---
The wind died.
Not a leaf stirred. Not a branch dared move. The stars above Crimson Willow Sect shimmered like cold, watching eyes—too many, too still.
Aryan opened his eyes, breath shallow.
The pact had been sealed. But something was wrong.
The moonfire sigil still glowed faintly across the ground, etched in shimmering silver-blue. And at its center, the girl stood trembling. Her body was still, but her eyes were wide, distant.
She was seeing something Aryan could not.
And then—
Thrum.
The ground pulsed beneath their feet. Once. Twice.
The third time, the Flame Seed within Aryan's core flared—not in warning, but in resonance.
Something below the sect… was waking.
"Aryan…" she whispered. "I saw… fire. A red sky. You stood alone, and I—"
She froze mid-sentence, clutching her chest.
He stepped toward her, steady but alert. "You saw a memory."
She nodded slowly. "But not mine. Yours… and someone else's."
The wind returned, but it came from below. A hot draft, rising from the very earth, laced with the scent of scorched stone and… something else.
Whispers.
They curled around his ears like smoke. Familiar. Hungry.
> "You are not forgotten, Flameborn…"
His body tensed. Not even in death had that title been spoken again.
Just then, a figure burst from the treeline.
Clad in obsidian robes and a silver half-mask, the intruder moved like shadow, silent and fast. But Aryan moved faster.
With a flick of his fingers, embers danced between them. Not full flame. Not yet. He couldn't reveal it. Not here.
Still, the masked figure paused—hesitated.
"I felt it," the intruder said. "Moonfire… and something older." His voice was low, gravel-scraped. "The pact isn't complete. You don't even know what you've awakened."
Aryan's eyes narrowed. "Who sent you?"
But the figure only stepped back into the mist, vanishing as quickly as he came.
His parting words echoed like frost:
> "The Watchers stir. You have kindled the first flame. But it will not burn alone."
Silence returned.
The girl staggered, gripping Aryan's sleeve. Her voice broke like a whispered plea.
"I think… I know you. From before. But… I died. Didn't I?"
He looked down at her—not with pity. But with recognition.
His voice was soft, unshaken.
"We both did."
---
That night, Aryan dreamed again.
But this time… it wasn't his dream.
He stood on a mountain of ash, beneath a sky lit crimson. A temple burned in the distance.
And on its steps… she stood. Lirael. Her face streaked with tears.
Behind her, something vast and winged stirred—made of shadow and fire, its form hidden behind an eclipse.
And she cried out one name—
> "Aryan!"
He woke with a gasp.
The Flame Seed pulsed once.
Not with heat.
With warning.
---
Author's Note:
The past is not done with Aryan—and neither are the secrets buried beneath the sect. What did Lirael truly become? And what ancient force stirs beneath the roots of Crimson Willow?
Keep reading. The real story is only beginning.