The Price of Her Fire
Chapter X–
The sea was gray that morning.
The kind of gray that looked almost metallic, like the world had been stripped of color.
Rhea stood on the wooden pier of a town that didn't know her name. The air smelled of salt and rust, and her coat flapped in the wind like a worn-out flag. Every breath tasted like smoke that wasn't there.
The locals called the town Gavrielle.
It was small — a handful of fishermen, a bar that opened at noon, and a post office that still used typewriters. Nobody asked questions here. Nobody remembered the war in Corvane, or the empire that turned to ash.
Rhea kept it that way.
She rented a room above the bar, paid in cash, spoke to no one. Her hair was shorter now, her limp heavier. At night, she cleaned the same pistol she swore she'd thrown into the fire, and stared out the window as waves broke against the rocks.
Sometimes she saw her reflection in the glass and didn't recognize it.
Sometimes she swore she saw Luciana standing behind her — the faint shimmer of a memory caught in the light.
"Ghosts don't stay dead in cities like ours," she whispered once.
But Gavrielle wasn't a city.
And yet, the ghosts followed anyway.
Days blurred into each other.
She woke, walked to the dock, smoked until her lungs burned, then helped the old harbormaster haul nets just to keep her hands from shaking.
He never asked her name, just called her the quiet one.
It suited her.
But every night, when she closed her eyes, she heard Corvane — sirens, gunfire, the tower collapsing.
Luciana's voice breaking through it all: "You were the only thing I didn't want to lose."
Rhea would wake drenched in sweat, gripping the sheets like a lifeline. The room always smelled faintly of smoke, though the bar below hadn't burned anything in years.
One evening, the sea turned black before the storm.
Rhea stood outside, cigarette glowing like a single ember in the wind. Thunder rolled far off, heavy and slow.
That was when she saw a figure walking up the pier — coat soaked, head low, moving like someone who'd followed her through too many lifetimes.
Mira.
Rhea froze. She didn't move until Mira stopped a few feet away, dripping rainwater onto the wooden boards.
For a long time, neither spoke. The sea filled the silence between them.
Then Mira said softly, "You really thought I wouldn't find you?"
Rhea looked past her, at the horizon. "You shouldn't have."
Mira laughed — a tired, broken sound. "You think I came all this way for you?"
Rhea flicked the cigarette into the water. "Then why?"
Mira's gaze softened. "Because someone has to remember."
They sat inside the bar as rain hammered the roof. The lights flickered; the air smelled of whiskey and salt.
Mira nursed a bottle, hands trembling. "You know, they built a monument in Corvane."
Rhea's brow furrowed. "For who?"
"For everyone," Mira said. "Vale soldiers. Civilians. Seraphs. Anyone who bled. The city's pretending it's healed."
Rhea scoffed. "Corvane doesn't heal. It forgets."
Mira watched her. "And you?"
Rhea didn't answer. She just stared at the condensation on her glass, the slow drip of water from the ceiling.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low. "I tried to burn it all down so it couldn't haunt me. But I carried it here anyway."
"You can't kill ghosts," Mira said.
Rhea smiled faintly. "No. But you can outlive them."
They stayed like that for hours — two survivors in a quiet bar, pretending to be normal.
When the bottle was empty, Mira reached into her coat and slid something across the table.
It was a silver pendant — small, simple, etched with the Vale insignia.
Rhea froze. "Where did you—"
"They pulled it from the wreckage," Mira said. "Thought you'd want it."
Rhea stared at it for a long time. Her hands shook as she picked it up. The metal was cold — too cold.
She pressed it to her palm until it hurt.
"She died trying to save me," Rhea whispered. "And I killed everything she built."
Mira's eyes glistened. "She knew you'd survive."
"Then she didn't know me at all."
That night, Rhea couldn't sleep. She walked down to the beach barefoot, waves crashing around her ankles. The pendant swung in her hand, catching the faint light from the distant lighthouse.
She stood there until dawn, staring at the horizon.
When the first light touched the sea, she finally spoke.
"Luciana Vale," she said softly, as if the wind could carry it. "You were wrong."
The waves hissed, dragging the tide out.
"I didn't survive you," she whispered. "I just didn't die with you."
The sea didn't answer. But for the first time in months, she felt something ease — not peace, but the faint ache of acceptance."