The wind was high on the palace rooftop, sweeping across the stone with a whisper that carried the scent of old ash and moon-chilled roses. Far below, the city flickered with sleeping lights, unaware of the two souls tangled in something ancient and unspoken.
They stood together before the statue of the first king—an obsidian colossus with a crown of jagged stone and a sword carved at his sides. Xandria leaned into his embrace, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her face pressed against the chest plate of his royal tunic. His warmth wasn't just body heat; it was deeper, a heat that pulsed beneath his skin like a heartbeat made of embers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stood there, as if the wind and the stars were enough to fill the silence. But Xandria couldn't hold her thoughts in any longer. The question that had haunted her for years bubbled up like a secret waiting to be spilled.
"Can I ask you something?" she said softly, her voice just a touch hesitant.
He nodded, his face half-hidden in the moonlight. "Anything."
Xandria took a deep breath, the words feeling heavier than they should have. "What... what are you?"
He frowned, confusion flickering across his features. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated, biting her lip. "Are you human?"
A flicker passed across his face—not fear, not surprise, but something like quiet resignation, as though he'd known this moment would come.
"Why do you ask?"
Xandria gathered her courage. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of years of wondering. "I used to dream about you. Long before I even knew you existed. You were always surrounded by fire. Crowned in it. Holding it. Like it belonged to you."
He turned his gaze towards the horizon, where the mountains loomed like silent giants. Then, slowly, he looked back at her, and he raised his hands.
Flame erupted gently from his palm. It didn't rage. It didn't roar. It curled like a living thing—soft, bright, warm, instead of wild. It painted their faces in orange glow, reflecting in her brown eyes like tiny stars.
"I was born with it," he said quietly, his voice low but firm. "The fire—it lives in me. It is me."
She stared at the flame, her mind reeling. "It's not magic," he continued. "Not like what scholars write in books. It is older. The Grand Gias—the gift of the first king. Fire chose me. And only fire. I command it. It breathes in me."
He turned his hand, letting the flame spin like a miniature sun before it vanished into the air.
"I've set battlefields ablaze with a word. Melted steel with a glance. When I'm angry, it burns through me. When I grieve... it weeps with me."
Xandria's chest rose and fell as she absorbed his words. She was quiet for a long time, then, softly, she asked, "But when I saw you...?"
He looked down at her, his expression softening. "When I saw you, it didn't rage. It didn't lash. It quieted. Like it recognized you. Like it had been waiting."
Xandria reached up, her fingers brushing the fabric of his tunic, just over his heart. "So the dreams...?"
He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "The Grand Gias doesn't only give power. It gives pull. It binds the king to the one the fire sees. You didn't just dream of me, my queen." His hands cupped her face, warm and steady. "You were called."
The wind stirred again, lifting the edges of her cloak, and they stood there, the fire burning softly between them, the statue of the first king standing silent witness.
She stared at him, her breath caught in her throat. There was something in his words—something that felt like destiny and uncertainty wrapped into one. And when the fire flickered in his hands, she wasn't afraid. It wasn't just a flame—it was part of him. Part of them.
Her hand reached out cautiously, but Maltherion caught her wrist gently.
"It's hot," he warned, his voice low, teasing, like the fire itself was warning her too.
She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I'm not afraid."
Their eyes locked. Her fingers hovered just above the flame, trembling slightly, and then she touched it.
It didn't burn.
The fire curled around her fingers like a silken ribbon, weaving through her hand, dancing over her skin like an old friend greeting her. It was warm, not fierce. A quiet hum rose in the air, the braziers around them flaring in synchronized pulses, like the whole temple exhaled together.
Maltherion's eyes widened. "It's not supposed to do that," he whispered.
Xandria's voice was filled with wonder as she looked at her hands, the fire shifting colors in a rhythm she couldn't understand. "What's happening?"
He stepped closer, his voice nearly a breath. "The fire... it knows you."
The flame around her fingers glowed brighter, shifting from gold to crimson to white, pure and silent. Sparks rose from her palm like stars breaking free.
"This isn't just the Gias," he said, staring at her, at her hands. "It's something more."
"I don't understand," she murmured, her voice filled with awe.
He reached out, covering her hands with his. The fire vanished in a single breath, but the warmth lingered, like the memory of something powerful.
"You were meant for me," he said, his voice rough. "But now I see... you weren't just chosen."
Her heart skipped a beat.
"You were forged."
Xandria blinked, the weight of his words settling in her chest. "Forged... how?"
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice filled with uncertainty for the first time. "But the fire knows. And it never lies."
Behind them, the fire of the first king loomed silently, as if watching in approval. The flames around their feet still burned, but one had shifted, glowing faintly in the exact same shade the fire had turned in her palm.
They stood there, bound by fate, but now, something deeper had awakened—something that neither of them could deny.
Xandria woke the next morning, the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and for the first time in what felt like ages, she felt calm. The dream, the rooftop, the fire—it was all so real, and it made her smile. A genuine, peaceful smile.
She remembered the feeling of Maltherion's arms around her, the warmth of the fire, the bond that had awakened between them. She didn't know what had changed, but her heart felt lighter, and thinking about him brought a flutter to her chest.
Standing at her window, she watched the guards in the courtyard train, their swords clashing in the early light. The sound sparked something in her—a memory of the days when she was a soldier-in-training at sixteen, alongside Ellara. She had been the best, and then... life had changed. Ellara had fallen ill, and she had to stop. But now, watching the soldiers, that old fire stirred again.
She rushed into the bathroom, showered quickly, and threw on some practical clothes—long pants with a flowing skirt attached to them. It was all she had for now that was appropriate for training. She tied her hair into a ponytail, her pulse quickening with excitement.
As she rushed downstairs, pausing when maids greeted her, she suddenly halted in her tracks, nearly bumping into Maltherion who had just stepped out of the court room flanked by his ministers.