Valen held Arya as though the very thought of losing her again would shatter him. He knelt on the ground, cradling her close, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist, while his hand gently cupped her head. For a long moment, neither of them spoke; they just sat there, soaking in the reality that they were together again. His grip tightened slightly, almost as if he feared she might vanish.

Then, Valen pulled back just enough to capture her lips in a kiss, his mouth moving desperately against hers. He groaned into the kiss, and Arya couldn't help but laugh softly, breaking the tension as she pulled away. "I have a lot to explain," she admitted, her voice carrying the weight of everything that had happened.

"No shit," he replied with a half-smile, his voice hoarse but filled with relief.

Arya's expression shifted as she began to explain, her voice trembling slightly. She told him about the Grand Master, about how they had saved her life after slipping her the poison that had mimicked death. Her words faltered, and suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes. She cried—something Valen had never seen from her before. "I'm so sorry, Valen. I'm sorry you had to see me like that... on the slab, like I was dead."

Valen's chest tightened as he watched her cry, his heart breaking at the sight. He had seen Arya in so many different lights—fierce, cunning, and deadly—but never vulnerable like this. Never this raw.

He took a deep breath, then gently kissed her forehead. "You're okay, Arya. You're here with me, and that's all that matters now." His voice was soft, reassuring, as he held her tightly against him again, refusing to let her go. He didn't care about anything else in that moment. All that mattered was that she was alive, in his arms, where she belonged.

~

As Valen and Arya sprinted down the dimly lit corridor of the south wing, adrenaline coursed through their veins. The thrill of their reunion quickly morphed into a singular focus: they needed to find Marissa and unravel the chaos that was unfolding. They rounded a corner just in time to see Marissa, her face flushed with rage, screaming at a cloaked figure who appeared to be one of the society's operatives.

"Kael is dead!" she yelled, her voice echoing ominously through the hall. "What the hell are you going to do about it?"

Valen instinctively shoved Arya against the wall, their bodies pressing together as he turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing on Marissa. He felt the warmth of her body against his, but the urgency of the moment drowned out any lingering thoughts of their passionate embrace. He caught a glimpse of Marissa's fury and the operative's nervous demeanor, realizing they needed to remain hidden.

Marissa stormed past them, her footsteps heavy with determination as she headed for the ballroom. Valen and Arya exchanged quick, knowing glances. "She's signaling the attack," Arya whispered, her voice low and tense.

Valen nodded, his mind racing. "We need to get to the ballroom before it's too late." He could feel the gravity of the situation pressing down on them, the weight of their mission thick in the air.

They dashed down the corridor, moving quickly but quietly, each step fueled by urgency. Valen's heart pounded not just from the exertion but from the knowledge that they were racing against time. He couldn't let Marissa unleash chaos, especially not now that they had just reunited.

As they neared the ballroom doors, Valen took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Stick close," he murmured to Arya, determination surging within him. "Whatever happens, we face it together."

With one last shared glance, they pushed open the doors, stepping into the grand ballroom filled with swirling colors, laughter, and music—a stark contrast to the turmoil that awaited them. Valen scanned the room, seeking Marissa among the crowd, knowing that whatever her next move was, it was bound to set off a chain reaction that neither of them could afford to ignore.

~

The throne room had descended into utter chaos, guests screaming as they scattered, soldiers flooding in through every doorway, and somewhere amidst the cacophony, Arya's vision narrowed to a single target—Marissa, blade in hand, squaring off with Emperor Cedric. The scene was surreal, like something out of a fever dream. Marissa, Valen's own sister, had betrayed everything. It was the highest act of treason, a stab not only at the heart of the empire but at Valen himself.

Rage consumed Arya, cold and unrelenting, mingling with something darker, deeper—the Blood Angel's unyielding thirst for vengeance. Without a second thought, she lunged at Marissa, ripping her away from Cedric and hurling her to the ground with a force that shocked even her. Every fiber of her being demanded retribution. This woman had conspired to endanger Valen, had plotted and schemed, woven lies into the fabric of the empire, and now Arya could put a permanent end to it all.

Her blade was already drawn, pressed against Marissa's throat, her entire body coiled with tension. Her voice was a low, venomous hiss. "You think you understand power, Marissa?" Arya leaned closer, her tone cold as iron. "You're nothing. You're a parasite. And you're about to see why people fear the Blood Angel."

Marissa's eyes flickered with panic, her confidence crumbling as Arya's grip tightened. The satisfaction of seeing that terror in Marissa's face—it should have been enough. But it wasn't. Arya's fingers itched, her blade poised, ready to end this once and for all. She wanted Marissa to pay, wanted her to understand the price of betrayal, to feel Arya's fury until her last breath.

But then, through the haze of anger, Valen's voice cut through.

"Arya, stop!" His words rang out, a plea laced with shock and desperation. She barely heard him, too consumed by the raw, primal need to finish what Marissa had started. But he stepped closer, his voice firmer this time, urging her to listen. "This isn't the way, Arya."

His words were like ice water dousing her rage, and she looked up at him, barely concealing her disbelief. "Not the way?" She could hardly contain her contempt. "After everything she's done, you want to give her mercy?"

"Yes," he said, his gaze steady, refusing to waver. "She deserves a trial, Arya. That's the law."

Arya's lip curled in a snarl. "The law? The law is meaningless with someone like her." She leaned in close to Marissa, pressing the blade harder, watching with cold satisfaction as her sister-in-law whimpered. "You really think someone like her deserves mercy? After plotting to kill you, to ruin everything?"

Valen took a step forward, his face a mixture of frustration and something else, something that almost resembled pain. "Yes, Arya. She deserves a trial, just like anyone else. Killing her here, like this... it's not justice. It's vengeance. And that's not who you are."

Arya's laughter was bitter, harsh. "Not who I am? You know exactly who I am, Valen. I'm the Blood Angel. I've killed more people than I can count. I'm a weapon, your weapon, wielded in the shadows to protect this empire." Her voice softened, but there was a dangerous edge to it. "And if anyone here deserves to die, it's her."

She felt the Blood Angel rise within her, that cold, remorseless part of her that knew only darkness, only death. It whispered in her ear, telling her to finish this, to silence Marissa once and for all. The thought of sparing her, of letting her live to continue her schemes, sickened her. This was justice. No—this was necessary. She tightened her grip, ignoring the slight tremor in her hand.

But Valen wouldn't relent. He moved closer, his gaze intent, pleading. "Arya, you're more than a weapon. You're more than the Blood Angel." His voice dropped, and there was an ache in his words that made her stomach twist. "I've seen it. I know there's more to you than this darkness. Don't let her drag you down to her level."

Her anger flared. "You really think that, Valen? That I'm more than the Blood Angel?" She laughed, the sound harsh and almost broken. "Look at me. Look at everything I've done. I've killed people, Valen. Innocent, guilty—it didn't matter. They were obstacles, and I removed them. That's who I am. That's who I've always been. And if anyone here deserves a trial, it's me, not her."

Valen's expression softened, though his gaze remained resolute. "Maybe you've done things that you regret, Arya. But those choices don't define you. Not completely. You still have a choice, here and now. Don't let her be the reason you lose yourself."

She scoffed, the words stinging like a slap to the face. Choice? What choice had she ever really had? Her whole life had been shaped by violence, by the necessity of survival. She had been molded, shaped, trained to be the Blood Angel. And yet... the look in Valen's eyes made something inside her waver. Could she really believe she was more than that? Could she be more than a weapon?

But the Blood Angel within her snarled at the thought. Mercy was weakness. It was the kind of softness that had led people like Marissa to think they could play god, to think they could destroy lives without consequence. This wasn't about mercy—it was about ensuring that Marissa never threatened anyone again.

"Why?" Arya's voice was low, almost a whisper. "Why should I let her live? After everything she's done, everything she's plotted?" She glanced down at Marissa, her lips twisted in disgust. "You think a trial is going to bring justice?"

Valen's gaze was steady. "Maybe not. But it's the right thing to do. And if anyone deserves to show that strength, it's you. Not her."

She shook her head, frustration boiling over. "You're asking too much, Valen." Her voice trembled, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through the rage. "You're asking me to be someone I'm not. Someone I don't even know if I can be."

Valen took her hand gently, his touch warm and grounding. "You're more than a weapon, Arya. I know that. And I think, deep down, you know it too. Killing her here, like this... it's giving in to the Blood Angel. But you're Arya. You're more than that."

For a moment, she could almost believe him. His hand in hers felt steady, real, a lifeline pulling her from the edge of a chasm she'd been staring into her whole life. But the Blood Angel roared in protest, reminding her of every betrayal, every moment of pain. Marissa's death would be a balm, a release. It would mean justice—or at least a version of it that she could live with.

But Valen's words clawed at her resolve, making her hesitate. Slowly, painfully, her grip on Marissa's throat loosened, though her hand still trembled, the dagger hovering close. The part of her that wanted to kill, to end this, was still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

She looked at Valen, her expression torn, anguished. "You want me to let her go? After everything?"

He nodded, a quiet strength in his eyes. "Yes. And I know it's hard, but this—this choice is what separates you from her. From all of them. My father will owe you for this, Arya. For saving the empire. And I will too."

Her heart twisted painfully, caught between the fury she felt for Marissa and the undeniable pull she felt toward Valen's faith in her. Could she let Marissa live, let her face a trial, trust in something beyond her own hands for justice? The Blood Angel sneered at the thought, demanding vengeance, whispering that mercy was a lie, a weakness.

But something deeper within her, something almost forgotten, yearned for that redemption Valen offered. She'd lived in the shadows her entire life, defined by blood and death. For once, perhaps, she could choose something different, something better.

Her grip finally loosened, and with a growl of frustration, she drew back, using the hilt of her blade to knock Marissa unconscious. She stood over her, breathing heavily, her hands shaking as the adrenaline ebbed. She felt raw, exposed, as if a part of herself had been stripped bare, vulnerable to a man who saw her as something other than a monster.

Turning to Valen, she looked away, unable to meet his gaze fully. "I let her live," she muttered, her voice thick with barely-contained emotion. "But don't ask me to forgive her. Don't ask me for that."

Valen stepped closer, his expression softening as he reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I won't. But thank you, Arya. You did the right thing. And I'll make sure my father understands just how much he owes you for this."

The words washed over her, and she nodded, swallowing hard, forcing herself to focus on the moment, on the man in front of her who had somehow, against all odds, seen something redeemable