The silence in Halewood did not last.
Once the Emberfall soldiers began their search, the village seemed to groan awake under their boots. Doors were wrenched from hinges, shutters slammed open, and voices rose—shouts, screams, the desperate protests of villagers dragged from their homes. The clang of steel against wood echoed as soldiers overturned barrels, smashed cupboards, and shattered windows in their hunt for Kael.
From the shadow of the smithy, Kael watched it unfold with the cold clarity of one accustomed to being prey. This was not the first time he'd been hunted. His curse made sure of that. Everywhere he went, whispers followed: witchspawn, unclean, cursed by shadows. Once the truth of his mark surfaced, it was only a matter of time before soldiers—or bounty hunters more ruthless than soldiers—came knocking.
But this time was different. This time it wasn't nameless bounty-men at his heels. It was Emberfall's army, and at its head sat the flame-haired princess who commanded fire itself.
He shifted back deeper into shadow, cloak drawn tight around him. His heart hammered not with fear—he was no stranger to fear—but with something far more dangerous: recognition.
Lyra of Emberfall. He had heard her name whispered with awe and venom alike. The stories painted her as both savior and butcher, a woman whose command of flame left cities ash and whose command of men made them follow her without hesitation into hellfire itself. Now she was here, in this broken village, her molten gaze sweeping like a torchlight over stone and timber.
Kael should have slipped away. Every instinct urged it. His curse thrummed like a drumbeat in his veins, whispering that his presence was already drawing her nearer, already weaving a thread of fate he could not cut.
But he lingered.
Perhaps it was pride, the stubborn refusal to be herded like cattle. Perhaps it was the iron weight of his curse, dragging him always toward fire, toward danger. Or perhaps—though he would not name it yet—it was the way the air bent around her, heat radiating as though she were the sun and he the moth damned to burn.
The soldiers worked quickly. By the time Kael slipped down a narrow alley, most of the cottages had been ransacked, their doors hanging loose. Villagers huddled in the square, watched closely by guards. Kael counted at least thirty soldiers, too many to fight and far too disciplined to outmaneuver in the open.
He needed to vanish. There were woods north of the village, thick enough to swallow a man whole if he moved swiftly. But the path wound straight past the square, straight past Lyra and her soldiers.
Damnation.
Kael's hand brushed the hilt of his sword. The weapon pulsed faintly beneath his palm, its rhythm quickening with his heartbeat. His curse did not fear fire or soldiers. It urged him to step into the square, to carve his way through crimson banners and let blood flow like rivers.
Kael gritted his teeth and forced it down. Not yet.
He circled the alley, boots silent on wet cobblestone, moving like smoke. A single slip, a single misstep, and the hunt would tighten around his throat.
Then he heard it: a cry, sharp and raw.
"Please! Leave her—she's just a child!"
Kael froze.
From the corner of the alley, he glimpsed two soldiers dragging a young girl from a cottage. She couldn't have been more than ten, her hair tangled, cheeks streaked with dirt and tears. Her mother clung to her desperately until a gauntleted fist struck her across the face, sending her sprawling into the mud. The girl screamed as the soldiers hauled her forward.
Lyra's voice cut across the square. "Enough."
The soldiers halted immediately. The girl dangled between them, sobbing, while her mother lay groaning in the dirt.
Lyra dismounted, her boots striking stone as she strode forward. Even without her armor blazing in the sun, her presence drew every gaze, villagers and soldiers alike. She crouched before the girl, her expression unreadable, eyes flickering like banked coals.
"What is your name?" Lyra asked softly.
The girl hiccupped through her sobs. "M-Mira."
"Mira." Lyra's tone gentled, though her fire-bright eyes remained sharp. "You are not who we seek. You have nothing to fear."
She rose, turning her molten gaze on the soldiers. "Release her."
The men obeyed instantly, dropping the girl into her mother's waiting arms. The woman clutched Mira tight, whispering frantic thanks through bloodied lips.
Kael exhaled slowly.
So the stories hadn't been all truth, nor all lies. Lyra was no mindless butcher. She had steel, yes—but tempered steel, sharp and deliberate. She knew when to strike and when to spare.
And that made her far more dangerous.
"Report," Lyra commanded, her voice carrying across the square.
One of her captains approached, helm tucked beneath his arm. "No sign of the traitor, Highness. If he passed through here, he's gone."
Her jaw tightened. "He is here. I can feel it."
Kael's blood chilled.
Feel it.
Was it possible? Could she sense his curse, the way priests sometimes flinched when he drew too near?
Lyra's gaze swept the square again, eyes narrowing as though searching not with sight but with some deeper sense. Her steps carried her closer to Kael's hiding place, her boots crunching softly on damp stone.
The curse inside him surged, restless, hungry. It whispered her name in the language of fire and shadow.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. He knew he should run now—slip into the woods before her fire burned away the dark veil that kept him hidden. But his body betrayed him. His feet rooted, his eyes locked on hers even across distance, as though fate itself refused to sever the line that had been drawn.
And then her gaze stopped.
On him.
For a heartbeat the world froze.
Her eyes, molten gold, burned straight into his hiding place. Kael felt it like flame against his skin, searing away every pretense, every cloak of shadow. He had been found.
"Seize him!" Lyra's voice cut like thunder.
Soldiers surged forward.
Kael's curse roared alive, flooding his veins with fire-dark strength. His blade leapt into his hand, steel singing as it cleared the scabbard.
So be it. If fate demanded flame, then tonight the village of Halewood would burn.