There were three things I was certain of in life:
1. Rhea would eventually burn down the school library—whether by accident or enthusiasm.
2. I would die of embarrassment long before I died of old age.
3. And I was absolutely fine. Always. Totally fine. No issues whatsoever.
Until I passed out in the middle of boiling pasta.
Rhea had just finished her Suspension Day Number Three crafting project (a disturbingly lifelike fire-breathing sock puppet she named "General Toast") when she found me face-first on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a constellation of dried noodles and unconscious groaning.
"Elias?" she said, nudging me with the sock puppet's snout.
Groan.
"Elias, did you fall asleep cooking? That's inefficient and also smells like despair."
She poked again, harder this time. "Elias. Elias, are you dead?"
A pause.
"Do I inherit your books if you're dead?"
I came to in a fog of pain, with Rhea crouched above me looking half-panicked, half-insulted.
"Your eyes are doing that weird twitchy thing," she said. "Also, your forehead feels like angry bread."
"That's... not how fevers work."
"I know. I read a pamphlet."
I groaned again, trying to sit up, but pain lanced through my side like a hot dagger dipped in betrayal.
And suddenly I was back there—
Not in the kitchen. Not in the cottage.
But on the battlefield, six months ago.
I'd taken a hit meant for a squadron captain. The spell had torn through ribs and burned half my side. I'd survived, barely, and told the healers I'd be fine. They'd patched me enough to walk. Enough to leave.
But I'd never let anyone look at it properly.
Because I was stubborn. And scared. And convinced that as long as I kept moving, it would all just go away.
Spoiler alert: it did not go away.
"Lie down," Rhea said, pushing me gently but firmly onto the couch. "Now. Or I summon General Toast's army."
"You're... really leaning into the puppetry angle, huh?"
"I have to. I'm banned from fire spells this week."
She placed a hand over my ribs—and immediately winced.
"Elias. This is bad. Like... cursed-meatloaf-at-a-goblin-banquet bad."
"...That's very specific."
"I read a cooking memoir."
"Hold still," she said, voice shifting from frantic to focused.
The air shifted.
Magic stirred.
It wasn't like her usual spells—those were loud, flashy, temperamental.
This was quiet. Deep. Like something older than the language it was cast in. Her hands glowed with a violet hue edged in silver, and the room suddenly smelled like wind after lightning.
"Rhea," I croaked. "What are you—"
"Soul magic," she whispered. "It listens when other magic doesn't."
"But that's—"
"Unstable? Forbidden? Morally gray?"
She leaned closer, her tiny hands radiating impossible warmth.
"I don't care."
Pain flared. Bright, brutal, searing.
And then—
Peace.
I was floating in a sea of starlight.
I knew this wasn't real. Or maybe it was more real than anything else.
And then I saw her.
Revantra.
Not the small, awkward, endlessly curious Rhea.
But the adult. The queen.
She stood in the light like it belonged to her, not the other way around. Crown of horns, eyes glowing with fire and galaxies.
And she looked at me with something between amusement and... affection.
"You idiot," she said, kneeling beside me.
"That's fair."
"You hide pain like it's treasure."
"It's a hobby."
She reached out and placed a hand over my chest. Her fingers were warm, and the touch was feather-soft—but the heat that followed scorched through me like sunlight made solid.
"I'll always burn for you," she murmured. "But I'll never let you burn alone."
She kissed my forehead, and the stars dimmed.
"My light," she whispered. "You're the one who saved me. Now let me return the favor."
I woke up with a blanket over me, warm tea on the table, and Rhea snoring softly in a blanket cocoon next to the couch.
The pain was gone.
The wound? Healed. Completely.
No scars.
Just a faint silver mark where the worst of it had been—shaped like a flame.
When she stirred, I whispered, "You stayed up?"
She yawned. "Of course I did. You passed out like a tragic side character. I had to supervise."
"You healed me."
"I restored you. That's different."
"How?"
She smiled faintly. "Restoring means I gave your soul what it should have had all along. Your body just followed."
I swallowed hard. "That's... ancient magic."
"I didn't learn it. I remembered it."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "And it scared me."
I blinked. "Why?"
"Because it was so easy."
We didn't talk for a bit.
The fire crackled in the hearth. General Toast sat proudly on the mantel like a victorious war relic.
Finally, I said, "Thank you."
She gave me a sleepy smile. "Don't die. That's the thanks I want."
"I'll try not to."
"Try harder."
Later that evening, she found me writing in my journal. She hovered, as she always did when she was bored or nosy.
"What are you writing?"
"A list of reasons why collapsing in front of ten-year-olds is bad for my reputation."
She grinned. "Put 'dramatic flair' as number one."
I added it with a sigh. Then paused. "Rhea?"
"Mm?"
"Back in the... dream. You were there. As the Demon Queen."
She stiffened.
"She called me... her light."
Her expression softened. "That sounds like me."
"I thought she was gone."
"She's sleeping. I'm dreaming. That's the difference."
She looked up at me, serious. "I don't want to become her. Not all of her. But maybe... I can learn from her. And choose what to keep."
I nodded slowly. "You're not her."
"I know."
"But... part of you is."
She smirked. "The powerful part. The kiss-your-forehead-in-dreams part."
"...Please never say that again."
"No promises."
To be continued…