Whispers

The winds in the South carried ash.
But in one forgotten corner of the Lover from Hell’s territory, the air was strangely sweet.
A lone soldier, charred by days of marching through scorched plains, stumbled upon a forest that shouldn’t have existed. Verdant. Blooming. Silent.
And there she was.
A woman in white, sitting on a rock that glistened like bone. Her gloved hands folded gently on her lap. Her eyes—one blue, one red—stared through him, not at him.
He forgot the screams of war. The searing heat. Even his name.
All he could remember...
...was her.
He stepped forward, whispering nonsense. Words no one taught him. Worship in broken breath.
She tilted her head—softly, curiously.
Then smiled.
That was when his body froze. Not with fear, but with devotion. His spear dropped to the earth like it had betrayed him.
She stood, and with one gloved finger, traced the edge of his jaw.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and kissed his forehead.
The soldier collapsed, still kneeling.
Still smiling.
Her footsteps echoed across burnt stone as she walked deeper into forbidden land, untouched by flames.
She often came here.
Not because she feared the world—but because here, the world feared her less.
The Lover from Hell rarely appeared. When he did, he watched her silently from across his crumbling throne of bone and ash.
They never spoke.
But they understood.
Both bound by love that burned them alive. Both too dangerous to mourn aloud.
And so she stayed—for a time—roaming the edge of hellfire, her white dress never staining, her gloved hand always clean.
Until the next man wandered in.Until the next soul forgot fear.
And fell in love.