He reached out, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, letting his thumb brush her cheek. “You’re going to be a queen who shakes the worlds, Akira Ito. I hope they’re all ready for you.”
She laughed softly, the sound curling around him like a promise. “I think it’syouthey need to be ready for.”
There was nothing left to say, really, not at that moment. For now, they could just be. The world had changed, and so had they. Chaos was theirs now—messy, unpredictable, and breathtakingly alive. And as Nico pulled Akira close, letting her warmth seep into his bones, he knew that whatever came next, they would face it together.
Outside, the city pulsed and glittered, a thousand stories unfolding in the dark. But here, in this slice of quiet above the storm, the King and Queen of Chaos found peace—in each other, and somehow even in the wild, uncharted future ahead. Soon, the Kingdom of Chaos would rise and be the light that Nico knew it could be.
Raphael surfaced from sleep with the slow ache of someone not used to peace. The couch beneath him was too short, his legs tangled in the throw blanket, the city’s heartbeat leaking in through the apartment’s cracked window. Los Angeles—one territory of the Kingdom of Chaos—never really slept, and neither, it seemed, did he.
Sunlight crept across the ceiling, gold and soft, not quite reaching where he lay. For a moment, he let himself pretend he was just any man, waking up in a world that didn’t require hisevery breath to be a battle against what he was. But the heavy ache in his chest reminded him: he was still an incubus, still a demon who’d learned too late what it meant to want something good. Worse, he was a shaman now—an irony that hadn’t failed to make him scoff.
He stretched, muscles shifting beneath the ink that chained his wrists—black links etched into his skin, curling up his forearms, one link on his right wrist broken and raw. A matching chain circled Miryam’s arm, only hers was broken, wide open, as if she’d already been freed.
He sat up, raking a hand through his hair. The apartment was small and worn, the sort of place no one would look for a demon—or a man trying desperately not to be one. The scent of coffee wafted from the kitchen, warm and inviting, and for half a second he let himself imagine he could belong to something that normal.
He heard Miryam’s soft footsteps before he saw her. She moved with the unselfconscious grace of someone who had never needed to be anything but herself. Freckles scattered across her cheeks, hazel eyes bright even in the morning haze, brown hair tousled and shining with gold where the sun caught it. She wore sleep like a second skin—unguarded, real, effortlessly arresting.
She paused in the doorway, mug in hand, and gave him a smile that knocked the wind from his chest. “You’re up early,” she said, voice still husky with sleep.
He shrugged, managing a half-smile. “Couch isn’t exactly luxury accommodations.”
“I told you that you could have the bed,” she reminded him, though not in an accusing tone.
“And I told you that I would always take care of you. That means making sure you're comfortable.” The silence after his words was awkward. He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp.
She watched him, her gaze dropping to the tattooed chains encircling his wrists. Her own chain peeked out from under her sleeve, broken open on her forearm. “I noticed last night,” she said quietly. “The broken link. Why is yours different? Or at least different from the one on your arm?”
Raphael stared at his hands, shame and hope warring inside him. “It’s what I want,” he admitted, his voice rough. “To be free. Not just from what I was created to be, but from all the things I’ve done. Sometimes I dream about it. Freedom. Forgiveness. I know it’s . . . unlikely. But I still want it. The one on my arm is that dream in physical form. A reminder.”
Miryam watched him, something softening in her expression. Raphael felt the old ache rise up—a lifetime of being told what he was, never what he could be. He almost told her not to hope for him; that he would only disappoint her. But before he could speak, the air in the room shifted.
A presence—immense, ancient, both nowhere and everywhere—settled over him. Raphael shivered, every nerve on edge. He knew that feeling. Visata. The Creator, the Weaver, the one who made everything in Damaria—but him. Though Raphael had integrated himself into Nico’s world, he wasn’t really a part of it.
Time seemed to slow. The world grew quiet. Raphael felt Visata’s regard, not as judge, but as something closer to a father.
You are not what you were made to be, Raphael,the voice echoed inside, rich and impossibly gentle.You are what you choose. Even angels and demons are not bound forever by their beginnings. I see your longing, your struggle. You are not alone in it.
Raphael’s hands shook, tears pricking at his eyes. For so long, he had believed the chains defined him—his curse, his punishment. But Visata saw the broken link as a promise, not a wound.
It is not broken yet,Visata whispered,but it will be. You are already changing your purpose. That is the miracle of choice. Be gentle with yourself, Raphael. Even the brightest light began in darkness.
The presence faded, leaving the room warmer, brighter—as if the sun had shifted just for him.
Miryam set her mug down, crossing to kneel beside the couch. She reached for his hand, fingers sliding over the broken chain. “You’re not alone,” she said, fierce and gentle all at once. “I see you. Not what you were, or what you fear. Just . . . you.”
Raphael looked at her, wonder and terror mingling in his chest. She was Miryam, Miryam—beloved—the name of a mother who brought a Savior into the world, a bringer of hope, and he was a demon. He almost laughed at the irony, but the truth of her touch silenced every argument.
He squeezed her hand, finding his voice. “Maybe . . . maybe that’s what freedom looks like. Not being unchained, but being seen. Accepted. Even by someone who should have every reason to run.”
She leaned closer, pressing her forehead to his. “I’m not running. Not ever.”
For the first time since the world had changed, Raphael let himself believe he could, too.
Miryamwatched Raphael’s lashes flutter as he blinked away the last of sleep. Even rumpled and weary, he was too beautiful to be real—those impossible angles and the cascade of lush dark hair, that smile that could steal the air from a room. But it was the uncertainty in his purple eyes that drew her in most, the raw hope he tried so hard to hide.
She’d seen the way he traced the chain on his wrist, the way his fingers hovered over the broken link on his arm as if afraidit would vanish if he wished too hard. She’d heard the edge in his voice when he said he didn’t deserve kindness. That he was made for things he didn’t choose.
She knelt beside him, her own chain visible—broken, open, a mark of hope and rebellion. She pressed her palm over the tattoo on his wrist, letting her thumb rest on the unbroken link.
