Elira had not expected her quiet life to change overnight, but by morning, nothing felt the same.
The storm had passed, leaving the sea glassy and still, as if it too recovered from its fury. Sunlight spilled across the waves in molten gold, dazzling enough to make fishermen squint as they dragged their boats onto the sand. From her window, Elira watched the village stir to life, smoke curling from cookfires, children racing barefoot between nets stretched to dry, women balancing baskets on their hips as they bartered for the day's catch.
It should have been an ordinary day. But in her small cottage on the cliff, a man lay unconscious on her cot, breathing shallowly, a secret heavy enough to drown her whole life if it slipped free.
She wrung out a cloth in a bowl of warm water and dabbed it against his brow. His fever had not broken, though his pulse grew steadier with each hour. She had seen worse wounds survive, though none belonging to men who carried silver-forged swords and cloaks embroidered with thread finer than anything in Nareth.
She brushed damp hair from his face and studied him again. His features were sharp, sculpted with a kind of quiet command. Even in sleep, he looked nothing like the men of her village, sun-worn and weary from nets and oars. He was something else entirely — nobility, perhaps even royalty.
The thought unsettled her. What did it mean, that such a man had washed ashore here, wounded and desperate?
She turned away, focusing instead on grinding herbs with her mortar, the rhythmic scrape of pestle against stone calming her thoughts.
---
By midday, she slipped into the village square to trade.
"Morning, Elira!" Old Brenna waved from her stall, where fish smoked over coals. "You've been scarce these days. Lost in your herbs again?"
Elira smiled faintly, tugging her shawl tighter. "Something like that."
Brenna narrowed her eyes, as though sniffing out secrets, then huffed and wrapped a bundle of dried herring. "Here. You're too thin for a healer. Eat."
Elira accepted with thanks, though her mind wandered back to the stranger in her cottage. She hated lying, even by omission, but what could she say? That the sea had given her a half-dead man who might be of noble blood? Already the villagers looked at her askance, murmuring about her unusual gift for healing. Too many whispered that the spirits walked with her hands. If they discovered the truth of Kael…
Her stomach tightened. She had promised him her silence. She would keep it.
Still, as she walked back up the path, fish bundled in her basket, she caught herself scanning the horizon. The gulls wheeled high, restless. Change was coming; she could feel it in the salt-heavy wind.
---
That night, Elira dreamed.
She stood in darkness, though not the gentle dark of night. This was vast, endless, pulsing with heat. A glow flickered ahead, brightening, until it became flame — a figure shaped of fire itself, towering, terrible, beautiful.
Its voice was not sound but resonance, shaking her bones.
**"Elira."**
She trembled. "Who… who are you?"
The flames coiled, shifting like a dancer's veil. Within them, eyes blazed — molten gold, burning yet kind.
**"I am Mira, spirit of flame. You are my vessel."**
Elira's heart pounded. "No. I'm no one. Just a healer, nothing more."
**"You are more than you believe. The fire has slept in you since birth. Now, it wakes."**
The fire swelled, searing heat enveloping her. She gasped, clutching her chest as warmth poured into her veins. Visions burst across her mind — cities aflame, armies clashing, a crown shattered in blood. And at the center of it all, herself, her hands burning with light.
"No," she whispered. "I don't want this. I only want to heal, not destroy."
The spirit's voice softened, like embers whispering in ash.
**"The flame destroys. But it also heals. Which path it takes will be yours to choose."**
The heat roared higher, unbearable, until she screamed—
---
She woke with a cry, heart hammering, sweat dampening her shift. The room glowed only with the fire in the hearth, crackling low, casting shadows across the walls. The sea sighed against the cliffs outside.
"Elira?"
The voice startled her. She turned — and found him awake.
Kael lay propped on one elbow, pale but alert, watching her with those storm-gray eyes. His voice was rough, threaded with pain, yet steady enough to carry curiosity.
"You… cried out. Are you hurt?"
Elira pressed a hand to her chest, willing her breath to steady. "Just… a dream."
He studied her a moment longer, eyes sharp despite exhaustion, before shifting with a wince. "Dreams can be omens."
Her pulse jumped. Did he know? Could he see the fire still smoldering beneath her skin?
She looked away quickly, busying herself with the bowl of herbs at her table. "You should not be sitting up. Your wound isn't healed."
"And yet," he said wryly, attempting to straighten, "I owe my life to you. It seems I should listen."
"Then lie back," she retorted, more sharply than intended.
To her surprise, he obeyed, sinking into the cot with a soft chuckle. "You speak as though you command an army."
"I speak as though I've dealt with stubborn men before," she replied, though a smile tugged at her lips despite herself.
His gaze lingered on her, softer now. "You have courage, healer. Not many would drag a bleeding stranger from the sea."
Elira busied her hands with wringing cloths, unwilling to meet his eyes. "I only did what anyone should."
"Not anyone," he murmured. "Only you."
The words settled between them like kindling catching a spark. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she cursed herself silently. Foolish to blush at a stranger. Foolish to feel the pull of his voice, the storm in his eyes.
She turned away, murmuring, "Rest. Tomorrow will test your strength."
But as she set the cloth aside, she could not ignore the truth burning quietly in her chest: the dream's fire had not left her. It lingered, warm and insistent, whispering of destiny she did not want.
And yet, in the eyes of the man who lay in her bed, she thought she saw a mirror of that same fire — hidden, dangerous, impossible to ignore.