The midwife's breath caught as she noticed it—the unmistakable shimmer in Myra's eyes.
Her heart sank.
No… not her too.
She glanced down at the newborn, cradled against Myra's chest, pink and perfect and impossibly small. His father had turned to ash just hours ago, unleashing his Final Spark to protect the village. And now… now his mother bore the same glow. A soul nearing its end, burning bright for just a little longer.
The midwife swallowed the lump in her throat and bowed her head. There was nothing she could do.
But Myra… she smiled.
"Can I give a hug to my wonderful son?" she asked, her voice trembling with vitality, not sorrow.
"Aeren," she whispered, pressing her lips to his tiny forehead. "My baby boy."
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She didn't break.
Instead, she made a promise—one the Spark inside her clung to with fierce, maternal love:
I will not turn to dust… not yet. Not until my boy can live without me.
The sun rose sluggishly the next morning, shining over a village rebuilt in exhaustion. Hammers echoed. Wood cracked. Smoke drifted lazily from half-repaired roofs.
A child tugged at her mother's dress.
"Where is Mr. Thayne, mama? I want to thank him for saving us."
The mother turned away and covered her face, unable to speak.
It was the village elder who answered.
"Isn't he the bravest man you've ever known?" he said softly. "Maybe you'll grow up to be like him—strong enough to protect this village too."
The boy nodded solemnly, eyes wide.
The elder continued walking, heading toward the edge of the village where Thayne's home still stood—barely touched by the battle.
He walked with purpose, a heavy resolve etched in each step. The midwife had told him everything. That Myra, too, had activated the Spark. That she, like Thayne, had burned her soul to see her child survive.
He knew what that meant.
The Spark… it wasn't just a last stand. It wasn't a burst of power or a show of strength. It was the final breath of a soul that refused to break. A dying ember that could burn impossibly bright in the face of death.
Not everyone had it. Not even the brave. The men who had fought beside Thayne were courageous—but courage alone didn't ignite the Spark.
It took something more.
Conviction.
Acceptance.
A pure, unyielding desire to leave behind nothing unfinished.
Those men died as men. And the village would honor them as such.
But Thayne? Myra?
They died as legends.
Or so he thought.
When the elder reached the edge of the village, past the scorched fields and quiet trails, he stopped.
He expected ashes. Silence. A babe wrapped in cloth, surrounded by what little remained of its mother.
But what he saw…
It left him breathless.
Myra was alive.
She stood in the yard, spinning slowly with the baby cradled in her arms. Laughing. Singing something soft. Her eyes shimmered with the unmistakable glow of a soul still burning—but her body was whole.
And the elder froze.
Not in fear.
But in awe.
Then… grief.
"I finally understand," the elder whispered. "Why our ancestors called it a gift."
He stepped forward. Myra saw him and smiled as if she'd been expecting him all along.
"You should be dead," he said gently.
"I should be," she said softly.
"Yet you're not."
She looked down at Aeren, still bundled and peaceful in her arms. Her voice trembled, not with weakness—but with love.
"As long as he still needs me… I will not let go."
The elder bowed his head.
"Then let me help you carry that weight."
Time passed like a quiet river.
The villagers grew to love Aeren, the boy with his father's eyes and his mother's heart. He helped wherever he could—gathering kindling, carrying water, laughing with the other children, comforting those who cried.
And Myra? She taught him everything: how to sow seeds and soothe the sick, how to listen to the wind and read a wounded heart. How to be gentle. How to be kind.
Each night before bed, she would kneel by him and whisper:
"Soon, my spark will fade."
And Aeren, always brave, always smiling, would squeeze her hand.
The village watched in quiet wonder. But as the years passed, the cost of Myra's defiance began to show.
Hairline cracks crept across her skin like porcelain left too long in winter. Her glow dimmed, flickering at the edges. She walked more slowly. Laughed softly. But she never stopped smiling.
On Aeren's sixth birthday, the entire village gathered for a surprise celebration.
Balloons made of colored cloth fluttered in the wind. Children wore wreaths of wildflowers. Music hummed through the trees.
But not everyone could keep their joy intact.
Some villagers wiped their tears before Aeren could see. A few children, sobbing, ran away.
"I don't want her to go!" one shouted into the forest.
The elder watched it all unfold. Hands clasped behind his back, he whispered to himself:
"Her Spark… it was never a curse. It was the world's final gift to her. To live six more years with her son. What a beautiful, borrowed time."
That night, when the laughter faded and the moon watched silently over the sleeping village, only Aeren and Myra remained outside, sitting beneath the stars.
Aeren leaned into her side, small and warm.
"Mom," he said quietly, "I know… today's the day."
Myra didn't deny it.
Tears welled in Aeren's eyes, but he didn't sob. He took her hand and smiled—just like she had taught him.
"You don't have to force yourself anymore. I'm strong now. I'll be just like you and Dad. Kind. Brave. I'll protect the village. You can rest now, mom."
He paused.
"Please tell Dad I love him. That I'm proud of him.And… I'm proud of you too."
His voice broke, but he kept going.
"The village loves me. And I love them. We'll take care of each other."
Myra couldn't speak. She could only hug him.
Her name—her true name—[Embrace], called to her now. Not like a chain pulling her to death… but like a lullaby.
In her son's arms, her soul began to glow one final time.
Ashes drifted gently from her fingers, caught on the wind like snowflakes.
"I love you, mom," Aeren whispered, squeezing her tighter.
"I love you too, my baby," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "You and your father made my life… the happiest in the world."
And in the arms of the boy she lived for…
She vanished.