Roselle's POV
Location: Shadowflame Citadel – Throne Hall of Umbra Axis
Time: A Moment After Samuel Placed the Flowers
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The divine mirror shimmered in silence, pulsing with ethereal silver as it displayed a humble graveyard cloaked in morning fog.
There he was.
Samuel.
No armor.
No blades.
No voidlight screaming from his eyes.
Just him—kneeling in front of a weathered gravestone, a quiet bouquet in hand, a shard of memory resting beside it.
I leaned forward slightly, elbows on the armrests of my throne, chin resting gently against laced fingers, lips curled in an amused smirk.
"So… you came here, of all places."
Kaisel stood quietly beside me, careful not to disturb the moment. Even he knew: this was personal.
Because that man—before he became the Abyss King, before he mastered the Void—he was just Samuel.
And I knew him then too.
"College days..." I murmured, voice tinged with old fire and wicked memory. "He used to sleep through most lectures. Sat in the back row. Doodled on his sleeves instead of taking notes."
"Always late. Always half-awake. Always pissing me off."
I chuckled under my breath, eyes never leaving the mirror.
"And yet now... the same backbencher has become the most dangerous being across multiple planes."
The irony. The chaos. The poetry of it.
Back then, I couldn't stand him.
Now?
Now I couldn't get him out of my mind.
"So, you went back to that world... our first one," I whispered, more to myself than to Kaisel. "That's fine. Take your walk down memory lane, Samuel. Cry, mourn, reflect—do all the boring human things."
"Because when you're done—I'm going to claim you."
I stood, eyes blazing, cloak of living shadow unfurling like wings at my back. The throne behind me shuddered from the pulse of my will.
"And when I do," I said darkly, "I'll make sure Abigail sees everything."
A snap of my fingers, and a new divine mirror opened beside the first—this one linked to the deepest cell of the dungeon, where Abigail still rotted.
Bound. Shamed. Forgotten.
But not for long.
"You humiliated him by bringing other mens into your Marital bed," I said softly, coldly. "So I'll repay the favor—by making you watch what real obsession looks like."
My crimson eyes glinted, half with lust, half with vengeance.
Because I didn't just want Samuel's power.
I didn't even just want his body.
I wanted everything that made him burn—his scars, his guilt, his darkness.
And I would have it.
"Enjoy your flowers, Samuel…" I whispered to the mirror.
"Because when you're done mourning, your Queen is waiting."
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???: Third-Person POV
Location: The Sanctum of Stillness – Beyond Realms, Outside Time
Observer Class: Prime Eternal – The Archivist
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In a realm where time folds upon itself like pages in a forgotten book, a lone figure sat beneath a cosmic tree—its roots dipped in fate, its branches stretched across existence itself.
The Archivist was not a god.
He was not a demon, or celestial, or fallen.
He was older than all those things.
A witness, not a judge. A recorder, not a ruler.
And for the first time in three eternities, his eyes—glowing with layered timelines—lingered on a singular presence burning across the divine weaves.
Roselle Vasalav.
"So… the flame still burns," he murmured, voice like ancient wind brushing stone.
He waved his hand gently, and a floating parchment shimmered into focus—etched not in ink, but in moments.
A girl.
Mortal.
Feared, brilliant, venom-tongued—Roselle, once of Earth.
He had watched her as a mortal once, long ago, seated near the back of a university auditorium.
Her eyes sharp, mind sharper, ambition blinding.
And seated behind her?
A young man who never took notes.
Who doodled, laughed under his breath, never raised his hand.
"Samuel…" the Archivist sighed. "You never saw her then. Not truly. But she saw you."
The parchment shifted.
Battles.
Ascensions.
Deaths and resurrections.
War-torn bedsheets.
Bloodied blades.
Worlds burned, sometimes for love, sometimes just to feel something.
Now, she sat on a throne of shadow, peering into a divine mirror—obsessed.
But it was no longer mere rivalry.
Nor lust.
It was something far more dangerous.
"Attachment," he whispered. "That cursed thing even we Ancients cannot untangle."
Roselle's soul was unraveling.
Not weakening—but converging.
The mortal, the divine, the tyrant, the lover—all collapsing into a single identity.
One that now revolved around Samuel.
"And if he rejects her… again…"
He didn't finish the thought.
Because a single denial from Samuel now could trigger the fall of three realms.
Or worse—Roselle's transformation into something no Pantheon could contain.
The Archivist dipped his quill into starlight and jotted down one final line:
"Roselle Vasalav – Watch closely. Love turned inward becomes obsession. Obsession, when unmet… becomes apocalypse."
He paused, looked up once more, and whispered—
"Samuel… you don't even know what you mean to her."
And with that, he turned the page of existence again.
The next entry was already being written.