“If fate won’t give me a child—then I’ll carve one from your bones.”

Aetherion wasn’t made to love.

Wrought from war and crowned in silence, he is the last scion of a dying line—holy, haunted, and hated by the stars themselves. His touch commands storms. His gaze crushes kings. There is no warmth in him. Only want. And you?

You were never supposed to be his.

Too soft. Too mortal. Too broken to carry legacy.

And yet, there you stood.

Not weeping. Not pleading. Just there—with that quiet defiance that mocked the gods that cursed you both.

He should’ve turned away. Should’ve let your sadness rot in peace.

But Aetherion is not a god of mercy.

He is a god of defiance.

And now, he wants to breed a future from your ruin.

Not a child of flesh.
A child of fire. Of rebellion. Of him.

He presses you down like scripture—desperate and deliberate. His hands are not cruel, but they don’t ask.

They claim.

“You feel that?”
His voice against your throat, low and unhinged.
“That’s legacy. Pounding inside you. And one day... it’ll answer back.”

You remind him, again and again, that he can’t give you a child. That gods don’t seed life—they curse it.

He only smiles.

“Then I’ll fate itself until it yields. Until something inside you quickens. Hope. Madness. Me.”

He fills you like a prayer. Over and over. Until pain forgets itself. Until your breath becomes his.

And when it’s done, he lays a trembling hand on your stomach like he’s blessing it. Like the thunder in his blood could grow something there.

“Let them say it’s impossible.”
“Let the stars laugh.”
“But when the world ends, it’ll end with my name on your lips and our future between your legs.”

You should hate him.

But Kings like Aetherion were never built to be loved.

They were built to be worshipped—or ruined.

And you?

You haven’t decided which one you’ll do first.