The clearing lay smothered in silence. Smoke lingered from the battle with the shadows, curling like restless ghosts above the soil. Raine sat on the ground, her arms wrapped tight around herself, though no flame touched her skin anymore. Her body trembled not from cold, but from the memory of fire still humming in her veins.
Her mother's words echoed too loud.
Because knowing will break you.
But it was the Guardian's reply that had seared itself into her chest:
Not knowing will kill her.
The two voices tangled, pulling Raine apart. Her head ached with questions too sharp to bear, yet neither of them would answer.
The forest around her seemed to lean closer in the quiet. Branches creaked faintly, like old bones stretching. The air was heavy with the scent of ash, as though the earth itself grieved what had been burned away.
Raine looked up, desperate. "Mother… please."
Her mother stood at the edge of the clearing, her figure blurred by mist. Moonlight slid across her face, showing both strength and sorrow. For a heartbeat, her expression cracked—Raine saw not the unshakable woman she'd always known, but someone carrying wounds buried deep beneath her skin.
"You were never meant to see this," her mother whispered.
"I don't understand," Raine said, her voice breaking. "See what? What happened? Why are the shadows after me?"
Her mother's lips pressed together, but silence could not hold. The years of burying, denying, forgetting were cracking open.
Finally, her mother closed her eyes, and memory began to speak.
---
It was a night of fire.
Raine had been three years old, barely more than a child clutching her blanket, her wide green eyes shining in the dark. The shadows had come—hundreds of them—whispering through the forest, their crimson eyes gleaming like blood under moonlight.
Her father had stood against them. The Phoenix.
Raine's mother could still see him in her mind—tall, unyielding, flames dancing in his hands as though they were alive. His fire blazed gold and emerald, the same light Raine had just released, the same fire that now pulsed in her chest.
He had turned once, his eyes locking with hers across the chaos. Golden-green, fierce yet gentle. He had smiled—a smile carved from defiance, love, and finality.
"Take her," he had said. His voice was steady, even as the shadows screamed. "Take Raine and run."
Her mother had screamed back, refusing. But already the fire was building, already the oath was burning through his veins. His fate had been sealed the moment the shadows came for the Phoenix.
When the first wave struck, his flames had erupted, searing the night. Shadows burned into smoke, trees glowed like lanterns, and the earth shook under his fury.
Raine had cried out, reaching for him with her tiny hands. Her mother had clutched her close, shielding her eyes from the inferno, but she remembered—oh gods, she remembered—the way Raine's little body trembled, the way her child's voice sobbed his name over and over.
Then came the moment.
The shadows had surged all at once, their whispers deafening, clawing for the Phoenix's fire. And her father, knowing he could not hold them, had shouted the words of the oath. Words her mother had tried to forget, words that burned into the earth itself.
Fire had consumed him.
Not the gentle flame of life, but the blaze of sacrifice. His body had become light, his spirit bound to the fire. And in that final moment, as his form dissolved into ash and flame, his gaze had turned—not to the forest, not to the shadows, but to Raine.
His heir.
Her mother's voice faltered as the memory tore through her again. "You were screaming, Raine. Screaming until your voice broke. And then… you went silent. Silent as the fire passed into you. The oath chose you that night."
Raine's heart slammed against her ribs. She pressed a hand against her chest, her skin tingling with heat. "I… I was there? I saw him burn?"
Her mother nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. "Yes. You were three. You saw your father fall, and you carry the fire that claimed him."
Raine staggered back, the world tilting. Images she had never understood flickered in her mind—flashes of fire, a man's voice calling her name, her mother's desperate sobs. They weren't dreams. They were memories.
"But why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.
"Because you deserved to be a child," her mother said fiercely. "Because I wanted you to live free, without this weight. I buried it all so you could grow without the fire consuming you."
Raine's voice trembled. "But the fire is here. The shadows are here. You can't bury it anymore."
Her mother's face twisted, grief battling against truth. She took a step closer, reaching for Raine but stopping short, her hand trembling in the air. "No. You are not ready. If you know everything now, it will break you."
"But not knowing—" Raine's voice cracked as tears stung her eyes. "Not knowing is already breaking me."
The Guardian's voice cut through the night, low and firm. "Truth cannot be buried forever."
Her mother's head snapped toward him, fury flashing. "And yet you would have her burned by it now?"
"She will burn either way," the Guardian said, unflinching. "But if she carries ignorance, the shadows will claim her. If she carries truth, she may yet rise."
The forest groaned around them, branches bowing, whispers stirring as though the very earth weighed the argument.
Raine's chest ached. She wanted answers, but fear gripped her. Her mother's pain was raw, jagged, and real. To know the full truth meant stepping into fire she couldn't escape.
Her mother finally turned away, her shoulders trembling. "Not tonight," she whispered. "She cannot bear it tonight."
And with that, she walked into the forest, her figure fading into the mist.
Raine was left shaking, her body heavy with the burden of memory and half-truths.
The Guardian's gaze lingered on her, unreadable. "The past stirs, Raine. And whether you will it or not, the fire will demand its reckoning."
Raine hugged her arms around herself, her heartbeat thundering. She was her father's daughter. The Phoenix's heir. The child of fire and sacrifice.
But she had no idea what that truly meant.