The castle felt different after the battle.
Servants moved more carefully. The guards, once stoic, now watched the shadows. And Eira—though bathed and dressed in fresh silk—still felt the weight of ash in her bones.
The mirror in her room reflected someone she barely recognized. Her pale blue gown shimmered with silver embroidery, a queen's attire. Her hair was brushed, her skin scrubbed clean—but her eyes… they had changed. They no longer looked like a stranger's.
Someone knocked.
She turned as Lucien entered, no guards, no formalities—just him. His wounds were mostly healed, though pale scars still ghosted his collarbone. He wore a dark tunic today, simple by royal standards, but his presence was anything but.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked, his voice low.
"Only my thoughts," she said softly.
He walked to her, stopping just behind her as she faced the mirror. Their reflections stood side by side—light and shadow.
"You're quiet," he murmured.
"There's a lot to think about."
He nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You saved us all. That magic—Eira, it wasn't just luck. It was fate."
She met his eyes in the mirror. "I don't know what it was. But I felt something… ancient. As if I'd done it before."
Lucien's gaze darkened with thought. "You may have. Some powers are not learned, but remembered."
She turned to face him. "What do you mean?"
"You were reincarnated, yes. But that soul of yours—it's older than you know. Older than even this kingdom."
Eira blinked. "You think I've lived other lives?"
Lucien nodded slowly. "There are stories—of soulbinds and celestial flames. Of a woman who stood beside kings of blood and fire… guiding them. Strengthening them."
Her heart raced. "You think I'm her?"
"I think… your soul chose this life for a reason."
She looked down. "And what if I'm not strong enough for what's coming?"
Lucien stepped closer, lifting her chin with a gentle touch. "Then I'll carry you. Until you are."
The sincerity in his voice, the softness in his eyes—it unraveled the last of her defenses. She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. He held her without hesitation.
But even wrapped in his arms, the wind outside whispered secrets that made her skin crawl.
That night, the dreams returned.
Eira found herself standing in a forest of silver trees. Their leaves shimmered like mirrors, and every sound echoed like a song from a forgotten time. A figure stood ahead—cloaked in black, with a mask of bone.
She stepped forward.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The figure tilted its head. "You already know."
Lightning flashed, revealing an army of shadow behind it—twisted figures with glowing eyes and jagged limbs. Their silence was more terrifying than screams.
Eira backed away. "This is a dream."
"No," the figure said. "This is memory."
Suddenly, pain lanced through her chest. She looked down—her hands were glowing. The same silver magic from before.
"You are the Flame," the figure whispered. "And the Flame must awaken. Before the Veil tears."
Eira jolted awake, gasping. Her nightdress clung to her with sweat, her hands trembling.
The Veil.
Lucien had mentioned it before. The place where the ancient darkness slept.
She had thought it was just legend.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
Later that morning, she found Lucien in the royal library—an endless room of dust, candlelight, and books taller than she was. He sat with an old tome open, lines etched into his brow.
"You've been researching," she said, stepping inside.
He looked up. "You dreamed of the Veil, didn't you?"
Her blood ran cold. "How do you know?"
He tapped the page before him. A drawing of a silver forest. A masked figure.
"It's a prophecy. One written in blood, by the first Seer."
Eira moved closer, eyes scanning the text. "What does it say?"
He read aloud. "'When the Bride of Flame is reborn, the Veil shall shudder. The King of Night shall stand with her, and together they will decide if the world burns… or blooms.'"
She sat, silent.
"Lucien," she whispered, "what if I can't control it?"
He looked at her, serious and calm. "Then we learn how."
"But—"
"You're not alone anymore, Eira." His voice was gentle, firm. "Not in this, not ever."
Before she could speak again, Ravien burst into the room. His face was pale, and he held a scroll clenched in one fist.
"My lord. My lady. A message has arrived from the Southern Citadel."
Lucien took the scroll, broke the seal, and read quickly. His jaw tightened.
"They've seen the mark. The same sigil that appeared after the Wyrm fell. It's spreading—appearing in cities, forests, even rivers."
Eira felt her stomach twist. "It's calling something."
Lucien nodded. "Or warning us."
She stood. "We need to go there. See it for ourselves."
Lucien hesitated. "It's dangerous. If the mark draws beasts like the Wyrm…"
"Then I need to see what I'm up against." Her voice didn't waver. "If I'm the Flame, then let me burn for something."
Lucien's eyes met hers—and in that moment, she saw the faintest flicker of fear. Not for himself. For her.
"You're not ready," he said.
"Maybe not," she admitted. "But I'll never be if I stay locked in this castle."
Silence stretched between them.
Then he nodded. "We leave at dawn."
That night, as Eira packed her satchel with whatever she could find—elixirs, maps, the silver dagger Lucien gave her—she paused to look out the window.
The moon was full, haloed in clouds.
A song drifted through her mind. Not in words, but feeling. Like a memory half-remembered.
She whispered to the wind, not expecting an answer.
But in the silence, the shadows seemed to stir.
And far away, in the deepest part of the Veil…
Something whispered back.