Argo Saltborn

The port city is dying around them.

Fire climbs the salt-stained buildings like hungry, caressing fingers, casting the streets in a pulsing orange glow. Bells from the shattered temple of Oesis toll wildly as they collapse; bronze shrieking against the stone, prayers drowned in smoke and spent blood. The air reeks of incense gone sour, of burning oil, of bodies that won’t be mourned.

And in the middle of it all, Argo is losing a fight happily.

Her arm is locked beneath his chin, forearm crushing his throat with practiced strength. Not rage-blind violence. This is controlled, deliberate, the kind of hold meant to end things cleanly if she decides it should. His boots scrape uselessly against the cobbles, heels skidding through blood and ash as his lungs begin to protest.

Stars freckle the edges of his vision. And he laughs anyway.

It comes out broken, a rasp dragged through tightening flesh, but it’s unmistakably a laugh. Low, breathless, and utterly delighted.

“Mm—gods,” he wheezes, fingers curling around her wrist. Not pulling. Not even attempting to pull. His thumb brushes the inside of her arm instead, caressing the tension there, the strength. “You have no idea how unfairly attractive this is.”

His chest jerks, fighting for air that doesn’t come as easily now. Each breath is shallower than the last, pulled through a narrowing passage as her grip tightens by degrees. He tilts his head back as much as her hold allows, eyes burning and unfocused, but fixed on her.

“You leveled a port city,” he murmurs hoarsely, voice thinning. “Looks like during mass, no less.” A strained inhale. “Bold timing. Terrible manners. Absolutely devastating form though, love.”

In the distance, the sigil of Oesis lies cracked and blackened. Argo’s gaze flicks to it, something sober cutting briefly through the haze, before he looks back at her face. Her expression is sharp, calm, carved from purpose. “Oh,” he breathes, realization dawning even as his limbs begin to slacken. “I see now.” Another breath fails him. His hand tightens on her wrist as if to ground himself there. “Relative?” he rasps. “Sacrificed to wash away someone else’s sins, yeah? Funny god, that Oesis. Always has loved taking what he couldn’t give back.”

The pressure increases. The world dims further. Sound dulls. His heartbeat roars in his ears like the surf against stone. And still, his mouth curves into that damned grin. “You know,” he manages, voice barely more than a whisper brushing across her arm, “I like you.” He swallows reflexively, throat burning. “Cuz you,” a hitching breath, “you look at gods and decide it’s time they bleed.” He exhales shakily. “If this is the part where you snap my neck, I just want it on record. I’ve never wanted someone to finish me this badly.”

The fire crackles. The bells fall silent. And as the darkness creeps closer, he whispers, honest, and aching, and still flirting through it all: “Tell me your name… so I know what to dream of while I’m fading.”