The aged man carefully cleaned and wrapped Anaa's wounds, his weathered hands gentle despite their strength. His presence was calm, but his eyes… they were wide with something more than concerned. They were filled with ancient knowledge—recognition.
He paused when he saw the flicker of blue flame on her skin. It was faint, but unmistakable. The glow in her eyes confirmed what he feared… and hoped.
"You," he whispered. "Do you know anything about your power? Can you feel it?"
Anaa, still weak and confused, shook her head slowly. Her lips parted, but no words came.
He lowered his voice, awe threading through each word.
"The power inside you is ancient. It once belonged to the Guardian Flame… and you're the last one who carries it."
Anaa blinked. "What are you talking about?"
He stepped back and looked into the distance, as though remembering something from long ago.
"You survived… and that means the Flame still lives."
And so, beneath the pale moonlight and the flickering fire of the old sanctuary, the man told her everything.
Her breath caught as he spoke of fire and blood—of truth buried under the ashes of her past.
Her family, he revealed, had once been the guardians of a sacred, ancient power. The Blue Flame, gifted by the Goddess herself, was passed through from time to time and soul—generation to generation.
"You," he said gently, "are its last heir."
Anaa felt her heartbeat slow. The fire that destroyed her home—the night her village was reduced to embers—it had never been random.
"They knew a child had been born carrying the Blue Flame," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "They came to destroy it before it awakened."
She felt her throat tighten.
"Your parents died trying to protect you. Everyone did."
Anaa's world crumbled again. The faces of her family—her mother, her father, her little brother—flashed in her mind. Her knees buckled beneath the weight of memory.
"It was because of me…" she whispered, her voice broken. "Everyone died because of me. I couldn't save even one person."
Tears streamed down her cheeks as guilt coiled around her heart like a vice. The sorrow she had buried deep for years rose like a storm, drowning her in blame.
But the man—this mysterious sorcerer, this warrior of centuries—didn't scold her. He didn't deny her pain. He simply placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
"I will help you," he said softly. "You must learn to control your flame… before it consumes you."
And from that moment, he became her mentor—her master. Days turned into weeks as he taught her how to sense the flame, how to bend it, how to call it and calm it. He told her about the source of her power, about her bloodline, and the war that still raged in the shadows.
Yet, while her body began to heal… her soul did not.
One quiet evening, just before dawn, Anaa wandered alone to the lake behind the sanctuary. The sky was painted in shades of fading gold and soft violet. The still water mirrored her hollow reflection—eyes empty, shoulders heavy with grief.
"I wish I'd never been born," she whispered, hugging her knees to her chest. "I hate myself…"
The pain inside her was silent but sharp. She was tired. So, so tired.
Everything was too quiet—until a soft sound stirred in the distance.
She turned.
Across from her, a cat stood at the water's edge. Its fur was white as snow, glowing faintly in the fading light. But it was the eyes—golden and deep, filled with something warm and ancient—that made her breath catch.
She felt something stir in her chest. A familiar energy.
The cat didn't look at her with curiosity, but with something deeper… understanding. As if its very presence whispered, "It's not your fault. I'm here. I've always been here."
Anaa's eyes brimmed with tears again.
"It's my fault…" she choked. "It's all my fault…"
The cat stepped closer, touched her gently with its head, and sat beside her. Silent. Steady. Warm.
In that stillness, she felt it—not in words, but in feeling.
"You are not to blame."
Her breath trembled. Slowly, she began to speak. First in broken sentences. Then in full waves. She poured it all out—the pain, the guilt, the nightmares that haunted her sleep.
And the cat… it simply listened.
The sun slipped behind the hills. The sky darkened into velvet. When her tears finally dried, and the wind calmed around them, she turned to the cat with a tired but tender smile.
"Thank you… for staying."
She stood, wiping her face, and returned to the sanctuary—leaving the cat behind.
But once she was gone, the cat turned to the lake, its reflection rippling on the surface.
"I will always be with you," it murmured in a voice soft and ageless.
Then the cat shimmered The same mysterious man Anaa had seen before—in flashes, in dreams, in danger. The man with the black cloak who had always been watching.
He smiled faintly.
"She's strong," he said to the night. "But she doesn't know it yet."
And with that, he vanished—like mist in morning light.
From that day on, Anaa returned to the lake each evening. She spoke to the cat about her day, her training, her feelings. She didn't understand why, but the cat always made her
—light twisting around it—and in its place stood a tall man cloaked in black. His long black hair and red eyes And then he smiled and vanished
And after that every evening anaa went to the lake to meet that cat not knowing that he was the one who saved her