Damian's POV
The heavy doors to the Circle's forgotten archives groaned open, releasing a gust of cold, stagnant air. Dust clung to every surface, untouched for decades—maybe centuries. The chamber was lit only by flickering sconces that seemed reluctant to burn, their flames blue at the edges.
Damian stepped in alone.
He didn't trust the Circle anymore. Not after what he'd seen in their eyes—fear masquerading as reverence whenever Ariana walked past. The way their lips twisted at her back, speaking of prophecy and containment.
The Eldareth flame in Ariana had terrified them. And now… it terrified him too.
But he had to understand it.
He made his way past decayed bookshelves and rows of chained grimoires until he reached the blood-locked vault. The stone was carved with the crest of House Virelith, but darker—older. A version of his family's sigil that hadn't been used in the last four dynasties.
A dragon, wrapped in flame, devouring its own tail.
Damian hesitated only a second before slitting his palm with the dagger at his side. The blood splattered against the crest and hissed. The stone drank it in.
With a loud, ancient click, the vault cracked open.
Inside was a single scroll, bound in black ash-ribbon and sealed with hardened flame wax. He peeled the seal back with reverence, unrolling it on a blackened stone pedestal.
The parchment shimmered with fire-ink.
To the Sons of Fire, born of Virelith blood, be warned: You are not heirs. You are vessels.
When the true Flame awakens, it will not serve. It will consume.
And through you, it shall return to the world—not as salvation. But as judgment.
Damian's hands trembled.
The Circle had never taught this.
They had spoken of the flame's divinity. Of Ariana's danger. But never of him—his role. His purpose.
He stared at the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something less damning.
But they didn't.
Just then, his fingertips brushed the obsidian relic beside the scroll—a circular stone embedded with a red gem at its core. Cold at first. Then burning.
His vision blurred.
And then—he was elsewhere.
He saw fire devouring a golden city. Towers crumbling. People screaming. And Ariana, standing amidst it all, barefoot in the ash, her hair a crown of flames.
Her eyes were gold. Glowing. Endless.
She wasn't human anymore.
She raised her hands and the sky obeyed, raining fire. But beside her, holding her hand, stood… Damian?
No.
It was him, but not him. His eyes were dead. His veins black with flame. A puppet.
His voice echoed, hollow and deep:
"Burn it all. Let the gods choke on ash."
And she—Ariana—turned to him, smiling with love twisted by madness.
Damian ripped his hand away.
He fell to the floor, gasping, chest slick with sweat. The relic stopped glowing. The vision faded—but the fear remained.
He clutched the scroll tightly. Something inside it throbbed—almost alive.
If Ariana is a flame… then I am the match they want to strike.
But he wouldn't let it happen.
He couldn't lose her… or himself.
No matter what blood demanded.
Ariana's POV
Ariana's breath came in shallow gasps as the flame surged beneath her skin.
She sat in the meditation circle carved into the palace's crystal chamber—the one Lady Vesha claimed was laced with runes to focus magic. Four priests stood at the edges, chanting in Eldan, trying to ground her.
It wasn't working.
The flame inside her had grown since the night of the rebellion. Since Damian kissed her like she was the only air he needed. Since her powers saved the kingdom and nearly incinerated everything else.
Now it wanted out.
Lady Vesha spoke, calm but firm. "Let it move through you. Not from you."
But Ariana's hands were glowing red. Her palms cracked like burning parchment, and her heartbeat thundered with heat.
She felt every breath in the room. Every drop of sweat on the priests' necks. Every thought near her.
Too much.
"Make it stop!" she cried.
But the flame answered instead, its voice slithering in her mind:
Why stop? You were born to burn.
Let go, Ariana. Let us make them kneel.
"No," she whispered, fists clenched. "I'm not your weapon."
The energy erupted from her chest in a wave.
Crystals shattered. The floor cracked. The runes flared red-hot and died. One priest collapsed.
The Mirror of Flame—hanging suspended above the chamber—shook violently, then cracked down the center with a loud snap.
Everyone froze.
But in the shards of the mirror, Ariana saw a reflection that wasn't her own.
Golden eyes. Skin of ember. A smile that promised mercy… only after destruction.
A future self. A warning. Or a promise?
Selene's POV
From the balcony above the training sanctum, Selene watched with narrow eyes.
She had begged the Circle to stop Ariana's sessions. Claimed it was too dangerous, too fast. But the fools were enchanted by Ariana's "potential."
Fools.
Selene's nails dug into her palms as she watched the fire dance around the girl who had once scrubbed palace floors.
Ariana didn't earn this power. She had stumbled into it.
Now she burned brighter than the sun—and Damian had gone blind from staring too long.
Selene turned away as the flames cracked the mirror. The scent of scorched magic wafted toward her. Below, the priests panicked. But Ariana stood—unharmed. Glowing.
Worshipped.
Even now, Damian would be protecting her. Probably training in secret. Probably lying to Selene again.
Selene touched the vial at her hip.
Inside: a drop of blackened flame, taken from Ariana's training cloth. The Circle thought it had been incinerated. They hadn't seen Selene steal it.
She would give this flame to someone else.
Someone who could contain it.
Or destroy it.
Closing Scene – Damian & Ariana (Evening)
Damian found Ariana in the palace courtyard that night, seated on a cracked marble bench beneath the shattered moonlight.
Her arms were bandaged, but her fire still glowed beneath the gauze.
He sat beside her in silence.
She didn't look at him. "You knew, didn't you?"
He tensed. "…Knew what?"
"That I'm not just some servant girl who got lucky. That I'm meant for something darker."
He stared at her reflection in the fountain—her eyes dimmer now, tired. Scared.
"I didn't know," he whispered. "But I'm starting to understand."
She finally turned to him. "Tell me the truth, Damian. Am I losing myself?"
He hesitated.
Then, carefully, he placed her hand over his chest.
"My heart's still mine," he said. "And so is yours. As long as you want it to be."
Her fire warmed his skin, but he didn't flinch.
Ariana leaned her head on his shoulder.
Neither of them noticed the red-eyed shadow watching from the rooftop.
Nor the whisper that traveled through the wind:
Soon, she will burn what she loves most.