The flame hovered, suspended in air with no wick, no wood, no warmth.
Briar stood at the edge of a salt circle, staring into the flickering blue fire. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Ancient. Unnatural. Alive.
"This is soulfire," Corva said softly, circling the perimeter. "It is magic undiluted—raw, true, and dangerous."
Briar's breath fogged. The temperature dropped the closer she stepped. And yet the fire did not burn her. It welcomed her.
"I've seen this before," she whispered.
"No. You were this before," Corva corrected.
Drawn by instinct, Briar reached out. Corva shouted—but too late. The fire surged into Briar's hand, threading into her veins. She collapsed.
The world fractured.
She saw towers cracking like eggshells, a black-winged raven circling above a blood-soaked throne. A screaming child clutched in claws. A battlefield covered in smoke. And herself—older, colder, crowned.
Briar jolted awake. Her skin glowed faintly, veins lit like rivers of starlight.
"What did I—?"
"Pieces," Corva answered. "Of the life you left behind."
Briar looked back at the now-empty circle. The flame was gone, but it had not left her.
"I remember fire," she said.
Corva nodded grimly. "It remembers you, too."