The Southern Wilds stretched into an endless weave of silver mist and hollow wind. Their group had been riding for days now, following the marks that bled crimson across the land—each one more ominous than the last. And yet, even as danger crept from the shadows, something else lingered in the space between Eira and Lucien.
It was unspoken. A heat beneath the cold.
That evening, the group set camp near a moonlit lake—its waters still as glass, reflecting the blood-red moon hanging above the treetops like a warning. The others went about their duties. Ravien scouted the perimeter. Lyselle carved wards into the soil. Kairen slept with one eye open.
Eira sat by the fire, her gaze distant.
Lucien approached silently, two cups of warmed wine in hand. She took one, her fingers brushing his. The contact sent a spark of awareness through her. It always did.
"You've been quiet," he said.
"I've been listening," she replied.
"To what?"
She looked up at him. "Everything. The wind. The trees. The stillness."
Lucien studied her, his gaze lingering. "You've changed."
"So have you."
He took a seat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. The warmth of him seeped through her cloak.
"I saw something earlier," Eira said, voice soft. "When I touched the last mark. It wasn't like the others."
He turned to face her, his attention sharpening. "What did you see?"
"A garden," she whispered. "Dark, overgrown. But beautiful. And there was music… and a woman standing in the center with a crown of silver thorns."
Lucien went still. "You saw her?"
"Who is she?"
His voice dropped, quiet as the night. "The first Flame. Your soul's original form."
Eira stared at him, stunned. "You've known?"
Lucien's eyes met hers, and something old flickered behind them—longing, regret, sorrow. "I suspected. When you used that magic the first time. But I wanted to be sure."
Eira leaned closer. "Did you know her?"
Lucien hesitated. Then nodded.
"I loved her."
The words cut through the air like a blade.
Eira's heart twisted, unsure why it hurt. "What happened to her?"
"She chose death," he said. "To keep the Veil sealed. To keep me from crossing it in vengeance."
He looked away, the muscles in his jaw tense. "I never forgave her."
Eira swallowed, her voice barely a breath. "Do you see her when you look at me?"
Lucien's eyes snapped to hers, and he moved without thinking.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "No," he said. "I see you."
His touch lingered, fingertips tracing the line of her jaw, down to her collarbone. Eira's breath caught. The space between them was charged now, vibrating with something fragile and magnetic.
"You're not her," he whispered, his voice rougher now. "You're fire in your own right. I feel it when you speak. When you fight. When you look at me like that."
"Like what?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"Like you might burn me alive."
She didn't look away. "Maybe I will."
Lucien's breath hitched, and before another word could be spoken, she leaned in—closing the distance.
Their lips met in a slow, searching kiss.
It wasn't urgent or hungry. It was reverent. Soft at first, like a secret finally spoken aloud. Lucien's hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer as Eira curled her fingers in his shirt. Their hearts beat like war drums, in time with each other.
When they broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.
"I've wanted that," Eira confessed, eyes closed. "For longer than I'll admit."
Lucien's voice was velvet. "Say it again."
"I've wanted you."
He kissed her again, deeper this time. Not just lips, but intention. He tasted like red wine and danger. Her hands found his shoulders, strong and warm beneath the fabric. She felt his restraint in every movement—as if holding back something wild, something he feared might overwhelm them both.
But she didn't want restraint.
Not from him.
He pulled away just enough to look at her. "If we go any further—"
"I'm not afraid of you, Lucien."
A low growl escaped him. "You should be."
Eira traced his jawline with her fingertips. "Then let me decide what I fear."
He smiled, something wicked in it. "Careful, Eira. Tempting monsters has consequences."
"I'm not scared of monsters," she whispered. "I've always been one."
Lucien exhaled like a man who'd been holding his breath for centuries.
But then, just as he leaned in again, a sharp whistle pierced the night.
Ravien's signal.
Instantly, Lucien stood, all heat replaced by ice. His sword was in his hand before Eira could rise fully.
Kairen and Lyselle emerged from the shadows, weapons drawn. The trees rustled unnaturally, though no wind stirred.
"They're here," Ravien said grimly. "The Veilborn. And something… bigger."
Lucien turned to Eira, the moment between them shattered by necessity. "Stay close."
She nodded, heart still pounding—for reasons beyond danger now.
Together, they moved into formation. Eira's fingers trembled around her dagger, but the fire inside her burned hotter than fear.
Because even if the Veil opened tonight… she would not run.
She had something to fight for now.
And someone who made her want to live.