The world loved heroes.
Statues were built for them. Songs were written for them. Children learned their names before they learned their letters.
Heroes saved kingdoms. Heroes defeated monsters. Heroes protected the innocent.
But heroes also killed witches.
And sometimes—
they killed their wives.
---
Lysara had been six years old when the world burned.
Before that, life had been quiet.
Their house stood deep in the mountains where the fog slept between the trees and the wind whispered secrets through the tall pines. It was small, built of old wood and stone, with smoke curling lazily from the chimney each morning.
To Lysara, it had been perfect.
Her mother filled the house with strange, wonderful things. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams. Bottles of glowing liquids crowded the shelves. Strange runes were carved into the floorboards near the hearth.
Magic lived there.
Soft magic. Gentle magic.
The kind that healed broken wings and helped flowers bloom even in winter.
"Magic is not evil," her mother used to say while braiding Lysara's dark hair beside the fire. "It simply listens to the heart that uses it."
Her mother smelled like lavender and smoke.
Her laugh was warm.
Her hands were always glowing faintly with quiet spells.
But the world did not care about gentle magic.
The world only saw one thing.
Witch.
And witches were meant to burn.
---
Her father had once promised that the mountains would protect them.
He was a mortal man. No magic. No glowing hands. No whispered spells.
Just a soldier who had once been a hero.
When Lysara was very young, she believed that meant he was brave.
But heroes were not always brave.
Sometimes they were just cowards wearing shiny armor.
Mortals feared witches.
They whispered about them in towns and villages.
They said witches poisoned wells. They cursed children. They turned men into beasts.
None of it was true.
But fear did not care about truth.
So her parents had run away together.
A hero and a witch.
A foolish love story that had lasted only until fear caught up with it.
For six years, the mountains hid them.
For six years, Lysara believed her family was safe.
Until the day her father disappeared.
He left before sunrise without saying goodbye.
Lysara remembered asking her mother where he had gone.
Her mother had only smiled faintly.
"Your father has a storm in his heart," she had said. "Sometimes storms need space."
But the storm returned.
Seven days later.
And it brought soldiers with it.
---
Lysara remembered the sound first.
Boots crushing snow.
Metal clinking.
Horses snorting in the cold air.
She had been sitting beside the garden behind the house, watching a strange silver flower grow beneath her mother's magic.
It was beautiful.
Its petals shimmered faintly in the sunlight, glowing like moonlight trapped in glass.
Her mother called it The Heartflower.
"The most powerful flower in the world," she once told Lysara.
"It can grant any wish."
Lysara had asked the obvious question.
"Why don't we wish for a castle?"
Her mother laughed.
"Because wishes always ask for a price."
Lysara never fully understood that.
Until the soldiers came.
---
They surrounded the house before noon.
Dozens of them.
Armor shining. Swords drawn.
And at the front—
stood her father.
Commander Alric Vayne.
The hero of the kingdom.
The man people sang about in taverns.
The man who had once carried Lysara on his shoulders through the forest.
He didn't look like her father that day.
He looked like a stranger.
Cold.
Empty.
Afraid.
Her mother stepped outside to meet them.
The wind caught her dark hair, carrying the scent of herbs and smoke through the air.
She did not run.
Witches rarely ran.
They knew fear fed the fire.
"Alric," her mother said softly.
Her father would not meet her eyes.
"The witch must be executed," one of the soldiers announced.
The words felt heavy in the air.
Lysara didn't understand them.
But she understood the way her mother's fingers trembled slightly.
"You promised," her mother whispered to him.
"I tried," her father replied.
His voice cracked.
"I tried to protect you."
"You brought them here."
The silence after that sentence felt like winter swallowing the world.
The soldiers moved.
Her mother moved faster.
Magic exploded from her hands, golden and wild. The ground trembled as roots burst from the earth, twisting around soldiers and knocking weapons from their hands.
The forest itself seemed to awaken.
Branches snapped.
Wind howled.
The mountains roared with her fury.
But witches were powerful.
Heroes were relentless.
And mortals were many.
A sword flashed.
Lysara didn't even see who swung it.
But she saw her mother fall.
---
The world became quiet after that.
Too quiet.
Her mother collapsed beside the garden where the Heartflower grew.
Blood stained the snow.
Lysara ran to her.
"Mom!" she cried.
Her mother's glowing hands were weak now.
Fading.
Magic flickered like a dying flame.
Her father stood nearby, frozen.
He did not step closer.
He did not look at them.
Perhaps heroes could not face the things they destroyed.
Her mother pulled Lysara closer.
"Listen to me," she whispered urgently.
Her fingers pointed toward the silver flower in the garden.
"The Heartflower… you must protect it."
Lysara wiped tears from her face.
"I don't want a flower," she sobbed.
Her mother smiled sadly.
"One day… someone will try to steal it."
"Why?"
"Because wishes tempt the broken."
Her mother's hand cupped Lysara's cheek.
"You must never let it fall into the wrong hands."
Her breathing grew weaker.
"Promise me."
Lysara nodded desperately.
"I promise."
Her mother kissed her forehead.
Then the magic faded from her eyes.
And the mountains fell silent.
---
That was the day Lysara learned the truth about heroes.
Heroes did not save everyone.
Sometimes—
they chose who deserved to die.
---
Thirteen years later, Lysara stood alone in the ruins of the same mountain house.
The walls had collapsed long ago.
The garden was wild now.
But the Heartflower still bloomed.
Silver petals glowing softly beneath the moonlight.
She had protected it all these years.
Just like she promised.
Just like her mother asked.
But protecting something powerful meant people would eventually come searching for it.
And tonight—
someone finally had.
---
Miles away, in another kingdom, a prince stepped out of a tower for the first time in fifteen years.
Prince Caelan did not remember what the world looked like.
He had been four years old when the tower doors closed.
Four years old when his father decided he was a problem that needed to disappear.
No explanations.
No goodbyes.
Just cold stone walls and a locked door.
The tower stood on the far edge of the palace grounds.
High.
Lonely.
Whispered about.
Servants claimed a spirit lived inside.
Some believed the tower was cursed.
Others believed it was haunted.
People were afraid of it.
Which meant no one ever entered.
But they left offerings.
Bowls of food.
Bread.
Fruit.
Sometimes sweets.
They placed them outside the door to calm the "spirit."
And inside the tower—
a boy survived on their fear.
Years passed that way.
Seasons changed outside the windows.
Snow.
Rain.
Sunlight.
Storms.
But the door never opened.
No voices.
No laughter.
No love.
Just silence.
Until the day he turned nineteen.
The locks finally clicked open.
The door creaked slowly inward.
Light flooded the tower.
Caelan stepped out into the world with pale skin, sharp eyes, and a heart that had long since stopped expecting kindness.
His father waited outside.
King Valen did not embrace him.
He did not apologize.
He simply said—
"You may return to the palace."
As if fifteen years had been nothing more than an inconvenient nap.
Caelan stared at the man who had stolen his childhood.
"You locked me away like a monster."
The king's expression never changed.
"You were a risk."
"A risk to what?"
"The crown."
That was the only answer he received.
No love.
No explanation.
No remorse.
Just cold royal logic.
That was the moment Caelan realized something important.
If the world insisted on treating him like a villain—
Then perhaps he should become one.
---
And far away in the mountains—
A girl who hated heroes waited beside a flower that could grant any wish.
Soon—
their paths would cross.
Two broken hearts.
Two unwanted children.
One impossible power.
And when villains fall in love—
kingdoms tend to burn.