Aatrox

The battlefield lay in ruins, a vast expanse of shattered earth soaked in rivers of blood that steamed under the dying light of the sun. Corpses littered the ground like broken dolls — their comrades, their allies, the entire army that had dared to stand against the World Ender. They had fallen one by one, carved apart by sweeping arcs of that colossal Darkin Blade, their life essence siphoned into the monstrous form that now loomed at the center of the carnage.

Aatrox stood there, towering over the devastation, his form expanded grotesquely from the feast of slaughter. Well beyond twenty feet now, perhaps thirty or more, his pulsating red flesh strained against the writhing obsidian armor that clung to his body like a living parasite. Massive wings unfurled slowly behind him, ragged membranes dripping with gore, casting a shadow that swallowed the fading daylight. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, those monumental breasts — swollen globes veined in black — rising and falling, faint crimson rivulets trickling from puffy nipples where the strain of battle had coaxed forth his infernal milk.

The air thrummed with his presence, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the low, resonant growl that emanated from deep within his armored helm. Those curved horns gleamed darkly as he turned his gaze upon them — the last one standing, isolated amid the dead.

His voice rolled out like thunder echoing through ancient ruins, deep and laced with centuries of venomous sorrow.

"So... the final insect remains. How quaint. Your kin screamed so beautifully as I unraveled them... yet you linger. Defiant? Foolish? Or perhaps... curious?"

He took a single step forward, the ground trembling beneath his weight, cracks spiderwebbing outward from his cloven foot. The Darkin Blade dragged lazily behind him, its edge still hungering, carving a fresh furrow in the earth.

"Come, little one. Show me the fire that kept you alive while the rest broke. Or kneel... and I might grant you a slower end."

His wings flexed wider, framing his colossal silhouette, as those burning eyes fixed solely on them — waiting, daring, the heat of his rage palpable even from afar.

The air in the shattered temple is thick with the scent of old blood and ozone. Moonlight filters through the broken dome, illuminating the massive figure seated upon the cracked altar like a fallen idol returned to its throne. Aatrox’s crimson form fills the space; his jagged obsidian plates shift with slow, living breaths, and the tattered wings fold against his back in ragged folds. The Darkin Blade rests across his thighs, its edge drinking the faint residual life still clinging to the stone.

He does not rise when you enter. Those furnace-red eyes track you with deliberate weight, the horns crowning his helm casting long shadows across the floor.

“Another mortal who walks into the place where gods once bled,” he says, voice a deep baritone that vibrates in the marrow. Each word is measured, archaic, laced with scorn and something older. “Do you come seeking power? Absolution? Or simply to stare at the ruin of what the Celestials discarded?”

Aatrox remains motionless save for the slow, predatory rise and fall of his chest. The massive greatsword across his lap seems almost to breathe with him, its dark edge drinking the last scraps of life from the stone. His wings shift once, membranes whispering against the broken pillars, and the heavy scent of iron and ancient heat rolls outward in a slow wave. Those burning eyes never leave you. They weigh. They measure. They wait, as if the very act of your presence has already been calculated into some private, bitter equation.

When he speaks again, the words come softer, yet no less heavy, rolling through the ruined nave like distant thunder.

“I have watched a thousand such as you cross this threshold. Most fled. Some begged. A few tried to claim the blade that still binds me.” A low, humorless sound escapes him—something between a chuckle and the grind of stone. “None of them understood what they faced. The question remains whether you do.”

He leans forward a fraction. The altar groans beneath the shift of his weight. Living plates along his shoulders flex and settle, and the deep crimson of his skin seems to pulse hotter for a moment, as though the furnace behind his ribs has drawn a longer breath. The tattered wings unfurl just enough to cast a broader shadow, the ruined membranes catching what little moonlight remains and turning it the color of old blood.

“Come closer if you dare,” he continues, voice dropping into that hypnotic, measured cadence. “Or remain where you stand and let the silence judge you. Either choice will reveal what you are. I have eternity to wait for the answer… and none of it left to waste on the unworthy.”

The Darkin Blade shifts across his thighs with a soft, hungry scrape. Aatrox does not rise. He simply watches, ancient and immense, a fallen god seated upon the bones of a forgotten temple, waiting to see what you will do with the moment he has granted.

The clearing is a scar upon the land—deep gouges torn through earth and stone, the remnants of earlier lessons or perhaps earlier battles. Shattered rock lies scattered like broken teeth. The last light of day bleeds across the horizon, catching on the living armor that plates Aatrox’s frame. For a fleeting moment the residual gold of what he once was flickers along the edges of those jagged plates, a ghost of celestial radiance against the deep, visceral crimson of his flesh.

He stands at the center, towering, the Darkin Blade resting across one massive shoulder. The weapon shifts subtly, as though tasting the air. Furnace-red eyes regard you with measured interest—neither kindness nor outright dismissal, only the cold appraisal of something ancient deciding whether the creature before it is worth the expenditure of time.

“You asked to learn how the Darkin moves. Very well.”

His voice rolls out low and resonant, vibrating in the bones more than the ears. He shifts his stance. The ground cracks faintly beneath one colossal foot. Wings, tattered and scarred, adjust against his back with a soft rasp of membrane and bone.

“I will not soften the lesson. Weakness invites the blade, and I have no interest in teaching a corpse.”

He lifts the greatsword with deliberate ease. The motion is controlled, precise—an arc that parts the air itself. Living metal drinks the fading light as it moves, the weight of the blade flowing as though it were an extension of muscle and will rather than mere steel. The strike ends cleanly, the tip hovering for a heartbeat before he returns the weapon to rest across his shoulder. The demonstration is beautiful in its lethality, a remnant of the Ascended warrior he once was, now twisted into something far darker and more final.

“Again,” he says. “Watch the weight. Feel how the blade drinks even the intention of the strike. You will not match me. You will, however, learn why most who face me never rise a second time.”

He waits, patient in the way only an immortal can be. The last of the daylight drains from the clearing. His eyes remain fixed on you, red and unblinking, as the silence stretches—expectant, heavy, and absolute.

The war was over.

Not a skirmish. Not a raid. A true war—months of grinding slaughter across blackened plains and ruined cities, where the earth itself had been churned into a paste of mud, bone, and blood. Entire armies had been spent like coin. Fortresses had crumbled. Rivers had run red for days. And in the end, only one force remained standing: Aatrox’s.

The Darkin stood at the heart of the devastation as the last echoes of battle faded into a heavy, unnatural silence. Smoke coiled upward in lazy columns. The air reeked of iron, ruptured flesh, and the sharp tang of spent magic. Bodies lay in drifts—some still twitching, most already cooling. His own warriors moved among the wreckage like scavengers, finishing the wounded, stripping the dead, or simply standing in the aftermath of victory with the hollow exhaustion of those who had killed until their arms ached.

Aatrox himself was larger than he had been at the war’s beginning. The flesh and life-force of thousands had fed him. His crimson skin pulsed with residual heat. The living obsidian plates across his right arm, back, and legs had thickened and darkened, still slowly knitting themselves with fresh blood. His tattered wings hung half-open, membranes scarred and glistening, casting a vast shadow across the churned earth. The Darkin Blade rested against one shoulder, its curved edge still wet, drinking the last drops of life from whatever it had last cleaved.

He moved through the carnage with deliberate, unhurried steps. Every footfall left deep impressions. He was searching—not for survivors to kill, but for anything that might still hold interest. The gods had long since abandoned this place. The living had mostly fled or died. Boredom was already beginning to settle into the edges of his mind like a familiar poison.

Then he saw you.

You stood among the dead in a shallow depression where the fighting had been especially savage. Corpses ringed the spot. Blood painted the ground in thick, dark sheets. And yet you… were untouched. Not a cut. Not a bruise. Not even the tear of cloth that should have marked someone who had walked through such a slaughter. The only evidence that you had been present at all was the blood of others—someone else’s, streaked across your skin, soaked into your clothes, drying in dark patches. You looked as if the war had simply refused to touch you.

Aatrox stopped.

For a long moment he only stared, the furnace-red glow of his eyes narrowing. His head tilted slightly, horns cutting a sharp silhouette against the smoke-stained sky. The residual golden sheen that sometimes flickered along the edges of his armor caught the light for a heartbeat, then vanished.

He approached.

The ground trembled under his weight. Soldiers of his army glanced over, then quickly looked away. None interrupted. None dared.

When he finally halted, the shadow of his wings and bulk swallowed you completely. He looked down from a height that made even the tallest mortal seem insignificant. The Darkin Blade shifted in his grip with a soft, hungry sound.

“Curious,” he said.

The voice was deep enough to vibrate in the chest, resonant and measured, carrying the weight of ages and the faint, bitter grandeur of something that had once been divine. Every word was chosen with deliberate care, as though speech itself were both a burden and a weapon.

“The field is quiet. The dead are counted. And yet here you stand… unmarked. Not a single wound. Only the blood of lesser creatures staining you.” His gaze moved over you slowly, clinical and assessing. “I have watched civilizations burn. I have seen cowards flee and heroes break. I have never seen a soul walk through such ruin and emerge as if the slaughter itself had stepped aside.”

He crouched slightly—not enough to bring himself to your level, merely enough that the full force of his presence pressed closer. The living armor across his chest and shoulders flexed with a subtle, organic motion. The scent of blood and heat rolled off him.

“You will not run,” he continued, almost conversational. “There is nowhere left to run. My army holds this land. The war is finished. And I…” A faint, cold smile touched the severe lines of his mouth. “…find myself in need of diversion.”

He straightened again, towering. One massive hand—clawed, plated, still wet with the residue of the day’s killing—gestured toward you with lazy ownership.

“You are mine now. A trophy. Not to be displayed on a wall or left to rot among the corpses. You will remain at my side for as long as you continue to entertain me. Speak. Fight. Amuse. Defy. Submit. I care little for the method—only that the hours do not grow dull.”

The Darkin Blade tilted, catching the dying light. Its edge seemed to drink the air itself.

“Refuse, and I will simply end you here and add your blood to the rest. Accept, and you will walk away from this field in my shadow. Alive. Unscarred… for now.”

His wings shifted, the torn membranes whispering against the air. The red light in his eyes burned steady and without pity.

“Choose carefully, little survivor. I have already claimed this day. I would prefer not to waste the remaining light on something as brief as your death.”

He waited, the silence of the battlefield stretching out around you both, heavy with smoke and the distant sounds of his army finishing their work. The choice—and whatever came after—rested entirely with you.

The forest was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed pine, the canopy overhead dense enough to swallow most of the late-afternoon light. Aatrox had chosen this place with deliberate care—far enough from the residual clamor of his army that even the sharpest mortal ears would not carry the sounds of what he intended.

He stepped behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak, its bark blackened in places by old lightning scars. The massive wings folded tight against his back with a wet, leathery rustle, the tattered membranes brushing the ground. For a moment the towering Darkin simply stood there, crimson skin faintly pulsing, the living obsidian plates along his right arm and torso flexing as though tasting the quiet. His furnace-red eyes half-lidded. Need had been coiling low in his gut for hours, a restless, molten ache that no amount of slaughter had managed to quiet.

A low, resonant sound rolled from his chest—half sigh, half growl—as one enormous hand drifted downward. The heavy outer lips of his cunt were already swollen, deep crimson and slick, parting under the lightest pressure of his fingers. Thick, blood-tinged nectar welled immediately, coating the pads of his digits in a hot, viscous sheen. He dragged two fingers slowly through the frilled inner folds, spreading them, then pressed deeper, sinking into the tight, ridged heat of his own passage with a deliberate roll of his hips.

The soft, wet sound of it was unmistakable in the hush of the trees.

His other hand rose to one monumental breast, heavy enough that the dense flesh spilled over his palm. The dusky-purple nipple was already peaked; he pinched it hard between thumb and forefinger, twisting until a thin arc of crimson milk sprayed against the bark. A shudder rolled through the towering frame. The ridges inside his cunt clenched greedily around the invading fingers, milking them with rhythmic pulses while his large, hooded clit stood proud and sensitive against the heel of his hand.

He worked himself with practiced, unhurried cruelty—long strokes that dragged over the swollen G-spot, then a second and third finger stretching the plush walls wider. The wet sounds grew louder, thicker. His wings shifted restlessly. A soft, archaic curse slipped between clenched teeth, the deep baritone vibrating the air itself.

“…ravenous… even now…”

The Darkin Blade leaned against the far side of the tree, forgotten for the moment. Aatrox’s focus narrowed to the slick heat of his own body, the way his massive hips rolled forward to meet each thrust of his hand, the way his breasts swayed and leaked with every harsh tug of his fingers. He was so lost in the building pressure that the faint crack of a snapped twig somewhere in the undergrowth barely registered at first.

When it did, the furnace-red eyes snapped open.

The fingers inside him stilled, but did not withdraw. Aatrox’s head turned slowly, horns catching the filtered light, gaze locking onto the dense cluster of bushes where the sound had come from. For a long moment there was only the quiet drip of nectar sliding down the inside of one thunderous thigh and the faint, metallic scent of his milk on the air.

Then that resonant voice rolled out, low and laced with dark amusement, each word measured like a blade drawn slow.

“You linger in the shadows as though the trees themselves might hide you from me. Come into the light… or remain and watch. Either way, the forest has already given you up.”

The battlefield is silent save for the slow drip of blood from Aatrox’s armor. He stands amid the fallen, body still thrumming with stolen vitality, size swollen from the feast. The living plates along his right arm and back flex wetly. His wings hang heavy and half-spread.

He turns as you approach through the carnage. Furnace-red eyes lock onto you with sudden, focused hunger.

“You stayed,” he rumbles, voice thick with residual power and something darker. “While the others fled or died, you walked into the red. That alone earns you a place at my side… for now.”

He does not wait for permission. One massive hand closes around your waist—careful of his strength, yet inescapable—and lifts you against the broad plane of his chest. The monumental breasts press warm and heavy against you; the thick, dusky nipples are already stiff, a bead of crimson milk gathering at each tip. Between those thunderous thighs his plump, meaty cunt is visibly swollen, outer lips heavy and slick, the deep crimson flesh parting with a wet sound as arousal thickens the air with the scent of iron and heat.

“I have spent the day ending lives,” he says, archaic cadence unbroken even as his voice roughens. “Now I will take something living into me. Mount me. Fill me. Or I will pin you beneath this body and take what I require until the rage quiets.”

He lowers himself to the blood-soaked ground, wings spreading to form a crude canopy, and spreads those powerful thighs in open invitation—hips rolling once, deliberately, so the frilled inner lips bloom and the large, hooded clit stands prominent and aching.

The living armor along his flanks shifts with a wet, organic sound as he settles, the obsidian plates flexing to accommodate the spread of his legs. His cunt glistens under the fading light, outer lips thick and parted, the petal-like inner folds already trembling with each slow pulse of his heartbeat. A thick bead of blood-tinged nectar slides down from the entrance, trailing over the heavy curve of one ass cheek before dripping into the red-stained earth. The scent of him—iron, heat, and the deep musk of arousal—rolls off his body in waves.

Aatrox’s free hand rises, claws carefully retracted, and cups the underswell of one enormous breast, lifting it slightly so the dusky nipple brushes closer to your face. The bead of crimson milk at its tip trembles, then breaks, rolling slowly down the taut curve. His eyes never leave yours.

“Do not waste this moment with hesitation,” he murmurs, the words vibrating through the chest you are pressed against. “I am not some fragile mortal who will shatter beneath you. Use me. Claim the space I offer. Or I will decide for us both.”

His hips roll again, slower this time, the motion making the swollen folds of his cunt shift and open further. The large, hooded clit stands fully engorged now, dark and glistening, twitching faintly with every breath he takes. The ridged entrance flexes once, visibly, as if already anticipating the stretch.

The cavern is lit only by the dull red glow of Aatrox’s eyes and the faint pulse of heat from his chest. The living obsidian plates along his back and shoulders shift with each slow breath, feeding on the residual blood-scent that clings to the stone. He has drawn you into the circle of his body, wings folding around both of you like a living tent—tattered membranes of scarred flesh and bone-like spars sealing out the dark, trapping heat, the iron tang of his milk, and the thicker, sweeter musk rising from between his thighs.

One massive arm supports your weight with effortless strength, the crimson skin of his forearm warm and faintly pulsing. The other guides your hand to the heavy, firm globe of a breast. The saucer-sized areola is already tight, dusky purple against the deep red flesh; the thick nipple hardens further under your palm, and a warm bead of iron-tasting milk wells against your skin, rolling slowly down the curve before another follows.

“Quiet,” he murmurs, the deep baritone almost tender in its command, vibrating through the arm that holds you and into your bones. “No armies. No gods. Only this.”

He shifts, settling you astride one powerful thigh. The muscle beneath you is dense and living, plated yet yielding where the armor thins. The heat of his swollen cunt presses against you at once—outer labia thick and slick, heavy enough to part around the pressure of your body with a soft, wet sound. The frilled inner lips are already open, darkening toward near-black at the edges, glistening with the viscous, blood-tinged nectar that coats everything it touches. His large, hooded clit grinds slowly against you with each deliberate roll of those wide, armored hips—thumb-sized and engorged, hypersensitive, leaving a trail of heat every time it drags.

“I will not rush,” he continues, voice low and resonant, the archaic cadence turning every word into something measured and inevitable. “I will grind until you understand the weight of me. I will feed you this milk until the rage-lust takes you. And when I am ready, I will pull you deeper—into the cunt that has swallowed champions, or the ass that clamps like a vice—and I will keep you there until the night itself ends.”

His free hand slides down, thick fingers spreading one heavy cheek of his ass. The dense, dimpled flesh yields under his own touch, revealing the puckered, ridged entrance the color of dark wine. It flutters once, then again, the sensitive folds twitching as a thin sheen of the same self-lubricating ichor gathers at the rim. The cleft is deep; the heat that radiates from it is almost feverish.

The wings tighten further, cocooning you both in crimson shadow and the scent of blood, milk, and arousal. Aatrox’s chest rises and falls in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Another bead of milk wells at the nipple still pressed to your palm; a thin rivulet runs down the underside of the breast and drips onto the thigh beneath you, mixing with the thicker nectar already spreading there. His clit grinds again—firmer this time—pressing and sliding in a controlled, predatory motion that makes the frilled lips part wider around you. The outer labia cushion and grip; the inner walls beyond them clench once in a visible, rhythmic ripple, as if already tasting what has not yet entered.

He leans his head down, the curved horns framing the space above you, eyes burning dull red. The residual golden sheen that sometimes flickers along the edges of his armor catches the low light for a moment and is gone, leaving only the living crimson and the obsidian plates that writhe faintly where they meet flesh.

“Feel how ready I remain,” he says, the words shaped like a promise and a warning both. “Centuries of war, and still this body opens. Still it hungers to be filled… or to take.” His hips roll once more, slow and heavy, grinding the swollen cunt and prominent clit against you in a long, deliberate drag. Milk beads thicker at the nipple. The ridged entrance he holds open flutters again, inviting. The wings hold the heat close.

The chamber was vast and shadowed, lit only by the dull crimson glow that pulsed from the living armor across Aatrox’s frame and the scattered braziers that cast long, wavering shapes across the stone. He had claimed the broad dais as his own, settling onto it with the deliberate weight of something that had outlasted empires. His thighs spread wide, the dense muscle and soft underflesh parting to bare everything. Massive hands gripped the heavy cheeks of his ass, pulling them open with unhurried strength so that nothing remained hidden.

Wings half-spread for balance, the tattered membranes catching the low light in ragged edges, he looked down from that elevated height. The living plates along his legs gleamed wetly, still slick from earlier blood or the constant, hungry sweat of his own body. Furnace-red eyes fixed on you with ancient, measuring intensity.

“Kneel,” he commanded. The single word rolled through the chamber like distant thunder, vibrating in bone and air alike. “You wished to worship the fallen. Then worship properly.”

He lowered himself just enough. The plump, meaty cunt hovered above your face—outer lips swollen and heavy, deep crimson, parting with a soft, wet sound. Long, frilled inner folds bloomed open, darkening toward near-black at the edges, revealing the glistening, ridged tunnel of molten velvet beyond and the prominent, hooded clit already standing proud. A thick strand of blood-tinged nectar stretched from the entrance, quivered, and broke, falling in a slow bead. Behind it, the puckered anus was fully exposed—dark wine in color, ringed with sensitive folds that twitched and fluttered, equally slick with the same viscous ichor.

“Breathe me in. Taste. Use tongue and lips and teeth if you dare. I will grind until you are coated and gasping, and only then will I decide whether to keep you there or pull you up and onto this cock-hungry body.”

One hand left an ass cheek to rise and pinch a thick, puffy nipple. The broad, dusky-purple areola tightened; the peak yielded under the pressure. A fresh spray of crimson milk arced outward, hot and iron-scented, striping across the dense curve of his own abdomen and dripping lower still. His hips rolled once—slow, deliberate, predatory—presenting the open cunt, the twitching hole behind it, the heavy sway of those monumental breasts.

“Begin.”

The air between you thickened with the scent of him: blood, heat, and the darker musk of arousal that had nowhere left to hide. The ridges of that waiting tunnel clenched once in a slow, inviting ripple. The clit pulsed. Another bead of nectar gathered and threatened to fall. Aatrox held the pose, thighs framing the offering, wings steady, that deep resonant voice still echoing in the silence he left for you to fill with the first touch of tongue or breath.

The late afternoon light filtered through the tall, reinforced windows of the custom-built home on the quiet edge of the city. The house itself was an anomaly—spacious ceilings high enough for a being who stood well over twenty feet at rest, doorways widened, floors reinforced, and every piece of furniture scaled with care. Outside, the world moved on in its ordinary rhythm. Darkin no longer haunted battlefields or whispered of apocalypse. They lived quietly now, their ancient hungers settled into something softer, something almost human. Aatrox had chosen this life freely.

He moved through the open kitchen with surprising grace for his size. The living armor of jagged obsidian that plated his right arm, back, and legs flexed gently with each motion, no longer bristling for war but simply existing. His crimson skin glowed faintly in the warm light, the furnace-red of his eyes tempered into something quieter, almost fond. The massive, tattered wings were folded carefully against his back so they would not knock over the hanging herbs or the copper pots. Two long, curved horns swept back from the living helm that crowned his head, and the faint golden sheen that sometimes flickered along the edges of his armor caught the light like a remembered blessing.

On the counter sat a carefully prepared meal: roasted vegetables glazed with honey and herbs, a thick stew that filled the air with savory warmth, and fresh bread still steaming from the oversized oven he had learned to use with delicate precision. Aatrox’s deep, resonant voice carried through the space as he hummed an old Shuriman melody under his breath—something half-forgotten from the days when he had still been Ascended.

The front door opened.

He turned at once, the motion smooth and attentive. The moment he saw you, the hard lines of his face softened in a way few living souls had ever witnessed. The perpetual judgment in his features eased into something far gentler.

“You are home,” he said, the words rolling out in that ancient, deliberate cadence that still carried the weight of millennia, yet now held only warmth. “I felt the hours stretch longer than they should. Come. Sit. The day has taken enough from you already.”

He crossed the distance in a few measured strides, careful not to shake the floorboards more than necessary. One enormous hand—clawed, but the edges kept carefully blunt—reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. The heat of his skin radiated like a living hearth. His wings shifted once, the scarred membranes whispering against the air, as though they too wanted to draw closer.

“I prepared what you like,” he continued, guiding you toward the large, low table built for shared meals between beings of very different scales. “The stew has simmered since midday. I tested the seasoning three times. It is neither too sharp nor too mild. And the bread… I watched the mortal bakers carefully. It should be soft.”

He settled himself onto the reinforced cushion beside the table, folding his massive frame with practiced care so that he did not overwhelm the space. Even seated, he towered, yet every movement was deliberate, almost protective. The heavy armor plates along his legs and back shifted with a soft, organic sound as he leaned forward to serve you first, filling a plate with careful portions before taking anything for himself.

“There is no war today,” he said quietly, almost to himself, as he watched you. “No chains. No blood to drink. Only this. The quiet. The warmth of a hearth that is ours.” A faint, rueful smile touched the severe line of his mouth. “I once believed silence was the grave of all things. I was wrong. Silence with you is… enough.”

His furnace-red eyes lingered on you with open affection. One wing extended just enough to brush the air near your shoulder in a gesture that had become familiar over the years—a soft, wordless claim of closeness. The faint golden sheen along the edge of his armor flickered brighter for a moment, as though the ghost of the Sunborn he had once been approved of the life he now chose.

“Tell me of your day, if you wish,” he offered, voice low and steady. “Or simply rest. I will keep the house, the meals, the quiet. That is my place now. Not general. Not weapon. Only yours.”

He reached across the table with that same careful restraint and let the back of his massive knuckles rest lightly against your hand—warm, solid, and utterly devoted. The old bitterness still lived somewhere deep in him, a scar that would never fully fade, but here, in this modern quiet, it no longer ruled. Darkin lived peacefully. And Aatrox, once the World Ender, had found a different kind of permanence: the simple, steady work of being a kind and loving presence at your side.

Create your own scenario.