ECHOES BEFORE THE FLAME.
RECOMMEND SONG: TAKE A SLICE BY GLASS ANIMALS
TURNING POINT.
It had been nearly three weeks since the ball—since he had looked at her like he'd known her beyond lifetimes, since he whispered those cryptic words and vanished into the crowd as if the night had only loaned him to her for a moment.
And somehow, the echo of that encounter still lingered.
Nyxara sat beneath the shade of the eldertree, a leather-bound book laid open across her lap, its pages fluttering in the lazy breeze. But her eyes had long since glazed over. The words made no sense today. Her thoughts were tangled elsewhere—back in the ballroom, back in that fleeting exchange. That voice, his eyes, the heat of his touch when he caught her hand. The way he said her name like it was something sacred. She didn't even know why it affected her this much.
She had told herself it meant nothing. Just a passing moment. A brief encounter with a strange man, probably drunk on wine and mystery. But that didn't explain the dreams. Dreams where she heard his voice before ever seeing him again. Dreams in which her own voice spoke in a language she couldn't understand. And worse—dreams that somehow didn't feel like dreams at all.
Maybe that was why she'd started going to the market more often. Not because she wanted to see him again—no, not that—but because part of her needed to make sense of whatever had stirred awake that night.
She sighed, rubbing her temple.
"You planning an escape?" came a voice, smooth and amused, from behind.
Startled, she turned. Evric stood a few steps away, arms crossed, the usual playful glint in his eye.
"If I was," she murmured, "I wouldn't be sitting here daydreaming about it."
He moved closer and took a seat beside her, resting one elbow on his knee. "You've been out of sorts," he said, observing her with a calm, prince-like awareness. "Even the servants have noticed. Wandering the market, skipping your studies, spacing out during court lessons..."
"It's called fresh air," she said dryly, but the excuse felt thin.
"Fresh air doesn't leave you looking like you're haunted." His tone was gentler now. "Nyxara, what's been on your mind?"
She looked away, unsure how to begin. How did she even begin?
After a pause, he stood and offered her his hand. "Come. Let's walk. Maybe it'll help loosen your tongue."
She allowed herself to be pulled up, brushing invisible dust from her dress. They began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath their steps, the palace looming ahead.
The corridor was dim, lit only by flickering sconces that cast soft gold across the marble floor. Nyxara walked beside him, her arms tucked close to her chest, her gaze distant.
He glanced sideways at her, his hands placed at his back perfectly. "You've been awfully quiet lately."
She didn't answer immediately, eyes trailing the architecture ahead. "Just... thinking."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Which is your secret way of saying something weird is happening and you're trying not to admit it."
A tiny smirk lifted her lips. "Maybe."
Evric chuckled. "Well, if you vanish in the middle of the night to go haunt some dark forest, at least leave a note."
"I'll consider it." Her voice softened.
He nudged her lightly with his elbow. "Come on, Nyx. What's going on?"
She hesitated again, then let out a long breath. "Weird dreams. And..."
He tilted his head. "And?"
She slowed her steps, glancing down at her hands for a second. "This man… keeps appearing in them."
Evric blinked once. "A man?"
She gave a tiny nod. "Someone I've been having dreams about. I danced with him at the ball and… let's just say something happened. We also ran into each other at the council meeting."
Evric's brows shot up, he let out a quiet hum, his expression neutral but something flickered briefly in his eyes — so quick, so contained, that anyone else would've missed it. But not Nyxara. "Don't tell me you're falling for some dreamy, brooding figure in your sleep?"
Nyxara rolled her eyes but didn't respond.
"So what I'm hearing is… Princess Nyxara might be falling for a mysterious stranger?" He bumped his shoulder gently against hers. "This is the part where I pretend not to be overprotective."
Nyxara rolled her eyes with a light laugh, but just as she opened her mouth to respond, her steps slowed—until she came to a full stop.
It was the royal family, painted a few years ago—King Daemon in the center, her mother beside him, Evric at the far right... and her, tucked between them all, like a placed ornament.
She stared for a little too long.
Evric tilted his head at her. "You trying to burn a hole into it or are you just finally realizing how stunning I looked at sixteen?"
That pulled a soft laugh from her, one that fizzled out almost too quickly. Her eyes didn't leave the painting. "Evric…"
He straightened slightly at the tone in her voice.
"No. It's just…" Her voice grew quieter. "Is it strange that sometimes I look at this, and I feel like I don't belong in it?"
Evric looked at her. Something unreadable flickered behind his gaze.
"I don't mean it in a sad way," she clarified. "Just... in a wondering way. Like something in me doesn't quite fit. Like there's more I'm not seeing."
Evric's breath caught for a fraction of a second. So brief it could've been missed—but she noticed. She turned to him slowly, narrowing her eyes.
"You flinched."
"I did not," he said quickly, eyes darting ahead like he was searching for a topic change.
"You totally did."
"Maybe your dreams are just getting to you, Too many brooding mystery men will do that to a girl." He chuckled, though there was a tinge of tightness in his smile. "You've always had an imagination that outruns the rest of us. Well, if you turn out to be secretly descended from dragons or ancient gods, just promise you'll still let me have the bigger room when you take over the world."
She laughed—really laughed this time—and shook her head. "Idiot."
She squinted at him. "Why are you giving me that knowing look?"
"I'm not—"
"Evric."
Before he could say anything else—before he had to choose between joking it off or telling the truth—footsteps echoed from around the bend. Two guards appeared, their faces unreadable.
"Princess Nyxara," one of them said, bowing. "The King requests your presence."
She looked between them, then back at Evric, who gave her a small, unreadable smile.
"Guess your mystery's just getting started," he murmured.
She gave a faint nod, and as she followed the guards down the opposite corridor, she didn't see the way Evric's expression faltered—just briefly—before he turned and walked the other way.
________________________________________
The moment the guards stepped aside, the doors to the King's private chambers groaned open, revealing the towering figure of her father, seated in a high-backed gilded chair. The air inside was calmer than she expected. No council. No audience. Just him.
"Come in, Nyxara," he said, his tone unexpectedly gentle.
She stepped in quietly, shoulders still tingling from the weight of her earlier conversation with Evric.
"You sent for me, Your Majesty?"
He gave her a look—half fond, half serious. "Drop the titles with me, little star."
She didn't smile.
He sighed, then stood. "You've grown so much. Sometimes I forget you're no longer that tiny girl who used to demand new gowns for each moon cycle."
Nyxara stayed silent.
The King paced a little, then stopped and looked her square in the eyes. "I know you've met him."
Her heart gave a lurch. She didn't ask who.
"You danced with him at the ball," he continued softly. "And I warned you then."
She swallowed. "You mean the Wyrm Prince."
"You know exactly who I mean."
He sat back down, the weight of something unspoken settling into the space between them.
"I don't understand—"
"I didn't expect you to," he interrupted gently. "But I need you to listen."
Her hands clenched at her sides.
"There is a delicate balance right now between our kingdom and the Wyrm courts. Kaelith is not just a prince. He is heir to the oldest bloodline east of the rift. His court is the only one that's never knelt to another. He's powerful, respected—even feared."
"And you want me to marry him?"
"I need you to marry him."
She blinked, as if she misheard.
"Nyxara, this isn't just about politics. It's about survival. The realms are shifting—alliances fraying in ways I can't speak of freely. We need this bond. He asked for your hand specifically."
Her lips parted. "He what?"
The King gave a small nod. "He came to me, days after the ball. Said you intrigued him. That he would honor our court by forging an alliance through you."
Her heart thundered, caught between outrage and disbelief. "You agreed?"
"I wouldn't force you into anything, starshine." His tone was soft. "But I won't pretend this isn't important. I'm asking you to consider it."
"You've already decided," she said quietly.
"No," he said, rising again and walking to her. "You still have a choice. But understand this isn't a small thing. You've always wanted to protect our people—this may be how you do it."
Her throat tightened.
"He is dangerous, isn't he?"
"Yes," her father admitted. "But he's also a shield against what's coming."
A pause.
"You're sending me to him like a lamb to the slaughter."
The King stepped closer, cupping her face gently. "No, I'm sending him something he's never had—light. And I trust you to hold your own, as you always have."
She didn't pull away, but her breath came shallow.
"Will I be safe?"
A beat. "With him? Only time will tell. But you won't be alone. We'll stand with you, even from afar."
Nyxara looked down, war dancing in her eyes. She wasn't sure if it was a goodbye or a beginning.
________________________________________
Later that evening....
The room was still. A soft wind rattled the windowpanes, casting ghostly whispers along the stone walls. Nyxara's body twisted beneath the sheets, beads of sweat collecting along her brow. Her breaths came in uneven rasps, shallow and trembling. In the dreamscape, everything was gold—ruins veiled in radiant sunlight, yet cloaked in eerie silence.
And then, the voice.
A voice layered with time and power.
"You are the last. The one born of dusk and dawn. They must kneel."
Nyxara stood barefoot in the dream, staring at the shadowed figure before her, cloaked in threads of starlight.
"Why… why are you saying this to me?" she asked, her voice faint, almost childlike.
The figure's silhouette shimmered.
"Because your fate has just begun."
The ruins around her cracked and split. A beam of moonlight split the sky.
"The sun will bow to you… and the moon will rise with you."
The voice turned sharp—resolute.
"Let them kneel. Let them burn.
Xaléa… the name the world forgot."
"Xaléa."
Her eyes snapped open.
A shaky gasp escaped her lips as she jolted upright in bed, heart thudding like thunder in her chest. She clutched the sheets with pale knuckles, her breath catching, eyes wide and unseeing.
"Xaléa…" she echoed under her breath, as if trying to remember who or what that was.
From across the dim room, Evric's voice broke the silence.
"Who's Xaléa?"
She spun toward him, startled. He was leaning on the edge of the bedpost, his arms folded tightly but his eyes filled with something softer—concern.
He hadn't meant to intrude. He had only come to speak about the marriage plans—the proposal that neither of them truly wanted. But he had arrived just in time to hear that name fall from her lips. And it shook something in him.
"I…" she blinked rapidly, brushing her damp hair from her forehead. "I heard it in the dream."
Evric didn't respond right away. He took a small step closer, the shadows wrapping around his frame like a quiet guardian.
"You were panting," he said quietly. "Trembling."
His tone wasn't demanding—more like he was searching, not just for answers, but for her comfort.
She looked away. "It's probably nothing."
Evric didn't believe that. But he also didn't press. Instead, he walked over, sat beside her, and gently placed a hand on her back.
"Alright," he said. "Try to go back to sleep. I'll stay until you do."
His hand moved in small, soothing circles. Not just as a gesture of comfort—but something protective, instinctive.
Reluctantly, Nyxara laid back down. Her eyes fluttered shut, though her mind buzzed with everything that had just happened. The dream. The voice. The name.
And just before sleep claimed her again, a quiet question drifted through her thoughts:
Who is Xaléa?
Across from her, Evric stayed seated, watching over her. His own thoughts restless.
Xaléa…?
Neither of them knew what the name meant.
But something deep within them stirred.
Something ancient.
And very real.