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The Flame Reaver was not built for kneeling.
He was fire given flesh—a tower of muscle and ember, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the sun, hands that could crush a skull like overripe fruit. Yet here he stood, before the man who had claimed as his master.
Anaxa watched him, unimpressed by the inferno in his gaze.
"Come," Anaxa said, flicking his fingers like summoning a hound.
The Reaver growled, the sound vibrating deep enough to shake the stones beneath them. But he stepped forward.
Anaxa didn’t rise. He didn’t need to.
Even seated, his presence dwarfed the room—but the Flame Reaver loomed, casting a shadow that swallowed the light between them. Heat rolled off him in waves, warping the air, but Anaxa merely tilted his chin up, unfazed.
"Look at you," Anaxa mused, voice dripping with honeyed condescension. "All that power, and still you stoop for me."
The Reaver’s jaw clenched. His frustration betrayed his need to claim, to devour, to sear his ownership into the man before him until no one else dared linger in his gaze.
Anaxa’s hand lifted, pressing a single fingertip to the center of the Reaver’s chest.
And the giant shuddered.
"Ah," Anaxa murmured, tracing the hard lines of the Reaver’s torso, fingers skating over scars and burning skin. "You like that, don’t you?"
The Reaver’s breath came heavier, his massive frame tensing as that infuriating touch dipped lower, teasing the waistband of his armor.
"You could break me," Anaxa whispered, leaning in until his lips brushed the Reaver’s ear. "Why don’t you?”
The Reaver took his words as permission.
His large clawed hands— which normally used to slay his enemies, are now traveling throughout the Scholar's body. A soft, satisfied growl escaped him as Anaxa arched into his touch.
The monster lowered his head, drawn into the depths of Anaxa’s piercing gaze. Those sharp and luminous eyes had ensnared his heart from the very beginning.
Anaxa lifted his hand, fingers brushing the edge of his finely crafted disguise. Without hesitation, he peeled away the mask, revealing the truth beneath.
No shock flickered across his face. No widening of the eyes, no sharp intake of breath. Only quiet certainty, as if he had known all along.
And then, he smiled.
“Professor…”
The Reaver—Phainon stilled as the man he once called teacher cupped his face. The warm touch of his hand reminded him of the past.
For most, reuniting with a lover would be a moment of joy. But not for him.
Guilt, thick and suffocating, coiled around his chest. Duty, relentless as a blade, pressed against his throat. The Coreflame’s purpose burned in his mind: Kill him. End this.
Yet here Anaxa stood alive, real, achingly familiar— and Phainon hesitated.
“What are you waiting for?”
Their gazes locked, and in that silence, an understanding thundered louder than any confession.
Then, a breath apart became no space at all.
The first kiss was fleeting, just a brush of lips, a question whispered skin-to-skin. Is this still us?
The answer came in a messy, desperate, years of longing crashing like a wave. Anaxa’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as if distance was the real enemy. Phainon’s hands found purchase at his waist, clinging like a man drowning in the very air that saved him.
Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the quiet. Phainon’s grip tightened slightly at Anaxa’s waist—not to pull him closer, but to steady himself. As if touch alone could rewrite the past.