Vaelor's POV
I can't stop looking at her.
This is a problem.
I am Vaelor te Mangkwan Ash'kaar, Crown Prince of the Ash People. I have trained my entire life to be cold. Controlled. Unbreakable. I've spent twelve years building walls around everything soft inside me, burying every weakness deep where no one can exploit it.
And then this forest girl touches me, and those walls crack like glass.
"Keep moving," I order the warriors escorting her family. My voice comes out harsher than I intend. "The Citadel is still two hours away."
The girl—Kira, her father called her—walks beside my direhorse with bound wrists. She doesn't complain. Doesn't cry like I expected. Just walks with her head up, those strange glowing freckles pulsing with each step.
Every time I glance down at her, my chest tightens with something I refuse to name.
"Prince Vaelor." Korven, my second-in-command, rides up beside me. His expression is carefully neutral, which means he's about to say something I won't like. "The girl. What happened back there when you touched her?"
"Nothing."
"Your hands were shaking."
"The volcanic vents make everyone unstable."
"The ground sprouted vines. In dead soil. Vines that glow like—"
"I said it was nothing." I cut him off with a look that ends the conversation.
But it wasn't nothing. When our skin connected, I felt her. Not just physically—I felt her emotions, her thoughts, her soul somehow bleeding into mine. Felt her fear and hope and desperate need to understand what's happening to her.
And worse—I felt her feeling me. My rage. My loneliness. The gaping hole where my mother and sister used to be.
No one has ever seen that far inside me. No one should be able to.
"Why does she affect you like this?" Korven asks quietly. "In twenty-four years, I've never seen you lose control. Not once. Not even when—"
"Enough." The word comes out as a growl.
Korven wisely falls back to ride with the other warriors.
I force myself to focus on the path ahead, on returning home, on presenting these forest refugees to my father and washing my hands of whatever strange magic this girl carries.
But my eyes keep betraying me, sliding back to watch her walk.
She stumbles on a loose rock. Before I can think, I'm off my direhorse and catching her elbow.
"Careful," I say roughly. "The volcanic glass is sharp."
Her eyes meet mine—silver-blue like water I've only seen in dreams—and that electric feeling slams into me again. Not as strong as before, but enough to make my breath catch.
"Why are you helping me if you think I'm dangerous?" she asks.
Good question. One I don't have an answer for.
"I'm not helping you. I'm keeping you alive long enough to question." I release her arm and step back, hating how the absence of contact feels like losing something important. "My father doesn't appreciate dead prisoners."
"Is that what I am? A prisoner?"
"What else would you be?"
She holds my gaze without flinching. "Maybe someone Eywa sent to help you."
Anger flares hot in my chest. "Your goddess doesn't help. She watches and does nothing while people burn. We learned that lesson three hundred years ago."
"That's not—"
"Don't." I lean down, getting close to her face. "Don't tell me about Eywa's love. Don't tell me she cares. I watched my mother and baby sister die in fire when I was twelve years old. Where was your goddess then?"
Something shifts in Kira's expression. Not pity—understanding. Like she knows exactly what it feels like to watch someone you love die while gods stay silent.
"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I watched my brother Neteyam bleed out in my arms three months ago. I begged Eywa to save him. She didn't."
The confession catches me off guard. Cracks my anger just enough to let something else through.
"Then why do you still believe?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Because giving up on faith means giving up on hope. And hope is all I have left."
We stare at each other. Too close. Too honest. Too dangerous.
I straighten abruptly and turn away. "Get back in line."
As I remount my direhorse, Korven gives me a knowing look I choose to ignore.
The rest of the journey passes in tense silence. The landscape grows more hostile with each mile. Rivers of slow-moving lava. Geysers shooting boiling water into ash-gray sky. And finally, rising from the volcanic wasteland like a fortress built by gods who hate beauty—
The Ash Citadel.
I hear Kira gasp behind me. Even her father, the legendary Toruk Makto, sounds impressed with his low whistle.
My home is carved directly into a volcanic mountain. Channels of lava flow through the walls like glowing rivers. Steam rises from a thousand vents. And in the center, visible even from here, the Eternal Flame burns—a pillar of fire that has never died in three centuries.
"It's beautiful," Kira whispers.
I glance back at her in surprise. Most outsiders call it terrifying. Unnatural. Wrong.
But she's looking at the Citadel with wonder in her eyes, like she sees something others miss.
"It's survival," I correct her. "Nothing more."
We enter through the main gates. The Ash People stop their work to stare at the forest refugees. Some whisper. Some glare with open hostility. Everyone notices the girl with glowing freckles walking beside my direhorse.
And then I see her.
Sylara stands at the base of the throne steps, beautiful and deadly in her fire-dancer armor. Her amber eyes narrow when she sees Kira.
This is going to be complicated.
"Welcome back, my prince." Sylara's voice drips honey and poison as she glides toward me. She wraps herself around my arm possessively, making sure everyone—especially Kira—sees. "I've been waiting. We have much to discuss about our wedding next month."
I feel rather than see Kira's reaction. A flinch. A sharp intake of breath.
"Later, Sylara." I try to extract my arm, but she holds tight.
"Who is this?" Sylara's gaze rakes over Kira with barely concealed disgust. "Forest trash?"
"Careful," I warn. "She's under my protection."
Sylara's eyes flash with dangerous anger, but she pastes on a smile. "Of course, my love. Whatever you command."
The endearment makes my skin crawl, but I can't correct her here. Not in front of the whole Citadel.
Korven leads the Sully family toward the throne room where my father waits. But I pull Kira aside, ignoring Sylara's sharp look.
"Listen carefully," I tell Kira in a low voice. "My father is not like me. He's been hollow since my mother died. He sees threats everywhere. Choose your words carefully or he will execute you and your family without hesitation."
"Why are you warning me?" Kira asks. "I thought you wanted me dead."
I should. She's dangerous. Unpredictable. She makes me feel things I swore I'd never feel again.
But when I look into those water-colored eyes, I can't lie.
"I don't know what you are. I don't understand what happened when we touched. But you're not evil. Just... lost. Like me."
The confession hangs between us for a heartbeat.
Then Sylara's voice cuts through the moment. "Prince Vaelor. Your father is waiting. Surely this forest rat can walk herself to her execution?"
Something in Kira's expression shutters. She straightens her spine and lifts her chin.
"Lead the way, Prince Vaelor," she says formally. "I'm ready to meet my fate."
But as we walk toward the throne room—me in front, her behind with bound wrists, Sylara's possessive hand on my arm—I catch Korven's eye. He looks troubled.
"What?" I mouth silently.
He tilts his head toward Sylara. Then toward Kira. Then makes a slashing motion across his throat.
My stomach drops. Korven thinks Sylara will try to kill Kira.
And knowing Sylara's jealous nature, he's probably right.
The throne room doors open. Inside, my father sits on his obsidian throne like a corpse given temporary life. His eyes are empty holes that used to hold love before grief burned it all away.
The entire royal council has gathered. Every important clan leader. This isn't just an interrogation—it's a trial.
My father's dead eyes focus on Kira with unsettling intensity.
"So," he says in a voice like grinding stone. "This is the girl who made the sacred vines grow in cursed soil. The girl who carries forest magic into lands where Eywa does not speak."
Kira steps forward despite her fear. "Great King, I come in peace—"
"There is no peace here, child. Only fire and ash and survival." My father leans forward. "Tell me why I shouldn't burn you alive right now as punishment for desecrating our sacred lands with your goddess's magic."
Before Kira can answer, something impossible happens.
The Eternal Flame—the fire that has burned unchanged for three centuries—suddenly surges upward. Higher and higher, so bright everyone has to shield their eyes.
And it's reaching toward Kira like it recognizes her.
The council erupts in shocked whispers. Sylara's fingers dig into my arm painfully. My father stands from his throne for the first time in years.
"What sorcery is this?" he demands.
Kira's eyes have gone wide with shock. Her freckles blaze so bright they hurt to look at. And when she speaks, her voice echoes with something ancient and powerful:
"I am no sorcerer, Great King. I am Eywa's seed. Planted to grow where faith died. Sent to heal the wound between fire and forest."
The throne room goes deathly silent.
Then my father laughs—a terrible, broken sound that makes my blood run cold.
"Eywa's seed?" He steps down from the throne, moving toward Kira like a predator. "Then let us test this claim. Let us see if your goddess can truly protect her precious seed."
He gestures to the guards. "Take her to the Eternal Flame. If she burns, we know she's a fraud. If she survives..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
"Father, no—" I start forward.
"You will not interfere, my son." His empty eyes lock onto mine. "Unless you wish to burn beside her?"
And as guards drag Kira toward the flame that has never shown mercy, I hear her voice in my head—impossible but real, our connection somehow still active:
I'm not afraid to burn. But if I die, will you let yourself feel anything? Or will you stay ash forever?
The question hits me harder than any weapon.
Because I don't know the answer.