#sadow monarch

Aww that's so cute 🥺

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A Touch of Light

Ashborn was not accustomed to touch.

In his long existence, hands had only ever reached for him in violence. Grasping, tearing, demanding—always seeking power, never offering warmth. Even before he became the Shadow Monarch, before the heavens cast him down, he had been a god of destruction. Untouchable. Distant. Alone.

And yet, there you were.

A mere human, standing before him without fear. Your presence was as soft as the wind that passed through the ruins where he often lingered, a place long abandoned by time. You were nothing like the beings he had known before. You were not made of divinity, nor of monstrous power. And yet, somehow, you unsettled him more than any warrior ever had.

It started small.

The first time you touched him, it had been an accident—your fingertips brushing against the edge of his armored gauntlet as you reached for something beside him. He had gone rigid, shadows curling instinctively around him like a beast prepared to strike. But you had only blinked at him, unafraid.

"You’re colder than I expected," you murmured.

He did not respond. What was there to say? He had not known warmth in centuries.

The second time, it was intentional.

You had found him sitting beneath the remnants of an ancient tree, its branches long dead but still standing. He often stayed there, watching the sky, lost in thoughts that spanned eternity.

"You look tired," you said.

He did not answer. A god does not grow weary. But something in the way you frowned at him made his chest feel... heavy.

Before he could react, you reached out, resting your palm against his forearm. Not in battle. Not in reverence. Just touch—gentle, warm, grounding.

He did not move.

No one had ever touched him like that.

"You’re really cold," you murmured again, rubbing his arm absentmindedly, as if trying to bring warmth to something long since frozen. "Does it hurt?"

He stared at you. The question made no sense. Pain was an old companion, one he had long since stopped acknowledging. But this? This strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through him? He did not know what to make of it.

And yet, he did not pull away.

Over time, it became a pattern.

Small, fleeting touches. A hand brushing against his when you handed him something. The press of your palm against his back as you walked beside him. One time, you had even reached up, brushing stray strands of his dark hair away from his face without a second thought.

He did not understand.

Why did you do these things?

Why did you not recoil from him, as all others had?

One night, as you both sat in silence beneath the ruined sky, he asked you.

"Why do you touch me?"

You tilted your head, as if the question itself was strange. "Because I want to."

He frowned. That was not an answer.

Seeing his confusion, you sighed and shifted closer, your knee brushing against his. "You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?"

Alone.

The word settled over him like a weight. He had never considered it before. He had been beyond such things, beyond the need for companionship. Or so he had believed.

"You don’t have to be," you continued, voice softer now. "I don’t know what you’ve been through, Ashborn. But... you don’t always have to be untouchable."

Untouchable. That, too, had been a truth he had never questioned.

Until now.

Without thinking, he reached out.

It was awkward—hesitant, almost clumsy. His hand hovered near yours, unsure of how to proceed. He had wielded power beyond comprehension, had ended civilizations with a mere gesture. And yet, the simple act of reaching for your hand felt... foreign.

You noticed. Instead of waiting, you closed the distance yourself, intertwining your fingers with his.

Warmth.

A slow, quiet thing. Not the fire of battle, nor the blaze of destruction. Just warmth—steady, certain, human.

"You see?" You smiled at him, giving his hand a small squeeze. "Not so bad, right?"

Ashborn did not answer. He only stared at your joined hands, at the quiet miracle of it.

And for the first time in countless centuries, he felt something shift deep within him.

Something fragile.

Something warm.

---

The change was gradual.

At first, Ashborn remained still whenever you touched him, as if uncertain whether he should allow it. Then, slowly, he began to accept it. He no longer flinched when your fingers brushed his, nor did he tense when you leaned against him on colder nights.

But an embrace? That was different.

You never forced it, never pushed him beyond what he was ready for. But one evening, when exhaustion weighed heavy in your own limbs, you found yourself dozing off beside him, your head naturally resting against his shoulder.

He froze.

For a long moment, he did nothing.

Then, cautiously, he shifted—not away from you, but toward you. The movement was small, hesitant, but unmistakable. You felt the tension ease from his frame, the weight of his presence settling more comfortably against yours.

It was the first time he had ever let himself be held.

And it would not be the last.

---

One night, the stars burned bright, casting silver light upon the ruined world around you.

Ashborn stood beside you, watching the sky, silent as ever.

Then, without warning, he turned to face you fully.

You blinked up at him, surprised by the intensity of his gaze. "What is it?"

He did not answer.

Instead, he reached out—deliberately, purposefully—and cupped your cheek in his hand.

It was the first time he had ever touched you on his own.

His palm was cool against your skin, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they traced the curve of your jaw. It was as if he were memorizing the sensation, committing the warmth of you to memory.

You leaned into his touch instinctively, eyes softening. "Ashborn..."

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. A quiet exhale left him, something close to wonder flickering in his expression.

"I did not know," he murmured, voice almost reverent.

"Did not know what?" you whispered.

"That touch could feel like this."

You covered his hand with your own, pressing his palm more firmly against your cheek. "And how does it feel?"

He hesitated, searching for the right words. Then, at last, he answered.

"Warm."

A slow smile spread across your face. "Good. Then we'll just have to make sure you get used to it."

And for the first time in centuries, the Shadow Monarch let himself believe in something other than war.

He let himself believe in your warmth.

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