By Victor Simdrix
Chapter 12 – Whispers in the Dark
Sleep never came easy to Nyra, but that night it refused to come at all. She lay beneath the tattered canvas of her tent, staring at the faint glow of dying embers in the fire pit outside. Soldiers slept in neat rows beyond, their breathing steady, their dreams untroubled.
Hers, however, were not her own.
The moment her eyes closed, the world shifted.
She was standing in a place that felt both endless and suffocating—black skies stretched above her, cracked earth beneath her feet. In the distance, fire bled from fissures, spilling molten rivers across the barren land.
And from the darkness, he emerged.
Malakar.
He looked nothing like the warlord spoken of in fearful whispers. No monstrous armor, no crown of ash. Instead, he stood as a man cloaked in shadows, his eyes burning faintly red, his smile disarmingly calm.
"Little ember," he greeted, his voice a velvet echo. "At last, you listen."
Nyra's fists clenched. "Get out of my head."
"This is not your head," Malakar replied softly. "This is the fire inside you. I am only walking where I already belong."
She shook her head violently, as though she could scatter his words. "You slaughter villages. You burn children in their homes. You're not welcome here."
"And yet," Malakar murmured, tilting his head, "your flames match mine. Your power bends shadows the way mine does. Do you know why, Nyra? Did your precious prince tell you?"
Her heart hammered. She hated how his voice sank into her bones, hated how part of her wanted to hear the answer.
"You are not theirs," he continued, stepping closer. "You never were. Blood remembers what your mind does not. And when the royals are finished using you, when their kingdom crumbles… who will remain at your side but me?"
Nyra's throat tightened. "You're lying."
"Am I?" His smile widened. "Think carefully, ember. Has Kaelith ever trusted you? Has he not searched for your betrayal in every corner? Do you not see the fear in their eyes when you walk among them? They do not see a hero, child. They see a fire waiting to burn them."
The words sank like venom.
But before Malakar could reach her, a different flame tore through the darkness—a blinding light, golden and fierce. A sword of radiant fire split the shadows, forcing Malakar to step back with a snarl.
Aric.
Or at least, a vision of him—his silhouette burning like a guardian flame. His voice thundered, not from his lips, but through the bond they had forged in battle:
"Hold fast, Nyra. His words are chains. You are not his."
The dream shattered.
Nyra awoke with a scream, sweat clinging to her skin though the night air was cold. The campfire outside had long died, and silence pressed against her ears.
She pressed a trembling hand against her chest. Her flame was flickering—between warmth and shadow. Between salvation… and destruction.
And though she hated to admit it, Malakar had planted a seed.