The heavy door clanked shut.
Tarse didn't move.
His arms rested on his knees, hands slack. The walls of the reinforced cell reflected nothing. Not even the spark of a flame.
He was alone again.
And he hated it.
"I'm tired," he whispered.
His breath shook. A tear slid down his cheek.
Another one followed.
Then the dam broke.
"I'm so tired."
Tarse curled inside himself, clutching his chest like it hurt just to breathe.
"Why didn't they come?" he asked no one. "Why didn't the Saint Knights show up today and just—just end it?"
His voice cracked.
"I gave them every reason. I burned a school. I'm the cursed blood. I'm the reason they preach and hunt and kill. Why not just end me already?"
No answer.
He laughed bitterly through tears.
"People hate me. Every damn one of them. They fear me when I walk by. Even the guards look at me like I'm something that escaped a lab. They mock me, laugh at me, or try to use me like I'm some kind of tool or a threat."
He wiped his eyes with a shaky hand.
"And I play along. I make fire. I act like I like the attention. Like it doesn't hurt. Like I'm proud of it."
He looked at his hand.
Scarred. Burned.
Cursed.
"But I don't want to burn things. I want to be normal. I wanted friends. I wanted to laugh without someone crying afterward. I wanted someone to care without being afraid first."
He punched the wall. Weakly.
"Why does everyone only see the blood? Why is that all I am to them?"
Then—silence.
But not for long.
A warm breeze filled the air.
It shouldn't have been there.
Tarse blinked. Looked up.
She was sitting in front of him now. Cross-legged. Calm.
Evryli Fate. The witch in his blood.
Her hair flowed like black smoke. Her skin pale, almost glowing. Her eyes gentle but ancient, carrying a sadness deeper than the sea.
"You cry like he did," she said softly.
Tarse looked away.
"Go away."
"I can't," she said. "I'm part of you after all. And you're part of me."
He sniffed.
"They hate me because of you."
"They hated me too," she said. "And I never hurt anyone."
"I know," he whispered.
"I created life," she said. "I tried make them understand. I tried to show them I wasn't what they feared."
Tarse glanced at her. "And? Don't what my pity"
"Not at all. But even after all that they still wanted me to die, to burn. And the worst is I never did anything to hirt, I just existed."
He shook his head. "That doesn't help."
"No," she said. "It tells you the truth."
She leaned closer, her voice almost a whisper.
"People fear what they don't understand. They label it. Witch. Monster. Freak. Evil."
Tarse clenched his fists.
"I just wanted someone to see me, to accept me for who I am to what I am."
"They won't," she said. "Most never will. But here's the truth, Tarse..."
She reached out and touched his hand.
"You are not your blood. You are not your past. You are not even me."
He looked up, meeting her eyes.
"But we are part of you. And that is power. Pain is part of power. So is loneliness."
"I don't want that kind of power."
"You don't get to choose what you are," she said gently. "But you get to choose what you do with it."
Tarse looked down.
"I'm tired."
"So was I," she said. "Every day. But I kept living. Not because they deserved it—but because I did."
Tarse didn't speak.
Evryli stood. Her shape started to fade.
"You want a normal life. I wanted one too. But maybe... maybe we weren't born for normal lives, you can be better than me, than Romidas, you can change your fate. I believe in you."
Her voice echoed faintly as she disappeared into flickers of shadow and flame.
"Maybe we were born for something more."
Tarse was alone again.
But this time, the silence didn't feel empty.
He looked at his hand.
He opened his palm.
A small, flickering flame bloomed there.
It didn't burn.
It just warmed.
He whispered, "I'll figure it out."
And for the first time in a long while, he meant it.