The forest didn't sleep.
Even in the dead of night, it murmured — not with wind or wildlife, but with memory. Trees twisted like old souls frozen mid-scream. Moss clung to everything like ancient skin. And the path Aelira now walked was not made by men. It shifted, curving ahead as if guiding her toward something waiting.
Or watching.
Her fingers grazed the sigil etched into her skin — still faintly warm, though the glow had dimmed. It throbbed gently under her collarbone, a strange comfort and curse in equal measure. Every beat was a reminder: she wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't supposed to breathe, or think, or feel.
She had died.
Yet here she was, barefoot and reborn, with the earth soft beneath her feet and the cold air heavy in her lungs.
And something — some ancient will — pulling her forward.
The path narrowed as it led into a hollow ringed with gnarled trees, their branches curving inward like fingers over a grave. A clearing lay at its heart, still and perfectly circular. No moonlight touched it. No breeze stirred the underbrush. Aelira hesitated at its edge.
Then she stepped inside.
Instantly, her breath caught. The air changed — thicker, older. And in the center of the clearing stood a stone monolith, half-swallowed by vines and ash. Her pulse quickened.
Carved into its face was a language she couldn't read… yet recognized. Ancient witchtongue. The same symbols that had burned into her skin.
She approached it slowly. Her fingers hovered inches from the cold stone, drawn toward it like a flame to oil. Then—
"Daughter of flame."
A voice behind her.
Aelira spun, heart thundering, but no one stood there. The trees were still. The shadows didn't move. And yet she felt it — the presence. Heavy. Watching.
"The blood remembers. The old magic awakens."
"Show yourself," she whispered.
No answer.
But the stone began to pulse beneath her fingers. A silvery mist curled from the carvings, circling her hand like a serpent before dissolving into her skin. Aelira gasped, stumbling back — but it was too late. The magic had entered her.
Visions struck like lightning.
A battlefield soaked in blood and moonlight. A woman screaming in childbirth as a coven of midwives chanted over her. An eclipse turning the sky black as a temple burned.
And then — her own face.
No… not quite hers.
But familiar.
Aelira fell to her knees, chest heaving. The images faded, but the feelings remained — power, pain, legacy. A lifetime not her own.
She was a thread in a tapestry far older than the coven had ever taught her.
This wasn't just resurrection. This was reincarnation.
And she wasn't the first.
"You're waking up too fast," a voice said — this time real, sharp, close.
Aelira looked up in alarm.
Standing at the edge of the clearing was a woman cloaked in red, silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall. Her eyes glowed faintly violet — not human. Not mortal.
"You…" Aelira rose slowly. "You were in my vision."
The woman inclined her head. "You saw the past. A shard of it, anyway. The rest will come in time."
"Who are you?"
The woman stepped closer. "A guardian. A guide. A ghost. Depends who you ask."
"Are you part of the coven?"
The woman laughed bitterly. "Not anymore. That coven is no longer what it was meant to be. They fear the prophecy, twist it to suit their paranoia."
"Then tell me," Aelira demanded. "What am I?"
The woman looked her over, expression softening. "You are the flame reborn. The vessel of the ancient line. The magic they tried to erase now lives in your bones. But it comes at a cost."
Aelira's hands clenched. "What cost?"
"The curse you bear is not a punishment," she said. "It's a key. But the path ahead will test you. Three trials will find you — one of blood, one of bone, one of betrayal. Fail, and the curse consumes you. Succeed, and…" She trailed off, eyes narrowing. "Well. You may still lose everything."
Aelira swallowed. "I've already lost everything."
The woman's gaze flicked to the glowing mark on her chest. "Not everything. Not yet."
"Kael…" Aelira whispered, a pang tightening in her heart. "Is he still alive?"
The woman tilted her head. "The boy who tried to stop the ritual? He lives. Imprisoned. Tortured, perhaps. But alive."
Tears pricked Aelira's eyes.
"You must not seek him," the woman warned sharply. "Not yet. The coven still hunts you. If they find you before the first trial is complete, they'll bind your soul again."
Aelira's voice trembled. "What if I fail the trials?"
The woman stepped back into the shadows. "Then the world ends, flame-born. Quietly. From within."
And with that, she vanished — not into the forest, but through it, like mist unraveling.
The clearing was silent again.
Aelira stood alone, the sigil on her skin now burning brighter than ever. Her heart ached with longing and rage. She remembered Kael's voice, the way he'd shouted for her, the way he had fought for her. And now he was suffering because of her.
But she couldn't go to him. Not yet.
The path to saving him — and herself — would be forged in blood, bone, and betrayal.
Aelira turned from the monolith and walked toward the trees, her footsteps steadier than before. The mist parted around her like breath.
The first trial was coming.
And this time, she would not be the one on the pyre.