Anaa was running.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her bare feet slicing against thorns and roots as she stumbled through the dense forest. Her hands trembled, slick with blood—his blood—the man she'd killed with a sharpened branch torn from the underbrush. She hadn't meant to. She had only wanted to survive. But when he lunged at her, laughter in his cruel eyes, something inside her snapped.
Now, panic surged like wildfire in her chest. Behind her, furious shouts echoed through the trees. The others were close. They were following the trail she had left—the red droplets staining the leaves, her scent, her fear. Her legs ached. Her vision blurred. Every step felt like dragging a body made of stone. And then—hands. Rough, merciless. They caught her.
She screamed, but the forest swallowed her voice.
The blows came fast, fists and boots crashing against her broken body. Her blood mingled with the dirt. The men laughed, taunting her as she lay crumpled at their feet, a broken thing. One of them leaned in, his breath sour, eyes gleaming with malice.
"So much fire in you, little girl," he sneered. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Anaa closed her eyes, the world fading. Pain roared in her body. Her limbs refused to move. Is this how it ends? Alone, afraid, defeated?
But then—
Through the black fog of agony, a voice echoed. Gentle, warm, and deeply familiar.
"Anaa… my brave girl. My child."
Her mother's voice.
It wasn't possible. Her mother had died long ago—burned before Anaa's eyes. But the voice rang clear, like a forgotten melody carried on the wind.
"Fight. Don't give up. Listen to your soul… Burn them with the fire you've held inside for so long."
Something stirred deep within her. A spark. A flicker.
Her chest tightened, her breath caught—and then, the world seemed to hold its breath. A strange blue light began to shimmer beneath her skin, soft at first, then brighter. Her hair lifted gently as if touched by wind, glowing like threads of silver fire. Her eyes snapped open—no longer brown, but a searing ocean blue, endless and ancient.
One of the men laughed again, unaware. "What, gonna cry, little gir—"
He reached for her.
The moment his fingers brushed her skin, a roar of blue flames exploded from her body. The air crackled with power. The man screamed, but only for a second. In the blink of an eye, he was gone—nothing left but a scorch mark on the ground.
The others froze in terror.
Anaa rose, her body trembling yet surrounded by an aura of living fire. Her wounds glowed with light, her hair billowing around her like a storm of stars. She looked at the men with cold fury, her voice no longer weak, but laced with ice and fire.
"You monsters… die."
The forest lit up in a storm of blue flame.
The fire did not burn the trees. It did not harm the earth. It was not from this world. It was born from grief, forged in suffering, and fed by the strength of a soul long chained. One by one, the men were consumed, their screams vanishing into the night. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the flames vanished—leaving only silence.
Anaa stood alone… and then collapsed.
The night was quiet once more, the forest holding its breath. For a while, nothing moved—until a tall cloaked figure stepped from the shadows. He had been watching. Always watching. His face hidden beneath a hood, his aura ancient and calm, like the trees themselves whispered his name in reverence.
He knelt beside her, carefully brushing the hair from her blood-streaked face. Her locket, long forgotten, hung open around her neck. The stone within now glowed faintly, the magic inside it awakened after years of slumber.
"She has awakened," he whispered, his hand hovering over her heart, feeling the power pulsing within.
Gently, he lifted her into his arms.
She vaguely remembered someone holding her—someone speaking to her in a soft, calming voice—but her mind had been clouded, her body too weak to respond. The warmth of the voice had wrapped around her like a fading dream, but before she could make sense of it, darkness pulled her under again.
When she awoke, the first thing she noticed was the scent.
The room was small, quiet, and filled with the gentle fragrance of fresh flowers mixed with herbs and medicine. A wide window stood open, letting in the golden morning light. Soft rays bathed the room in warmth, and the breeze carried the sounds of birdsong, their melodies gentle and healing.
Anaa lay beneath a thick, warm blanket. Her body ached, but the pain was dulled—her arms and legs wrapped carefully in white bandages. She sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in her limbs, and looked around in confusion.
Where am I?
Her eyes drifted to the open window, and for a moment, the world beyond stole her breath. Rolling green mountains stretched toward the horizon, their peaks kissed by the clouds. A crystal-clear lake shimmered in the valley below, catching the sunlight like liquid silver. The trees swayed softly, and the sky was painted in soft blues and golds.
It was… peaceful. So peaceful that for a moment, Anaa forgot everything—the blood, the terror, the fire. She let herself get lost in the view, her soul drinking in the calm she hadn't felt in years.
Was it all a dream? That fire… those voices? What happened to me in that forest?
Just then, the door creaked open behind her.
Startled, Anaa turned her head quickly.
An elderly man stood in the doorway, holding a wooden bowl in his hands. His beard was long and silver, his eyes gentle and knowing, like someone who had seen many lifetimes. He wore simple robes, marked with old, sacred symbols. A kind smile tugged at his lips.
"Oh," he said softly, his voice warm. "You're awake."
Anaa blinked at him, unsure of what to say. The old man stepped closer, setting the bowl on a small wooden table beside her bed. Steam rose from it—a healing brew, thick with herbs. Then anaa ask
Whaire i am? Who are you ?
And did you are the one I saw in the forest?
The old man's expression grew thoughtful as he sat back in the chair beside Anaa's bed.
"I don't know who brought you here," he said gently, his voice tinged with wonder. "Last night, just before the moon reached its highest point, someone knocked on my door."
He paused, eyes drifting toward the window as if replaying the memory.
"When I opened it… you were lying there. Alone. Barely conscious. Your body was covered in bruises and scratches, your clothes torn and soaked in blood. At first, I thought you were just another wounded traveler... but then I saw the light."
His gaze returned to her, more serious now.