his fall is over.

his rise has just begun.

no longer bound by the constraints of what is or is not sacred or holy, the embers in his veins have become wildfires. blue flames, golden ichor; he is torn between the two, and yet he likes it. the fire has always been part of him, heating golden ichor like molten metal, and now he has no need to fight it.

he is a child of the phoenix.

his flames must burn him to ash.

his rebirth will be dark wings instead of light, but he doesn't care. he embraces the fire and the darkness behind it. it's high time he learns what life is like without chains around his neck - without a ringmaster to crack a whip. the smile on his face is his warning sign, the flash of his fangs an invitation to battle.

no one should grin like that inside a fire.

lucky for him, he's become the fire.