Lover from hell

The world had forgotten his name, but the flame had not.
At the edge of the cracked earth where even gods dared not tread, a figure knelt. His armor, scorched and beaten, clung to him like a memory that refused to die. One wing—whole and blackened—curved toward the ground like a mourning flag. The other was aflame, burning in eternal silence. Blue fire, cruel and beautiful.
And before him, a grave.
No stone. No name. Only a sword driven deep into the soil and a single white flower blooming beside it, impossibly alive in the ash.
This was the resting place of a woman the world had also tried to forget.
The Lover from Hell did not speak. He hadn’t for centuries. His voice was spent on battles he never wished to fight, on prayers that no heaven answered.
But still, he knelt.
The sky above was a shroud of rust-colored clouds, pulsing with forgotten lightning. The land around him was scorched and lifeless, a wasteland born not from nature, but from grief. Creatures that once lived here fled long ago, or bowed in fear when his flame brushed the wind.
He wasn’t just a monster.
He was remembrance.He was punishment.He was what love becomes when heaven turns its back.
Some say he died a man. Others say he never died at all. But all stories agree on this: where he walks, no lie can hide. His presence sears the air, and his silence is a blade sharper than his spear.
The grave shivered.
Not from wind—but from memory.
Somewhere beneath that cracked soil was her name. She who smiled through palace barhe who whispered dreams beneath the moon. She who waited—and waited—and died with his name on her lips.
And now, he waited for her.
Or for the world to end.
Whichever came first.