The morning broke in silence.
Mist drifted across the valley like pale ribbons, curling around the trees and the sleeping rooftops. The world felt still — as if it were holding its breath. Even the birds waited before singing.
Seraphina stood by the window, her hair illuminated by the faint gold of dawn.
Behind her, Eric slept restlessly, his breath uneven, his brow furrowed as though he were fighting something even in his dreams.
She watched him for a long time.
There was warmth still — the familiar presence she had come to love — but beneath it, something else had begun to move. Something faint but undeniable, like a tremor beneath the earth before an unseen storm.
She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly across his cheek. His skin was warm, but not in the way it used to be. The warmth felt... different. Wilder. It hummed faintly, like heat born not from blood, but from fire itself.
He stirred, muttering something she couldn't understand.
Then his hand twitched, and for a moment, a thin line of golden light traced along his veins — vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
Her heart tightened.
She withdrew her hand slowly, her eyes filled with quiet fear. She didn't want to believe what her instincts whispered.
But she could feel it — the remnants of an ancient power stirring within him, subtle but growing. The mark on his arm wasn't just a scar anymore. It was a signal.
And the world was beginning to listen.
---
When Eric woke, the sun had already risen high above the treeline. He blinked, groggy, and smiled faintly when he saw her.
"Morning," he said softly, his voice still husky from sleep.
She smiled back, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You slept late."
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Guess I needed it."
He stretched, but stopped halfway, wincing as a faint light pulsed beneath his sleeve. Seraphina noticed, but said nothing.
He noticed her silence though. Her gaze lingered too long. Her lips pressed together in quiet worry.
"What's wrong?" he asked gently.
She looked at him for a moment before replying. "Do you feel… different lately?"
He hesitated. "Different how?"
"You've been distant," she said softly. "Even when you're here. Sometimes when I look at you, it's like you're somewhere else — listening to something I can't hear."
Eric looked away. "I guess I'm just tired."
But she saw through him. She always did.
"You're lying," she said quietly, not as an accusation, but as a truth that hurt her to speak aloud.
He sighed, fingers running through his hair. "I don't know what's happening to me, Sera. Every time I close my eyes, I hear… whispers. And sometimes I feel like they're not from outside — they're coming from me."
Her breath caught. "The mark?"
He nodded slowly. "It burns when I try to ignore it. And sometimes… it feels like it's thinking."
"Thinking?" she echoed.
"Like it remembers something that I don't."
Silence hung between them, heavy and fragile.
Seraphina turned toward the window again. The mist had begun to lift, revealing the glimmering surface of the lake. The light looked different today — colder, sharper.
"You said once that the flame of Drakonis was bound to life itself," she murmured. "Maybe what you carry is more than a mark. Maybe it's a fragment of him — sleeping, but not gone."
Eric's jaw clenched. "Then I'll control it."
Her eyes softened, but her voice was steady. "You can't control a storm by pretending it isn't there."
He looked at her, searching her face for anger — but found only sorrow. The kind that comes when love meets something far greater than either of them can hold.
---
The day went on as if the world hadn't changed.
They walked through the village, helped repair a roof, shared bread with the children. Eric laughed — genuinely, even — but Seraphina saw the small cracks behind that laughter.
The way his shadow sometimes seemed to flicker a split-second out of sync.
The faint shimmer of gold in his irises when the sun hit him at the right angle.
Once, she caught him standing near the edge of the forest, staring into the distance. His posture was too still, too alert — like something inside him was listening.
"Eric," she called gently.
He blinked, turned toward her, and smiled as if nothing had happened.
But the air around him rippled slightly, the way heat dances above a flame.
She didn't mention it.
Not yet.
---
That evening, she went to the old library beneath the temple ruins — a place only she and the elders knew still existed.
There, the stones whispered with the voices of ages, and the faint scent of ash lingered in the air like memory.
She traced her fingers across a cracked inscription written in Drakonian script — the language of the old flames.
Her heart ached as she read the words:
> "The bearer of the mark shall burn between two worlds — neither man nor god, but the bridge of ruin."
She swallowed hard, closing the ancient book.
The truth she feared was now undeniable — the mark was not merely power, but inheritance. And inheritance always demands something in return.
As she turned to leave, she felt a faint warmth on her own chest — a pulse, soft and rhythmic. When she looked down, a faint silver glow shimmered beneath her robes. Her heart faltered.
> "So… it's begun," she whispered.
She had known this day would come. The bond they shared — born from love and battle — tied their fates together. If the flame inside him awakened, it would reach for her too.
---
When she returned home, the air was quiet.
Eric sat by the window, staring at the stars. The golden mark on his arm glowed faintly beneath his sleeve, like embers breathing in the dark.
She stood behind him for a while before speaking.
"I went to the temple today."
He didn't look up. "You were looking for answers."
"Yes," she said softly. "And I found one. I just don't like it."
He turned his head slightly, eyes half-lit by moonlight. "Tell me."
She took a breath. "The mark isn't fading because it's not meant to. It's… binding itself to you — body and soul. And if it continues, there might come a time when you won't be able to tell where you end and it begins."
Eric's expression was unreadable. "And what then?"
"Then," she whispered, "you'll have to choose."
He turned fully toward her, eyes calm but shadowed. "Between what?"
"Between being who you are… and becoming what the world once feared."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
She wanted to reach for him — to hold him, to promise it would be all right — but she couldn't lie. Not about this.
He looked at her for a long time, then rose to his feet and closed the distance between them.
His hand found hers. His voice was quiet, but steady.
"Then if I have to choose," he said, "I'll choose you. Every time."
Her eyes stung with tears she didn't let fall.
"Even if it destroys you?"
He smiled faintly. "Especially then."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted that promise to mean more than destiny.
But as the wind shifted outside, carrying the scent of ash once more, Seraphina knew — the world was already moving. The fire was waking.
And somewhere deep within her heart, the same warmth began to stir — a reflection of his, drawn together by something greater than either of them could resist.
She looked up at the stars and whispered,
"Then may love be enough to hold back the flame."
But even as she spoke, the horizon flickered — a distant pulse of gold flashing behind the mountains, so faint it could have been imagination.
Yet she knew better.
The fire was listening.
And it had just begun to remember.