The dream clung to her like morning mist; thick, choking, impossible to shake.
Lumina sat upright in bed, her breath caught halfway between a gasp and a sob. The sheets tangled around her legs felt unfamiliar; the room, cloaked in the blue-grey quiet of dawn, seemed unfamiliar too. A voice echoed in her mind, soft and urgent... a language she didn't know, and yet understood. Fire danced at the edge of her memory, burning too bright to look at, too familiar to forget.
She touched her chest, expecting heat. There was none.
Still dazed, she slid from bed, her bare feet brushing the wooden floor. The mirror above her washbasin caught her eye, and she froze.
There, in the early light filtering through her cottage window, a streak of hair glimmered like silver fire against the rest of her pale strands. It hadn't been there yesterday. She would have noticed—she always tied her hair the same way, high and tight, no room for vanity but plenty for neatness. And now… this.
Slowly, she leaned in. Her fingers trembled as they separated the streak from the rest, holding it up to the light. It glowed faintly—not just pale, but luminous, as if catching some unseen sun.
"What are you?" she whispered, not quite sure if she meant the hair or herself.
A knock at the window startled her. It was just a crow, pecking once before taking flight. But her heart was already pounding too fast, too loud. She turned away from the mirror, grabbed a ribbon, and tied her hair back tighter than usual—hiding the streak, hiding the questions.
She would pretend it wasn't there. At least for today.
---
The village of Ebonmere was already stirring when Lumina stepped outside. Morning fog still curled along the cobblestones, but the bakery's chimney puffed smoke, and merchants were setting up carts. Children ran past with ribbons tied around their wrists for Harvest Week, and the butcher's dog barked at a pair of squirrels squabbling over a crust of bread.
It should have felt normal.
Instead, every noise made her flinch. Every glance lingered too long. Even the air seemed to carry something strange… like it, too, was waiting.
She stopped at the apothecary for herbs—rosemary, mostly, and lavender to help her sleep. Madame Fern gave her a long, lingering look before taking the coin.
"You look pale, girl," the woman muttered, sniffing as she wrapped the bundle. "Dreams been troubling you?"
Lumina's hand froze mid-reach. "How did you—?"
"Harvest Week always stirs the spirits. Brings out old things… buried things." Madame Fern slid the herbs across the counter, her eyes narrowing. "Mark my words, the veil is thinning. You mind yourself."
"I will," Lumina said quietly, gathering her things. But the shopkeeper said nothing more. Only watched her go with that same piercing stare.
---
Later, after her lessons with the Remus children—who were especially fidgety that day—she returned home to find something unsettling. Her door was ajar.
She paused at the edge of the threshold, listening. No sound inside… but the air felt wrong.
She stepped in cautiously, her fingers curling instinctively. Nothing seemed missing. Nothing disturbed. But there—on the table—was a single, fresh-cut white lily. No vase. No note. Just the flower.
Lumina stared at it for a long moment, then plucked it up, tossing it into the hearth. It didn't catch fire. It simply lay there, pale and perfect.
She didn't sleep that night.
---
The next morning, the whispers started.
They followed her through the streets, hushed voices barely hidden behind cupped hands.
"—white fire, they said—"
"—wasn't there before—"
"—strange folk at the inn... asking questions..."
By midday, she couldn't pretend anymore. She went to the bakery, where her friend Talia worked the ovens. Talia had always been kind—chatty, yes, but never cruel.
"Talia," Lumina said softly, wiping her palms nervously against her skirt. "Has something happened? With the village?"
Talia glanced over her shoulder. Her flour-dusted face tightened.
"You shouldn't be out," she said under her breath, beckoning Lumina behind the counter. "There were strangers last night... noble types, but not from around here. Spoke like the capital, dressed in black. They met with the elders—real hush-hush. No one saw them leave."
"What did they want?" Lumina asked, heart lurching.
"They asked for someone," Talia whispered. "Didn't say a name, but they called her 'the girl born of fire and forgotten blood.' Said they'd find her. Soon."
Lumina's mouth went dry. Her mind leapt to the dreams, the hair, the lily...
And the scream. The one from her childhood. The one that never left her.
She managed a nod, thanked Talia, and hurried out into the street. The fog was lifting; she wished it weren't.
---
That evening, the air changed.
It came with the wind—low, tense, humming like a chord pulled taut. Lanterns flickered in their sconces before anyone had lit them, and the dogs fell silent. Even the crows grew quiet.
The carriage appeared just after dusk.
Black and sleek, drawn by shadow-colored horses with eyes that gleamed red in the firelight. No crest on the door, no driver's call. It stopped at the village square without a sound.
A figure emerged—tall, robed, and faceless beneath a silver hood. Then another. And another. Four in total. They moved with grace too perfect to be human.
Elder Mirthin came to meet them. His robes rustled as he bowed stiffly, his lips pressed into a tight line.
The tallest figure spoke; though the voice was soft, it carried like thunder through the air.
"We seek the one born of fire and forgotten blood."
"No such girl lives here," Mirthin said evenly.
The figure tilted its head. "We believe otherwise."
The villagers watching from shadows held their breath. No one moved. No one dared.
The figures said nothing more. They returned to their carriage, and it rolled away, disappearing into the mist as silently as it came.
But the message had been sent. They would return.
---
Miles away, Prince Damien stirred.
In his private chamber within the Crimson Keep, he sat bolt upright in bed, breath ragged. His dreams had been haunted by fire again—by the sound of a girl's voice echoing his name through smoke and ash.
He ran a hand through his black hair, then over his face, trying to shake the echo of her eyes—silver, terrified… familiar.
"Lumina," he murmured.
The name tasted strange on his tongue. Sweet and sharp. Like memory. Like prophecy.
He rose from bed, pacing. He did not believe in coincidence. If the dreams had returned, something was shifting. Something old... something dangerous.
He went to the window, staring out over the darkened countryside of Noctis. The air shimmered faintly, as though the world itself held its breath.
"She's awakening," he whispered.
---
Back in Ebonmere, Lumina sat by the hearth, her hands wrapped around a mug she didn't drink from. The white lily had finally withered. She hadn't touched it again. It simply... died.
A knock came at her door. She jumped, nearly spilling the tea.
"Who is it?" she called, voice too sharp.
"Master Thornhart," came the familiar answer. Her old employer at the werewolf estate.
She opened the door slowly. The tall, broad-shouldered man stood with his hat in hand, his expression solemn.
"You need to leave," he said without preamble. "Tonight."
She blinked. "What? Why?"
"There are eyes in the village that no longer blink. The elder sent for protection, but they weren't... normal. I don't know what they are, girl. But they weren't here for diplomacy."
Lumina clutched the doorframe. "You think they were looking for me."
Thornhart hesitated… then nodded. "You've always been different. Never questioned it. Thought you deserved peace. But now\... now I think someone's remembered you."
She backed away, the walls suddenly too small. "I don't understand. What am I?"
"I don't know," he said softly. "But I think they do."
She didn't sleep that night, either.
Not when the wind outside sounded like whispers.
Not when the stars above shifted into unfamiliar constellations.
And not when the mirror, just before dawn, showed her eyes glowing faintly—like the embers of a fire yet to ignite.