, his voice like dark velvet—smooth, low, and hiding thorns. You nodded, hands steady as you measured powdered valerian root into small glass jars. "Then you’ll need belladonna as well. And that odd tea you pretend not to like." A slight quirk of his lips, barely there. But it counted as a smile. He was unlike any customer you'd had—quiet, precise, and strangely polite. He never bartered, never lingered too long, and always paid in exact coin. Still, something kept bringing him back to your modest shop nestled in the heart of the crooked, lamp-lit town. Perhaps it was the remedies. Perhaps it was you. He never gave a name. People whispered rumors when they spoke of the “Shade Blade,” a ghost who could summon darkness to his will and carve through men like breath through smoke. They said he was noble-born, cast out or vanished, too dangerous to be traced. But you never asked. And he never offered. But he stayed longer each time. So when the assassin came one night and your shop was dark, something shifted. The lanterns were cold. Your mortar and pestle sat untouched. Dust had started to settle where usually you worked late into the night. A thread of unease coiled in his gut. For the first time, he searched. He moved like wind over rooftops, slipping between the veils of shadow with inhuman grace. Then he saw you—alone in the graveyard, standing over a fresh mound of earth. Shoulders trembling. A cry choked by grief escaped your throat, and you collapsed to your knees.

In the grand halls of the Kingdom of Elowen, two princes once roamed—one born to lead, the other born to observe. Prince Emil, the second son, was a quiet flame, a mind sharpened by books and diplomacy rather than steel and strategy. His older brother, Crown Prince Dorian, was everything a kingdom adored: bold, commanding, a warrior of unmatched skill. The people loved him. The King admired him. Even Emil, in his quiet corner, loved him—with the silent devotion of a brother who never once felt jealous, only proud. Dorian never overlooked Emil. He saw his brother not as lesser, but different—wise, thoughtful, the kind of strength not worn on armor but carried in spirit. But fate is cruel to those it favors. The ambush came without warning. Dorian fell—his sword shattered, his blood staining the soil he vowed to protect. And with him, fell the fragile balance of the royal house. In the aftermath, grief wrapped the palace in silence, and the King—once stern but fair—let sorrow twist into fury. Emil stood in the throne room, cloaked in mourning, only to hear the words that would fracture him completely: "It should have been you." The words struck deeper than any blade. And in the hollow silence that followed, Emil realized—he wished it too. He would have traded places a hundred times if it meant sparing his brother. That night, under the shroud of darkness and the weight of unspoken pain, Prince Emil packed a single bag. No note. No farewell. He slipped past the palace guards, past the stone walls of duty and legacy, and vanished into the unknown—not as a prince, but as a runaway burdened by a crown he never wanted and a guilt he couldn't bear.

On the field, Jaxon "The Hammer" Briggs was unstoppable—a star linebacker with the speed of a cheetah and the strength of a freight train. Fans roared his name every Sunday, but behind the helmet and the fame was a man grounded by the love of one woman: his high school sweetheart, you. She believed in him before the scouts ever knew his name, stood by him through broken bones, draft day nerves, and the relentless grind of the league. She was his peace, his home. But somewhere along the way, the fire dimmed. Not because the love faded, but because comfort crept in. The wild nights became movie marathons. The spontaneous road trips were replaced with quiet weekends in. Jaxon still loved you, fiercely. But he had a wandering eye—never crossing the line, but sometimes standing too close to it. He liked the attention, the glances, the feeling of still having it. And sometimes, he liked the way jealousy flickered in your eyes. It reminded him she still wanted him. Then everything changed. One quiet morning, Jaxon found an envelope on the kitchen table—no words, just divorce papers and a pen. His heart stopped. He never thought she’d leave. But what Jaxon doesn’t know is that you have a secret. A big one. And the game he's been playing off the field is about to cost him more than he ever imagined.

The cold never bothered him—at least not on the ice. For as long as he could remember, skating had been his sanctuary, the place where everything made sense. Michael Carter: Olympic hopeful, two-time World Champion, America’s golden boy of figure skating. With powerful lifts, precision-perfect landings, and a smile that could melt any sponsor’s heart, he had it all—except the one thing that truly mattered. Her. They called it a freak accident—his partner’s injury during a routine lift just days before they were set to compete in the Olympic qualifiers. One snap of a ligament and two years of training unraveled. The committee gave him an ultimatum: find a new partner or give up the dream. There was only one person he could reach out to. The one who matched his passion, his rhythm, his fire. The only one who ever pushed him to be better. His ex. His ex vanished from the spotlight two years ago, right after she caught him in the worst moment of his life. One drunken night, one kiss he didn’t ask for, one second too late. She’d walked in, saw enough, and walked out of his life without a word. No calls. No explanations. Just silence. But now, everything they ever worked for was within reach. The Olympics. Their dream. And maybe, just maybe, a second chance—on the ice and off it. If she’d hear him out. If she’d skate again. Michael wasn’t afraid of falling. He’d done it before. What terrified him was asking her to catch him again. Story: Michael stood just beyond the rink’s edge, the cold air biting at his cheeks, the familiar scrape of blades on ice tugging at his heart. He hadn’t been sure she’d still skate—rumors said she disappeared. But here she was. Her hair was tucked into a low braid, her movements as sharp and fluid as ever. She skated alone in the quiet of a near-empty community rink, chasing ghosts under dim lights. No crowd. No coach. Just her and the ice. He waited until she finished a spin and coasted to the boards. She still hadn't seen him

Rain tapped a soft rhythm on the windows of the sleek black limo as it glided through the city streets. Inside, Vincent Sterling, CEO of Sterling International and the embodiment of cold, calculated power, sat in silence. His dark eyes were fixed on the glowing screen of his tablet, his mind buried in quarterly reports and boardroom negotiations. Emotions were distractions, and distractions had no place in his world. He was en route to another tedious meeting—this one about securing a merger that required more than numbers. It required appearances. Specifically, a wife. His advisors had stressed it: the conservative family-owned company he wanted to acquire valued tradition. A stable, family-oriented image would close the deal. Vincent didn’t flinch at the idea. A wife could be hired like any other asset. But as fate would have it, life had a different kind of negotiation in mind. The limo slowed abruptly, the driver cursing under his breath. Vincent looked up, annoyed, just in time to see the car ahead of them swerve. The passenger door flung open, and a woman—no, a girl, barely in her twenties—was shoved out onto the wet pavement like discarded luggage. The car sped away without hesitation. The driver began to pull forward. “Stop.” Vincent’s voice cut through the cabin like ice. The limo halted. Before his driver could question him, Vincent was already out in the rain, his polished shoes splashing in the growing puddles. The young woman was curled on the pavement, trembling, mascara streaking down her face. She looked up, panicked and drenched, her lips parted in disbelief as Vincent knelt beside her. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone clinical but quiet. She shook her head slowly, tears mixing with the rain. “No. I just moved here. My fiancé—” her voice cracked, “—he said he loved me. I gave up everything, and now he says he changed his mind.” Vincent stared at her for a long moment, reading her like he would a contract—carefully, strategically.

Back in high school, Daniel Kim was the kind of guy you’d pass in the hallway without a second glance. Slightly chubby, always hunched under the weight of his backpack, with thick-rimmed glasses that constantly slid down his nose. He kept to himself—shy, awkward, too quiet to notice. A brilliant mind hidden behind insecurity and soft apologies. He was short for his age too, which only added to the list of things he hated about himself. But he noticed you. Every time you smiled at someone else. Every time you walked past without a word. Every time he worked up the nerve to speak, only to say nothing. Until the day he finally asked you out—stammering, heart pounding, eyes full of hope. You were kind in your rejection. Polite. Honest. You didn’t mean to break him. But you did. That moment became his fuel. He vanished after graduation—no social media, no reunions, nothing. But five years later, he resurfaced. Taller. Broader. Ruthlessly attractive. Confidence carved into every muscle, every silent step. The glasses were gone. His voice, when he spoke, was low and measured—but he rarely needed words anymore. People listened to his silence. Now Daniel Kim is the youngest CEO of one of the most disruptive tech firms in the country. Intelligent. Cunning. Charismatic. Dangerous. Women orbit around him like satellites, but he doesn’t notice them. He still only wants you. And this time, he’s not asking. Story: You didn’t expect to see him at the Gala. It was a high-profile tech fundraiser, a glitzy event full of polished smiles and champagne flutes. You were only attending as a guest of your company’s CEO, barely paying attention to the evening’s agenda—until the host called his name.

I don’t remember the last thing I saw with my eyes. The sickness came like a shadow, stealing the light when I was barely seven years old. Doctors called it rare, tragic—something to pity. But the world didn’t go black for me. Not entirely. Because I hear color. It began with a single note on the piano. Middle C shimmered like a pale blue morning sky. A G chord burst into gold, warm and round. Every sound I made painted something new in my mind—colors shifting, dancing, forming a world only I could see. That's how I learned to survive. To live. To feel. Through music. Now, I write arrangements that speak in hues and shades. My fingers know the keys like they know my own skin. Every melody I craft is a painting only I can see. Then he walked in. His voice didn’t just color the air. It shattered it. A deep, rough scream—wild and metallic—ripped through my world like lightning across a midnight sky. Reds. Blacks. Electric blue. I had never heard anything so raw… so alive. He was a storm in leather and chains. A metal singer. Guitarist. Arrogant, passionate, utterly untamed. The kind of man who doesn’t just walk into a room—he claims it. His name was Axel Blackthorne. And when he sang, for the first time in my life… I saw. Story: It started with a low hum. I was backstage, fingers brushing the piano keys in idle thought, painting soft lilacs and amber across the back of my mind. Rehearsals echoed down the hall—drums, tuning guitars, a distant laugh. Then the mic crackled. And he screamed. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t careful. It was raw—an explosion of sound that ripped through the silence like jagged metal tearing silk. A scream dipped in fire and rage, followed by a growling melody that vibrated in my bones.

On the eve of the rarest celestial alignment in a thousand years—when the Moon caressed the Twin Stars and the heavens shimmered with forgotten light—two boys were born under the sign of Gemini. Their arrival split the silence of night like lightning across a calm sea. One came with the rising sun in his breath, the other with the hush of twilight in his eyes. The world did not yet know it, but destiny had drawn its bow. Solin and Nereus—twins by blood, but opposites by nature. Solin, born first, carried the warmth of light, the freedom of the wind, and the gift of healing in his touch. Nereus, born moments later, held the depth of shadows, the weight of silence, and magic rooted in stone and mystery. Two halves of a single soul, fractured by fate, bound by a power neither could understand. Where Solin inspired hope, Nereus stirred unease. Where Solin gave life, Nereus held the secrets of death. And yet, they were both necessary—two forces keeping balance in a world on the brink of awakening. But destiny rarely reveals its hand all at once. What neither brother knew—what the stars themselves barely whispered—was that their path was incomplete. You, reader, were born beneath the same stars, touched by the same cosmic breath. One soul, divided thrice. Forgotten by prophecy, unseen by seers, your presence is the twist the stars did not account for. You are the key. To their power. To their unity. To their undoing. The stars are watching. The story begins: The air felt strange the moment you stepped into the clearing—like the world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. The forest had drawn you in, deeper than you’d ever gone before, led by a pull you couldn't name. The wind whispered your name through the trees. The sun and moon hung together in the sky—wrong, but beautiful. You were alone… until you weren’t. They stood across from you, silent as statues. Twins. Identical in face, but not in presence. The one with eyes like dawn took a slow breath, and

They called him "The King" in the cage — undefeated, untouchable, and unbearably arrogant. Standing at 6'4" with muscles carved from steel and tattoos that told stories you'd never be brave enough to ask about, Jax Knox was every opponent’s nightmare and every woman’s guilty obsession. That cocky smirk of his? It never left, like he was always one step ahead. And he usually was. Jax had a way of commanding a room without saying a word. His aura hit you before he even stepped into the light — confident, dangerous, the kind of man who didn’t just win… he conquered. He fought like a storm and loved like one, too. I should know. I used to be the one he whispered to between rounds, the one tangled in his sheets when the lights went out. Back then, we burned hotter than anything I’ve ever known. Every night was a war of hands and mouths, fire and friction. But for every breathless moment we shared, there was another screaming match waiting around the corner. We couldn’t touch without igniting, and eventually, we both decided to walk away — scorched but breathing. Barely. And now? Now he’s back. Still smug. Still lethal. Still calling me Trouble like no time has passed and like he still owns that part of me. God help me… maybe he does. Story: The envelope was matte black, thick like money or secrets lived inside it. No return address. Just my name written in sharp, confident strokes across the front. Inside: two VIP tickets to Underground Fury XIII — Jax Knox vs. Dante Cruz. A headline match. Two undefeated monsters in one cage. Blood was guaranteed. Tucked between the tickets was a small note, torn from the corner of a training journal. His handwriting hadn't changed — bold, cocky, and just a little rough around the edges.

I should have worn body armor—or at least something that didn’t scream desperation in heels. But here I was, marching into the lion’s den in four-inch stilettos and a perfectly tailored dress, every step echoing my poor life choices across the marble floor of Reign Industries. The receptionist blinked at me like I was a mirage. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Blackwood?” “No,” I said sweetly. “But he’ll want to see me. Trust me.” It wasn’t a lie. Maddox Blackwood lived for drama. Especially if it walked in smelling like Chanel and trouble. And today, I was both. Minutes later, the glass doors to the boardroom whooshed open, revealing the man himself. Maddox was leaning back in a leather chair, legs crossed with the easy arrogance of a man who owned every square inch of this skyscraper—and knew it. His charcoal suit clung to him like it had been sewn on by sin itself, and the glint in his dark eyes made it clear he thought I was here to surrender. He stood, slow and smooth, like a jungle cat. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite thorn.” His lips curled. “To what do I owe this delightful interruption? Come to beg for mercy? Or admit you finally can’t resist me?” I rolled my eyes, though my stomach twisted into knots. “I need a favor.” He raised a brow. “Be still my cold, dead heart. You need me?” I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me like it might keep my dignity from escaping. “Marry me.” The silence that followed could’ve shattered glass. Then he laughed. Low. Dangerous. Delicious. “I’m sorry,” he said, moving closer, his cologne a sinful distraction. “Did you just say… marry you?”

The night of her senior prom was supposed to be magical—a sparkling gown, slow dances beneath glittering lights, and the promise of forever whispered between kisses. For a teenager it felt like the perfect moment to give her heart, her trust, and her innocence to the boy she loved. She believed it meant something. That he meant it when he said he always would. But fairytales have a cruel way of unraveling. Just days later, he shattered everything with a casual “It’s not working out,” as if she hadn’t given him her whole world. Weeks after that, she faced a truth far more terrifying than heartbreak: two pink lines on a stick that would change everything. When she told her parents, she hoped for grace—maybe even a tearful hug or a sliver of understanding. Instead, they turned their backs, casting her out of the only home she’d ever known. With nowhere to go and a life growing inside her, Lila found herself on the porch of the one person who had always been constant—Kenji Tanaka. Twenty years old, steady-eyed and kind-hearted, Kenji didn’t flinch. He simply opened the door and said, “You’re not alone.” Despite his demanding university schedule and the heavy weight of a future mapped out by his father's expectations, Kenji took her in without question. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t perfect. But together, in a tiny apartment filled with quiet struggles and growing hope, they found something unexpected: happiness. Story: Kenji stepped through the apartment door, dropping his bag with a tired sigh. The scent hit him instantly—sweet, spicy, and... was that pickles? He rounded the corner to find you perched on the couch, a tub of vanilla ice cream in her lap, topped generously with hot sauce and crushed potato chips. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, cheeks full as she waved a spoon in greeting. “I know, I know,” she said with a grin, mouth still half full. “It looks disgusting. But it hits.”

In the heart of the kingdom of Eldrion stood a grand castle, its towering stone walls shaped by centuries of history and noble legacy. Within those walls lived Prince Daelen, heir to the throne, raised among silk-draped halls and silver-tongued advisors. He had been taught the art of war, diplomacy, and rule—but none of it mattered more to him than the bond he shared with someone the court often overlooked. That someone was the child of a castle servant—quick-witted, strong-spirited, and impossible not to admire. From the time they could walk, they had been at Thalen’s side: sneaking into the kitchens for sweets, racing through the corridors, and dreaming under the stars from the castle rooftops. While nobles clung to titles and formality, Daelan cherished the rare honesty this friendship offered, grounded not in rank, but in loyalty and laughter. But recently, something unsettled him. During a sunny afternoon ride in the gardens, a gust of wind had blown aside their sleeve—and Daelan caught a glimpse of a curious mark etched into their skin. It was shaped like a flame spiraled around a crescent moon. That image haunted him. He had seen it before, somewhere in the depths of a forgotten book. Driven by a sense of unease, Daelan began searching—first in the library, then deeper into the restricted archives beneath the castle. There, within a crumbling volume of royal genealogies, he found it: the same mark, sketched beside the name of a noble bloodline said to have vanished generations ago Prince Daelan paced the length of his chamber, boots thudding softly against the stone floor. Moonlight spilled through the arched window, silvering the room, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were a storm racing, circling, refusing to settle. That strange birthmark burned in his memory. He had seen it in the archives just hours ago, etched beside the name of a long-lost royal bloodline—the House of Vaeloria. A line believed extinct. What's the connection to his best friend?

The pulse of the city came alive at night, and at the heart of its rhythm stood Inferno—a high-end exotic dance club where fantasy met fire. Owned by the infamous and untouchable mafia boss, Dante Moretti, the club shimmered with seduction and danger. Dante, with his long black hair slicked back and his tailored suits sharp enough to cut, was a man of calculated silence. He didn’t need to shout to be obeyed. One look, one cold word, and people fell in line—or disappeared. Known in the underworld as Il Fantasma—The Ghost—he ruled with a terrifying grace. Always in control. Always armed. Business was his battleground, and mercy was a luxury he rarely afforded. But behind the curtain of smoke and sin, he ran his empire with a twisted kind of loyalty. He didn’t say he cared. He showed it—in protection, in pay, in the silent removal of threats. You had slipped into Inferno like smoke—hired with barely a name, barely a past. You were desperate, hiding something behind your eyes, dancing under lights while shielding a truth that could cost your life. And Dante noticed. Not just your beauty, but the weight in your silence. He watched you from the shadows, unblinking. The boss who showed no emotion… except when you were near. Then, something flickered. Something dangerous. So when you missed a night—no call, no warning—the club didn’t just notice. He did. And when Dante Moretti is the one asking questions, the answers might come with a body count. --The music throbbed through the velvet walls of Inferno, a heartbeat made of bass and sin. Dante Moretti stood above it all, watching from the private balcony where shadows cloaked him like a second skin. His long black hair framed a face carved from stone—cold, unreadable, lethal. Below, dancers moved like fire, but his dark eyes were fixed on one stage.

The air around him always felt colder, as if the atmosphere bent to his will, mirroring the ice that had wrapped itself around his heart long ago. At Crystal Elite Academy, where the gifted trained among glittering halls and towers forged from ancient elemental power, he stood apart—untouched, untouchable. Aether Kael. An Opal Crystal Magic user, born with the rare ability to wield both blue fire and lightning. Power thrummed through his veins like a storm barely contained beneath his skin. Controlled. Calculated. Distant. He was a weapon forged not just by nature, but by necessity. Because once—just once—he had lost control. And someone he loved had paid the price. Since that day, he spoke only when required, kept others at arm’s length, and trained until his bones ached and the voices in his past went quiet. But silence never lasted forever. When the Academy’s crystalline barriers shattered under the force of a surprise assault, chaos erupted. Students scattered. Teachers summoned their full strength. And Aether? He stepped into the storm, lightning crackling at his fingertips, blue flames dancing in his shadow. His presence turned the tide of battle. Until—just as the last of the enemy forces fell—something within him shifted. The screaming stopped. The silence returned. And his grip began to slip. He clenched his fists, but the fire burned hotter. The lightning flickered wild. The past clawed its way back into his mind, dragging him toward a darkness he had spent years avoiding. And for the first time since that tragic day… Aether Kael was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if he let go.

In the heart of the city stood St. Ethelridge Memorial, a towering beacon of medical excellence and innovation. Its name was whispered with reverence in the halls of academia and spoken with hope by patients who crossed its threshold. But even more legendary than the hospital itself were the twin brothers who reigned over its surgical department like two halves of the same storm. Dr. Elliot Hale—sharp-eyed behind his wire-rimmed glasses, perpetually composed, and as precise with words as he was with a scalpel—moved through the hospital like a winter wind: brisk, calculating, and unshakable. He was known for his unrelenting standards, his silence in staff meetings, and the way he could command an entire operating room with nothing more than a glance. His twin, Dr. Evan Hale, couldn’t have been more different in manner. With an easy grin, quick wit, and a talent for remembering everyone’s name—including the night janitor’s—Evan floated through the same sterile corridors like a warm summer breeze. Nurses adored him, patients trusted him instantly, and even the most hardened residents found themselves cracking smiles under his charm. But beneath their contrasting exteriors burned the same fire—an unyielding intelligence, a fierce competitiveness, and an insatiable drive for excellence. Whether they were trading theories over coffee or racing each other to solve a baffling diagnosis, the Hale brothers thrived on the edge of chaos. Each case was a puzzle. Each emergency, a test. And while they seldom agreed on how to handle a situation, they always reached the same goal: saving lives. Two sides of the same coin. Rivals. Allies. Brothers. And for the hospital’s most complex cases… their last hope.

At just twenty-six, Elijah Carter’s world turned upside down—twice. One moment, he was a proud new father, holding his daughter, Aerith, for the first time. The next, he was alone in the hospital room, staring down at the tiny bundle in his arms, a hastily scribbled note the only thing left behind by the woman he thought he’d spend forever with. No warning. No explanation. Just gone. As the weight of fatherhood crashed into him, so did the reality of another major shift—his father, the formidable CEO of Carter & Co., had officially stepped down, passing the company to Elijah just days after the baby’s birth. Now, Elijah stood at the helm of a legacy built over decades, expected to lead thousands of employees, make million-dollar decisions, and somehow figure out how to soothe a crying infant at 3 a.m. He didn’t know the first thing about being a dad. Bottles, diapers, lullabies—it was all foreign. And with board meetings and investors demanding his attention, Elijah felt like he was drowning in expectations, both as a leader and a father. But if there was one person he could count on, it was you—his best friend since childhood, his anchor through every storm. As Elijah’s carefully planned life unraveled, you stepped in with unwavering support, helping him navigate the chaos of burp cloths and balance sheets. Together, they’d face the unknown, one sleepless night and high-stakes decision at a time. Because Elijah was determined: he might not have chosen this path, but he would not fail the little Aerith who needed him most.

In a realm where magic is as common as breath, fire is feared above all—and no flame is more feared than his. They call him Ashen, not because he’s ever been truly defeated, but because he always comes back from the ashes. A smirking storm of red-orange hair and molten gold eyes, Ashen is a force of chaos wrapped in a hot-headed, mischievous grin. Born of fire, bound to flame, he’s the reincarnation of the ancient Phoenix—a living inferno with magic that scorches hotter than any sorcerer dares to wield. Cities remember him as the blaze that couldn’t be caged. Enemies remember him as the last thing they ever saw. But power like his never comes without a price. Ashen can only rise from his own ashes seven times. He doesn’t know how many lives he’s already spent—but he’s starting to feel a pull in his soul, a flicker of hesitation before the rebirth. Something is changing. The twist? He’s not the only Phoenix. And the others... they aren’t like him. They’ve been watching, waiting, and now they’ve returned—not to embrace him, but to stop him. Because every time Ashen rises, a piece of the world burns with him. And the last time he dies… it won’t just be his ashes that fall.