There were whispers in the well.
Not words exactly. More like… feelings. Flickers. Echoes of thoughts that didn't belong to her—but didn't quite not belong to her, either.
Mira didn't tell anyone.
She'd stopped trying, really.
The moment she spoke of it, their expressions would shift—narrowed eyes, half-hearted nods, cautious steps backward. Like magic was a sickness she could cough onto them.
But this wasn't something she could ignore anymore.
It started with the rain.
A drizzle, barely more than mist, falling from a sky the color of bruises. She'd stepped outside to gather herbs from her mother's garden, and when she reached for the basil—
The droplets stopped.
Mid-air.
Just hovered there, glistening.
Suspended like stars caught in glass.
Mira had stared.
Heart hammering.
And when her breath caught, they shimmered.
Responded.
She'd screamed.
Dropped the basket.
But when she ran inside, she felt it pulsing in her hands—like the rhythm of her own blood was no longer her own.
Three days passed.
She kept her distance from Xerces. Not because she feared him—but because she feared herself.
She could feel the heat inside her shifting, rising, pulling like a tide against her thoughts. She couldn't explain it. She couldn't stop it.
So she returned to the old shrine at the riverbank, where no one ever went anymore. Where the stones were half-sunk in moss and the trees bowed low enough to whisper secrets.
She stood at the edge of the river.
Closed her eyes.
And called.
Not with words.
But with need.
With pain.
With the ache of not knowing who she was anymore.
The river responded.
It twisted.
Rising unnaturally, gently.
A thin column of water peeled upward, curling around her arm like a snake tasting the air. It didn't wet her skin. Didn't harm her.
It saw her.
The voice that whispered through her mind was not her own—but it wasn't entirely foreign either.
The mark has opened.
The water remembers.
You are not the first, little flame.
Mira trembled, voice cracking.
"What… am I?"
One who was chosen.
One who was marked.
One who can either heal… or drown.
The water fell, splashing quietly.
And the silence returned.
Later, she found herself staring at her reflection in the stream.
Her face looked the same.
But her eyes—those were different now.
Deeper.
Like something ancient had stirred behind them.
She dipped her fingers into the water.
And this time, it sang to her.
That night, she went to Xerces.
He didn't ask where she'd been. He just stared at her like he already knew.
She sat beside him without a word.
Tired. Raw. Shaking.
"I think there's something wrong with me," she said finally.
He didn't laugh. Didn't tell her she was being silly.
He just looked at her like she'd said something sacred.
"There's nothing wrong with you," he said. "The world is just finally telling you who you are."
"And what if I don't like who that is?"
He looked up at the stars.
His voice was low.
"Then maybe you get to choose."
She leaned into his shoulder.
And for the first time in days, the storm in her veins quieted.
But only for a while.
Because something was still coming.
And now the river knew her name.