Lyrielle learned early that she was different.
It wasn't something anyone ever said out loud—not the villagers, not the children she grew up with, and certainly not the old woman she called Grandmother. Yet difference clung to her like a second skin, unspoken but deeply felt.
She sensed it in the way people paused when she walked past.
In the way conversations faltered, just for a heartbeat, before resuming again.
In the way animals reacted to her presence—dogs lowering their heads instead of barking, birds tilting their heads to watch her with unsettling intelligence, fire crackling louder when she stepped too close.
By the age of seven, Lyrielle had learned to pretend she didn't notice.
The village of Thornwick was small and quiet, nestled between low hills and endless fields. Life followed a predictable rhythm here—sunrise, work, dusk, rest. People were born, married, and buried without ever questioning the order of things.
Lyrielle did not fit into that rhythm.
She lived at the edge of the village with her Grandmother in a weathered stone cottage wrapped in ivy and shadows. The villagers respected the old woman, but they feared her just enough to keep their distance.
"She knows too much," they whispered.
Lyrielle didn't understand that then. She only knew that her Grandmother's eyes were always watchful—sharp even in moments of tenderness—as if she were waiting for something inevitable.
"Don't wander too far," her Grandmother warned every morning.
"I won't," Lyrielle replied dutifully.
And every morning, she lied.
The fields beyond Thornwick called to her in a way she couldn't explain. Beyond them lay the forest—dark, ancient, and forbidden by every unspoken rule the village held dear.
Lyrielle felt safest there.
The first time she realized something was wrong with the fire, she was nine.
She had been sitting alone by the hearth, knees pulled to her chest, watching the flames dance lazily over the logs. Her Grandmother was asleep in the next room, the house wrapped in the soft creaks of age and silence.
Lyrielle stared into the fire, her thoughts drifting.
And the fire stared back.
Not metaphorically. Not imaginatively.
It leaned toward her.
The flames curved unnaturally, stretching closer as if drawn by invisible strings. Heat brushed her skin—not burning, but warm and familiar, like a greeting.
Lyrielle sucked in a sharp breath and scrambled backward.
The fire snapped back into place instantly, crackling innocently.
Her heart pounded.
"That was nothing," she whispered to herself. "Nothing."
But the room smelled faintly of ozone and smoke long after the fire settled.
That night, she dreamed of wings.
Massive, shadowed wings unfolding against a sky of burning red. She stood at the edge of something endless, heat curling around her ankles as a presence loomed behind her.
She couldn't see his face.
But she felt his attention.
Heavy. Focused. Possessive.
"Not yet," a voice rumbled, deep enough to shake the dream itself.
She woke screaming.
Her Grandmother rushed in, gripping her shoulders. "What did you see?"
"Nothing," Lyrielle lied, trembling. "Just a bad dream."
Her Grandmother studied her for a long moment, then pulled her into a tight embrace.
Somewhere deep beneath the layers of spells and seals, something shifted.
The years passed, and the village learned to leave Lyrielle alone.
Children avoided her—not out of cruelty, but instinct. When they played games, Lyrielle was always chosen last, if at all. When she laughed, conversations faltered. When she grew angry, people grew uneasy.
By the time she turned fourteen, rumors had begun to circulate.
"She's cursed."
"She brings bad luck."
"She has her mother's eyes."
Lyrielle didn't know who her mother was.
She only knew that the word mother made her chest ache in ways she didn't understand.
Her Grandmother grew stricter as Lyrielle grew older.
"No fire," she warned. "No wandering at night. And whatever you do, do not follow the voices."
Lyrielle frowned. "What voices?"
Her Grandmother's grip tightened. "Promise me."
"I promise," Lyrielle said, uneasy.
But the voices came anyway.
They whispered in the forest, soft and distant, like echoes bouncing between worlds. Sometimes they spoke her name. Sometimes they spoke words she didn't recognize but somehow understood.
Awaken.
Remember.
Come home.
The first time Lyrielle followed the voice, the seal cracked.
It happened during a storm.
Thunder rolled overhead as rain soaked the earth, turning paths into rivers of mud. Lyrielle stood at the edge of the forest, heart racing, the voice louder than ever.
This way.
She stepped forward.
The moment her foot crossed the treeline, pain exploded behind her eyes.
She screamed, collapsing to her knees as heat surged through her veins, white-hot and violent. The world warped around her—trees bending, shadows stretching, rain evaporating midair.
Fire erupted around her.
Not wild. Not destructive.
Controlled.
Perfectly still flames encircled her body, forming a ring of molten light that hissed against the rain.
Lyrielle gasped, staring at her hands.
Violet light bled from beneath her skin, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
"No," she whispered, panic clawing up her throat. "No, no, no—"
The flames vanished.
She collapsed forward into the mud, sobbing as the pain receded, leaving behind a hollow ache and a terrible certainty.
Something inside her had woken up.
Far below the mortal realm, Kaelith froze mid-step.
The infernal court went silent as hellfire guttered and flared unpredictably. Kaelith pressed a clawed hand to his chest, breath hitching as a familiar pull surged violently through him.
There.
He felt her.
Raw. Uncontrolled. Terrified.
Alive.
"The seal is cracking," he murmured.
The demon lords exchanged nervous glances.
"So soon?" one asked.
Kaelith's lips curved slowly. "Soon enough."
Back in Thornwick, Lyrielle stumbled home at dawn, soaked, shaking, and terrified.
Her Grandmother was waiting.
She took one look at Lyrielle's pale face, at the faint scorch marks on her clothes, and her expression hardened with grief and fear.
"You went into the forest," she said.
Lyrielle nodded, tears spilling freely now. "I didn't mean to. I heard something. It called me."
Her Grandmother closed her eyes.
"It's begun," she whispered.
"What is?" Lyrielle demanded. "What's wrong with me?"
Her Grandmother cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing away tears. "You are not wrong," she said softly. "But the world will call you dangerous."
Lyrielle's voice shook. "What am I?"
Her Grandmother hesitated.
"A storm," she said finally. "And storms are never ignored forever."
That night, Lyrielle stood by the hearth again, staring into the flames.
This time, she didn't flinch when they leaned toward her.
Somewhere beyond fire and shadow, golden eyes opened.
And fate smiled.