The walls of Raine's small room felt closer than usual, pressing against her as though the house itself had absorbed her restless energy. The night had gone still outside, yet her heart beat like a trapped bird, wings slamming against her ribs. Shadows stretched across the walls, long and shifting, cast by the faint candlelight on her table. The silence was so deep that even the smallest sound seemed alive—the scratch of her blanket against her skin, the uneven hiss of the candle's flame, the creak of her bed as she shifted restlessly.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her elbows digging into her knees, fingers tangled in her dark red hair. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, as if her body couldn't decide whether it wanted to breathe or break down.
And still, the Guardian's voice would not leave her head.
"Your path is already lit by fire. You cannot turn back."
The words pulsed through her like embers that refused to die. She had tried to shake them off during the walk home, had tried to drown them in silence, in the simple act of folding into her small bed. But now, in the stillness of her room, there was nothing left to distract her. His voice rose louder inside her mind, threaded with a strange, unsettling certainty.
Her hands tightened in her hair until her scalp ached. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory to dissolve, but it refused. The forest shimmered before her mind's eye, the glow of his strange, shifting gaze, the pull in his words—all of it clung to her like a second skin she could not peel away.
Her gaze drifted unwillingly to the candle flame. It was a small thing, fragile and ordinary, but tonight it seemed more than that. It trembled, yet never faltered, and for an instant, Raine swore it leaned toward her, bowing in response to the storm in her chest. Her stomach knotted. She yanked her blanket tighter around her shoulders, but the shiver that ran down her spine did not leave.
She wanted—desperately—to believe she was still normal. Still just Raine, still just a girl who lived quietly in her mother's house, who fetched water from the well at dawn, who mended torn sleeves in the dim light of evening. She wanted to pretend that the world outside their little home had nothing to do with her.
But nothing about her life had ever been normal.
Not since the fire that claimed her father.
The memory burned as vividly as it had the night it happened, no matter how many years had passed. She had been three—too young to remember clearly, too young to understand—but sometimes, in her dreams, she could still hear it. The roar of flames that seemed to swallow the sky, her mother's cries as she carried Raine into the night, the shadow of a man wreathed in fire vanishing into the blaze. She didn't know how much of that was true memory and how much her mind had woven from the fragments her mother never spoke of.
But she knew this: her father was gone because of it. Because of the fire. Because of whatever legacy had now come crawling after her.
Her hands trembled as she pulled the blanket tighter. She wanted to bury herself in the ordinary, to cling to the walls of her room and pretend they could protect her. But she could still feel the forest beneath her feet, the weight of the Guardian's gaze, the strange, heavy pull of his words.
Why me? she wondered for the hundredth time. Why am I the one bound to this? This inheritance I never asked for, this destiny that stalks me no matter where I run?
The door creaked.
Raine's body stiffened. Her head snapped toward the sound, heart leaping into her throat.
Her mother stood in the doorway. The faint lamplight from the hall brushed across her face, carving deep shadows beneath her tired eyes. She looked older in that moment, as if the years had caught up all at once. Lines of worry etched her brow, and her lips trembled, though no sound yet escaped them.
"You went back," she said at last. Her voice was soft, but there was no question in it—only certainty.
The words pierced straight through Raine's chest. She opened her mouth, but nothing came. Her tongue felt heavy, her throat too tight.
Her mother stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. The sound echoed in the still room, final and enclosing. She crossed the small space and lowered herself beside Raine on the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, the familiar scent of her—lavender, smoke, and the faint trace of herbs—settling over Raine like a blanket.
Her mother's hand reached out, warm but trembling, and took Raine's in her own.
"You don't have to lie to me," she said, her voice both tender and sorrowful. "I knew the moment you walked through the door. The forest is still in your eyes. It always is."
Raine swallowed hard, her throat aching. Her chest tightened until she thought she might break.
Her mother's voice cracked as she continued. "I cannot stop what's already begun. I wish I could, Raine, but destiny has no mercy. It will find you, no matter how fiercely I try to shield you." Her fingers tightened around Raine's. "But understand this—I lost your father to it. I cannot lose you too."
The words broke something inside Raine. Her vision blurred with tears, the candlelight splintering into golden fragments. She tried to look away, but her mother's hand lifted, gently cupping her cheek, forcing her gaze to meet hers. The touch was both comforting and unbearable.
"You are my only child," her mother whispered. Her voice trembled like glass on the edge of shattering. "My only light. Whatever path you must walk, promise me you won't be reckless. Promise me you'll hold on, no matter what this destiny demands of you. Please, Raine—don't let it take you from me the way it took him."
The silence pressed down on them, broken only by the faint crackle of the candle. Raine's chest heaved, each breath shallow and sharp.
"I don't want this," she whispered at last. Her voice was small, fragile. "I never asked for any of it."
Her mother's lips trembled. Her own tears threatened but did not fall. "Neither did your father," she said softly. "But destiny doesn't ask for our permission. It asks if we are strong enough to bear it."
Her words struck deep. Raine's mind flooded with fragments she had buried for years—her father's laugh in the garden, the way his arms had carried her high above his shoulders, the warmth of his presence even though her memory of his face had grown hazy. He had been her sun. And then, one night, the sun had gone out, leaving only fire behind.
Her mother's voice drew her back. "I don't want to lose you," she said again, her tone breaking, raw with desperation. "I love you too much."
Raine leaned into her, burying her face against the familiar curve of her shoulder. Her mother's arms wrapped around her, strong despite their tremble. In that embrace, Raine allowed herself, for just a heartbeat, to be nothing more than a daughter—small, scared, clinging to the one person who had always been her refuge.
But even as she sank into the warmth, a truth whispered inside her, too heavy to voice aloud: I can't run anymore.
On the table, the candle flame flared suddenly, rising higher as though in answer. For a heartbeat it burned too bright, then returned to its gentle flicker. Neither of them noticed, locked in each other's arms, each fearing the same thing—yet both knowing that the tide of fate was already moving, unstoppable.
Raine pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes. Her mother studied her face, brushing away a tear with her thumb.
"When I look at you," her mother murmured, "I see pieces of him. The way your eyes blaze when you're angry, the way you never give up even when you're afraid. He burned brightly, Raine. Too brightly. And I am terrified the same flame will take you, too."
Raine's heart ached. "What if I'm not strong enough?" she whispered.
Her mother's grip tightened. "Then you lean on me until you are. That's what family does. That's what love does."
The words settled in Raine's chest, heavy but grounding. She wanted to believe them, to cling to them as tightly as her mother clung to her hand.
The candle flickered again, casting their shadows large against the wall, as if reminding Raine that fire would follow her no matter how much she resisted. She stared at the flame, and for the first time, she did not look away.
Her mother noticed her silence and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Sleep, Raine. Just for tonight. Tomorrow will come soon enough."
Raine nodded, though she knew sleep would not claim her easily. She lay back on the bed, her mother tucking the blanket around her like she had when Raine was small. The gesture pierced her heart with both comfort and grief.
As her mother blew out the candle, darkness filled the room. But behind Raine's closed eyes, the fire still burned.