Fire and blood both stain the air, filling the sky with the smells of life and death, passion and hate.
On the battlefield they fight like once, on the bed, they fucked: hands clasping muscle, lungs gasping for breath, screams torn from their throats.
Catastrophe's heart races; her fingers twitch. She looks Arsyn in the eye and sees everything that was there before: hatred and adoration.
They admire one another, even as they fight with every inch to tear one another down to the ground. Catastrophe will not stop until Arsyn is dead, until the betrayal has been punished, until the enemy is defeated.
She won't stop until she forgets what it felt like to come with Arsyn's tongue on her clit.
It is something that will never end, not even when they are both torn and broken in the dirt, surrounded by fire and blood.
Arsyn's grin is like a knife's slash across her face. "See you next time," she hisses, as she escapes into the mist, disappearing into the flames.
Catastrophe lies like a stone, staring up into the smoky sky, wanting something better. She wants to tear Arsyn's skin off; she wants to lick a path up her throat.
It burns like fire either way.