The wind howled outside the Hollow, sharp and bitter like it carried the voices of the dead. Aelira sat alone in the small chamber that once belonged to the priestesses, her knees drawn to her chest, the faint glow of the mark beneath her skin pulsing like a heartbeat.
It had been three days since she returned from the ruins with Kaeln.
Three days since she watched Vyra's cruelty unfold again in her visions.
Three days since Kaeln had whispered that cursed truth:
"You were meant to die in my arms."
She hadn't spoken to him since. She couldn't.
The betrayal was no longer a blade—it was a brand. One that seared deeper the more she tried to ignore it.
And worst of all… she remembered now.
Not everything. But enough.
She remembered the fire.
The chants.
The moment Kaeln hesitated when she screamed his name.
How he stood still when the curse began to devour her soul.
How he let it happen.
He said he had no choice.
But love—real love—didn't stand still.
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.
The shadows in the chamber flickered, and a soft voice whispered from behind her.
"You're beginning to remember who you are, aren't you?"
Aelira turned sharply.
Elandor stood by the arched doorway, his usual playful grin replaced with something quieter, wiser.
"I didn't hear you come in," she said softly, voice strained.
"I tread lightly where grief sleeps," he replied, walking slowly toward her. He didn't sit—just stood near the fire pit, his eyes watching the dancing flames.
"You marked this place with sorrow, Aelira. But it's not just yours."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
Elandor extended his hand, and the fire flared—not burning, not wild, but controlled. Inside the flickering light, a vision shimmered like a mirage. A younger version of Aelira—no, Saelwyn—stood in the Hollow, her robes torn, her face streaked with blood and ash. Dozens of witches knelt before her. Some wept. Others chanted her name.
Aelira gasped. "What is this?"
"A memory buried in the stone," Elandor said. "You don't just carry your past. This place does too."
She reached out toward the flame, and the image twisted into another. Saelwyn and Kaeln—standing at the edge of the circle. Her eyes were fierce with power. His were hollow.
"I swore I'd protect you," his echo said.
"And yet, here we are," Saelwyn answered in the memory, her voice steady, but broken.
Aelira turned away. "I don't want to see this."
"You must," Elandor said gently. "Because the curse didn't end your story. It began it."
Aelira stood, her hands balled into fists. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be her."
"No," Elandor said, "but the world did."
She looked at him sharply.
"You think this is just a tale of love and betrayal," he continued, "but it's much older. This isn't only about Kaeln. Or even Vyra. It's about what was stolen from you. The power. The truth. And what you'll do with it now."
Her breath caught.
Something deep inside her—beneath the pain, beneath the rage—began to stir. Like a song she had forgotten but somehow still knew.
"Tell me what I am," she whispered.
Elandor stepped closer. "You were the Flameborn. A high daughter of the Moonroot Line. The one who was never meant to be burned. And you didn't die, Aelira. You were cursed to be forgotten. Reborn. Quieted."
Her knees nearly gave out.
He steadied her. "The mark on your shoulder? It's not a warning. It's a key."
"To what?"
"To everything they tried to keep buried."
---
The next day, Aelira walked alone into the ancient part of the forest, her cloak wrapped tightly against the chill. Elandor had shown her the path—a secret trail that led beyond the veil of the Hollow. Past trees that whispered in a language older than fire. Past streams that sang her name.
There, deep in the woods, she found it.
An obsidian stone altar carved with sigils that matched her mark. Vines grew around its base, as if nature itself tried to hide it. But when she placed her hand against the stone, it warmed beneath her touch.
A flicker of light burst from the symbol on her skin—answering, resonating.
The earth shuddered.
And then… the voice came.
"Saelwyn."
She turned, but no one stood behind her. Only the wind, curling with purpose.
"You hear it now, don't you?" said a familiar voice—Kaeln.
He emerged from the shadows, his face pale, his eyes unreadable.
"I shouldn't be here," he said, halting a few feet away. "But I had to see you."
She didn't move. "You lied to me for weeks. For lifetimes."
He nodded. "I deserve your fury."
Silence stretched between them like a wound.
"I should hate you," she whispered. "But I can't. And that makes me hate myself."
Kaeln's voice cracked. "I would've burned instead of you—if I had known."
"But you did know. That's what I saw. You hesitated, Kaeln."
He dropped to his knees in the dirt, head bowed.
"I failed you. In every lifetime, I fail you. I was born cursed with the duty to protect you… and cursed worse when I didn't."
She stared at him, the pain in her chest pulsing with her heartbeat.
The mark on her shoulder flared again—this time brighter.
Kaeln flinched. "It's waking."
"What is?"
"The part of you they feared most."
---
The sky darkened without clouds. A shiver of unnatural cold spread through the glade.
The stone beneath Aelira's hand cracked—and magic surged from it, white and red and gold. It didn't burn. It didn't hurt.
It welcomed her.
Her body arched as visions poured into her:
The Coven standing over her body, hands soaked in regret.
Kaeln screaming into the night after she died.
A hidden spell cast by a dying witch—one that ensured her soul would survive through time.
Her curse had never been about vengeance. It was survival. Transformation.
A rebirth that would restore everything they tried to destroy.
And now… she had awakened it.
---
When her vision cleared, Kaeln was still on his knees.
Tears streaked his face.
Aelira walked toward him, the sigil still glowing beneath her collarbone.
"I'm not Saelwyn anymore," she said softly. "And I'm not just Aelira either."
He looked up at her, afraid to hope. "Then who are you?"
She extended her hand toward him.
"I am both."
Kaeln took her hand.
"I will follow you," he vowed. "No more lies. No more running."
She hesitated, then pulled him to his feet. "Then stand with me. Because what comes next won't be gentle."
---
Behind them, the altar pulsed again, and somewhere deeper in the forest, the air split with a sound like screaming metal.
The old magics were stirring.
The cursed had begun to remember.
And the past was no longer content to stay buried.