Warm sunlight spilled over the golden hills, casting long shadows across the meadow where Alex sat. The air smelled of summer grass and blooming wildflowers, sweet and comforting. A soft breeze rustled the petals, whispering secrets only the wind could understand.
He rested his head on his mother's lap, her fingers gently threading through his hair.
"Alex," she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to betray concern. "This can't go on... You need to wake up."
Alex didn't move. He closed his eyes tighter, clinging to the warmth of her presence, the soft rhythm of her heartbeat beneath him.
"I know this is a dream," he whispered, "but… let me stay just a little longer."
His mother didn't reply immediately. She simply looked down at him, her expression caught somewhere between sorrow and love, then turned her gaze toward the horizon.
So did Alex.
The field stretched endlessly before them, golden and serene, the sky a perfect canvas of soft orange and pale blue. But something stirred far in the distance.
A figure.
Barely more than a silhouette, standing where the earth met the sky.
Motionless. Watching.
Alex squinted, trying to make out details—but the figure seemed to shimmer like heat over stone, cloaked in shadow, a hood drawn low over its face.
He frowned. "Mum… do you see that?"
But before she could answer, the sky blinked.
And the world changed.
The soft whisper of wind and golden light faded.
When the world settled again, Alex found himself walking down a cobbled street lit by warm lanterns and lined with bustling stalls. The night air was alive with laughter, the scent of roasted nuts, grilled meat, and fresh pastries floating through the crowd. Music drifted through the scene, faint, joyful, played by a string quartet under a striped awning.
He was holding his mother's hand.
She smiled, guiding him through the market as if nothing else existed. Her warmth, her presence it grounded him. Her fingers tightened slightly around his. "Alex… this isn't going to fix anything. You need to wake up."
He didn't answer right away.
The crowd was full of color. Children chased each other between stalls, merchants sang out their prices, and couples danced in small open circles of space. Everything felt vivid. Too vivid.
"I know," he finally said, staring at a tray of golden apples shimmering with a dusting of sugar. "I just want to stay a bit longer."
His mother didn't protest. She just squeezed his hand and continued walking beside him.
But something shifted in the air.
A strange pressure crawled up Alex's spine. The joyous chatter of the crowd dulled, like a wave pulling back before a crash.
He turned his head slowly.
At the far end of the street, standing just beyond the reach of the lanterns, a figure in a dark hood watched him.
Still. Silent. Unmoving.
The same as before.
The crowd moved around it, unaware. The figure didn't belong. Alex felt it deep in his bones.
He blinked.
But before he could take a step forward, before he could even open his mouth to ask who—what—it was, the scene shattered.
Like glass catching a stone.
The world broke apart like splintered glass.
When it reformed, Alex was seated at a wooden dining table, the soft glow of candlelight dancing along the walls of a familiar home. Their home.
Warmth radiated from the hearth, and outside the windows, twilight settled over the quiet countryside. The smell of his favorite meal drifted up from the plate in front of him—roasted chicken with honey glaze, seasoned potatoes, and carrots soaked in garlic butter.
His parents sat across from him, smiling as if nothing was wrong. As if they hadn't died.
As if they were still alive.
Sarah reached across the table, placing a gentle hand over his. "Alex," she said softly. "You have to go live your life. We'll be here waiting for you. And when you come back… You can tell us everything."
He stared down at the food—his appetite gone, his heart aching. The flickering candlelight caught the tears welling in his eyes.
"Just a little longer," he whispered. "Please."
David chuckled quietly, raising his glass. "You always did hate saying goodbye."
Sarah smiled at her son with aching tenderness. "You have to go, Alex."
He slammed his hands on the table, the sound sharp, hollow. "Why do I have to leave?! Is it because I'm not your real son?"
The air stilled. The candle flame bent ever so slightly, as if recoiling.
His mother didn't flinch. Her voice remained calm, loving. "Despite not being my biological son… You will always be my child."
A silence followed. Not empty but full. Brimming with all the things left unsaid.
Alex's fists trembled. "Then what does that mean?"
He never got an answer.
From the shadows behind his parents, a voice rang out.
Commanding. Familiar.
"Wake up now!!"
A hooded man stepped forward, his face hidden, but his presence undeniable. It thundered through Alex's chest like a war drum.
His eyes snapped open.
Alex jolted awake.
For a moment, the world felt... wrong.
The room was dark—silent, still. Slivers of moonlight spilled through the blinds on the right side of the room, casting pale stripes across the floor. The air was sterile, cold. Too clean. Too lifeless.
His limbs felt heavy. Not with exhaustion, but with something deeper. A strange hollowness, as though his body wasn't entirely his.
He tried to move.
The moment his feet touched the cold tile floor, his knees buckled. He collapsed hard, the pain jarring him fully into awareness.
Gritting his teeth, he clawed at the edge of the bed, dragging himself back up with shaking arms. Each breath was sharp, like he was relearning how to breathe.
That's when the door creaked open.
A nurse stepped in, holding a lantern that spilled flickering golden light across the dim room. Her eyes landed on him—and went wide with shock.
She gasped, stumbling back. Her gaze flicked from the empty bed to Alex, standing on unsteady legs.
"You..." she whispered. "You're awake."
Alex tried to speak, but his throat was raw. Burned. Nothing came out.
The nurse hesitated, then slowly gathered herself. "Please, sit back down. I'll call the doctor."
Alex obeyed, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. His heart still raced. The pounding in his head hadn't eased.
Everything felt… off.
A few minutes passed.
Then the door opened again.
A tall, striking woman entered the room. Her long silver-blonde hair was tied in a tight bun. Her green eyes were cool, sharp, calculating. She wore a pristine white coat, and everything about her radiated professionalism.
"Hello, Alex," she said in a smooth, even tone. "My name is Dr. Parker."
The name hit him like a slap.
Parker. Emily's mother.
Before he could say a word, she moved to his bedside and checked his forehead with a gentle touch. Her hands were cold, steady.
"How are you feeling?"
Alex hesitated. His head spun. His mouth felt dry as sand.
"...Weak," he muttered. "Confused."
She nodded, continuing her examination with quiet efficiency—checking his pulse, testing his reflexes, lifting his arm, tapping his joints. Everything clinical, precise.
"You've been in a coma for nearly a month," she said matter-of-factly. "And yet you woke up... and tried to walk."
Alex blinked. The words didn't fully register.
A month?
"You're a rare case," she added, standing upright again. "But right now, what you need most is rest."
Before he could speak, before he could even ask what happened, Dr. Parker took a syringe from her coat.
"Sleep, Alex."
He flinched as the needle pierced his arm, but there was no time to react further.
The world shifted again, softening at the edges, blurring, fading into darkness.
Morning. A soft rustle woke him. When he opened his eyes, Olana stood at his bedside, holding a small bouquet of deep red roses.
"Good morning, Alex," she said warmly. "How are you feeling?"
He rubbed his face. "Like I got hit by a building... twice."
Olana chuckled, then sat beside him.
"These," she said, lifting the bouquet slightly, "are blood roses. Not many people know this, but they're my favourite."
Alex blinked. "Bloodroses? I thought those were considered bad luck."
"They are," she said with a secretive smile. "That's why I don't tell anyone. Only Max knows... and now you. So, please—keep it between us. People expect me to be perfect. Saints don't like cursed flowers."
Alex gave her a weak nod. "Your secret's safe with me."
She placed the flowers in a small vase by the window and handed him a pewter cup filled with water.
"Drink," she said.
He reached for it but paused. In the polished surface, he caught sight of his reflection.
His eyes.
They weren't brown anymore.
Dark crimson stared back.
He dropped the cup, spilling water over the sheets. Panic surged in his chest.
"My eyes... what happened to me?"
Olana remained calm, even as she retrieved the cup. "You awakened that night. You don't remember, do you?"
"I remember pain. Fire. Then... nothing."
She nodded slowly. "You tapped into your true power. Fire chose you and, in doing so, it marked you. Those eyes are proof."
Alex looked away. "I don't feel chosen. I feel broken."
She touched his hand. "You're not alone. I'll help you. Whatever comes, I'll be here."
Alex's eyes stung. "Thank you, Olana. I think you're all I have left."
She smiled sadly. "For now, maybe. But that doesn't mean you're alone."
A silence fell between them. Then Olana stood.
"Entrance exams for EIL begin in a week," she said. "I understand if you're not ready. But I'd like to see you there. You belong in that world, Alex."
She turned to leave.
Before stepping out, she added, "If you need anything, I'll come running."
And then she was gone.
Moments later, the nurse returned.
"You've had a lot of visitors this week," she said casually, adjusting his pillow. "Mostly that girl, the Bishop. She never missed a day."
Alex blinked. "And Max? Did he ever come?"
The nurse looked up, surprised. "Max Grace? No... he never visited."
A hollow weight settled in Alex's chest.
No visit. Not even a letter.
He looked to the nightstand, where two sealed envelopes rested.
One bore the elegant crest of a noble house. The handwriting was precise and refined. Inside was a short message of condolence and a pendant with a silver crest, the mark of a high-ranking noble family.
He placed it aside.
The second letter was simpler, yet far more personal.
It came from the Great Minister of Arindale.
Alex unfolded it and read:
"I mourn deeply the loss of your parents. They were among the most noble, loyal, and brilliant people I could work with. I can only imagine your pain. Should you ever find yourself in Arindale, please reach out to me. I would be honoured to see you again."
Alex folded the letter slowly.
His chest ached, but not from grief alone.
Disappointment lingered.
And yet… so did something else.
Resolve.
The world hadn't ended.
But his old life had.