The wind whispered through the dead trees of Bravestone like a warning. Smoke curled from shattered chimneys, and the scent of burnt herbs still lingered in the air. Arien crouched near the well, wrapping a blood-stained cloth around a child's leg. Her hands glowed faintly—fire magic, subtle and warm, hidden behind a healer's touch.
"Don't cry," she whispered to the girl. "Pain fades faster than fear."
No one in Bravestone knew she was a fire witch. If they did, the king's enforcers would raze the village to the ground—again.
As she stood, dusting her robes, a figure emerged from the woods. Tall, armored, and cloaked in royal blue. His face was half-hidden beneath a hood, but his stride was confident. Soldiers like him didn't come to Bravestone unless there was blood to spill.
Her heart skipped.
"Looking for a healer?" she called, pretending calm.
He pulled down his hood.
He was… beautiful. Not soft, but sharp—like a blade polished for battle. Deep bronze skin, eyes like storm clouds, and a faint scar down his jaw.
"I heard Bravestone had someone who could heal… even cursed wounds," he said.
Arien narrowed her eyes. "Depends who's asking."
He smiled slightly. "Name's Kael. I'm just a traveler."
Liar, she thought.
But his wound—just beneath the armor—was real. She saw it. A dark, twisting burn, as if magic itself had bitten him. As she placed her glowing hands over his chest, their eyes met—and something flickered. Connection. Danger. Fate.
That night, Kael stayed in Bravestone.
And the fire
inside Arien began to awaken.