Chapter 646

Chapter 646

“I am the flame. And you are the celestial being who bears it.” The fiend had whispered many things throughout the years. Among them were such seductive lures. Enticements constructed entirely of falsehoods—yet even with her innate fairy intuition, Shinar could find no deception in the creature’s speech. The words carried the weight of reality. “Words possess internal force.” Phrases echoed frequently enough embed themselves in the psyche and eventually dictate conduct. That is the reason words possess such power. “Was it my hand that reduced it to cinders? Or was it yours?” Was this the fiend’s handiwork? Or had she herself invited the creature into existence? And if she were the catalyst, then was the destruction wrought by the fiend ultimately her own burden to bear? Ash as dark as obsidian surged through Shinar’s circulatory system. That grit eroded her spirit and sowed the seeds of terror within her. Despite this, Shinar held firm. A long duration had passed since she had possessed any genuine dignity—it was closer to a frantic battle for survival. She confronted the blaze, experienced the dread, but performed as though she felt nothing. That was Shinar’s method of defiance. It is impossible to overstate the magnitude of her shock upon witnessing Enkrid’s actions. “He ignited the pavilion?” It was absolute insanity, and yet, for some reason in that fleeting second, it felt permissible. The inferno, once the ultimate representation of horror, misery, and the fiend itself—did not resemble those things at all. Why? She resisted the urge to understand. There was no opportunity to analyze logic during a period where merely concealing her trauma was an exhaustive effort. A fairy bound by a malady that prevented her from looking upon fire—what choice did she have but to remain mute? And the fire raged on. She averted her gaze, unable to tolerate the sight of the roaring combustion—but the sensation wasn’t agonizing. “Perhaps my gratitude belongs to Bran.” Her mentor and lifelong companion Bran had instructed her to find peace with the flame. He imparted his convictions in the authentic manner of the fairies—through his deeds, his posture, and his way of existing. A Woodguard igniting a smoke. It was as contradictory as a scavenger eating sweet custard, but Bran had done it regardless. Fairies did not strictly shun heat—but Woodguards, being siblings to the trees, instinctively maintained their distance. It was a biological impulse etched into their very essence. “Timber and flame.” A pair that truly does not harmonize. And yet Bran gripped the filter between his teeth and struck a light. Shinar perceived the passage of time quickening. Simultaneously, she understood that this was a conscious vision. An ancient shackle had finally fractured. A malediction hammered from spoken words and woven from the threads of time. The fiend had gripped her essence for countless seasons, consuming it bit by bit. That monster was now extinguished. The waking world and the slumbering world merged as recollections of the past began to inundate the vision. “Fire. It is fire.” A serpent of embers wound around her ankle once more, charring her skin. Snap, pop. Vegetation and blossoms withered, emitting a suffocating odor. Chilly perspiration tracked down her skin. Even her physical form seemed soaked in sweat. The malady discarded by the fiend could not be abandoned in a heartbeat. It was neither wizardry nor enchantment—it was a condemnation anchored by language. “Do you still desire to simply perish with a breath of surrender?” A voice struck her ear. Visions often transform without notice, and so it occurred now. She realized she was resting in the center of a grove. Shinar noticed that her hands had shrunk, returning to the size of her youth. Her ivory hands were clear, and had she pulled back her sleeve, she would surely find a raw mark. “If my end must come, then let it be so.” Just before entering her maturity, when Shinar had been labeled the tainted child, she had uttered those words. Her father had countered, “This is not your fault.” And now, she witnessed him once more, resting against a trunk. The previous voice had belonged to him. “Or have you altered your perspective?” He inquired once more. Shinar gazed silently at her father. Usually in her sleep, he only managed a few syllables from the shadows, but on this day he stood before her in the full brilliance of the day. Muted beams filtered through the leafy ceiling, washing over his features down to his feet, bringing him into sharp focus. “I have.” This time, her mother provided the answer. When had she materialized? She was now positioned beside him. Her brow, her gaze, her features mirrored Shinar’s own. As a youth, her sibling had once remarked that she took after their mother, while the sister resembled their father. “And how can you be certain of that?” Her father pivoted toward her mother with the query. She, too, remained there with her golden tresses shimmering in the light. “Because we share a cord.” “I share one as well.” “True, but I sense a tie even more profound than that.” “As do I.” Their delivery was tranquil, their sentiments disciplined—but back when Shinar was small, her parents frequently engaged in such disputes. A specific style of fairy disagreement. Her father would maintain a stoic persistence, and her mother would reply with a peaceful kind of indifference. “You are being obstinate,” Her mother answered, though her attention stayed fixed on Shinar. Her speech was for her spouse, but her eyes carried a soft radiance intended solely for her daughter. She was unchanged. “No, I am a fairy. I speak only what is true.” Her father refused to yield. “That is merely a distortion.” “No, it is the state of my heart.” “You are perverting your own sensations.” “My spirit tells me otherwise.” Their bickering persisted. Even recognizing it as a dream, Shinar found joy in observing it. It was a tableau that felt precious and recognizable. “Both of you, stop. Lineage may guide us, but it is not our entirety.” Then her sister emerged—Nyra Kirheis. She contributed her voice in a parched, mocking tone. “Nyra, you are so detached.” Their father spoke to her. “I am merely a typical fairy.” “Bran mentioned you possessed remarkable command over your heart.” “I am capable of governing myself.” “How unfortunate.” To be devoid of visible emotion did not mean one was hollow. Fairies were created with extreme sensitivity. When their feelings peaked, even trivialities could provoke laughter or weeping. Frokk embraced his constraints easily because of his aptitude. Fairies, because of their delicacy, could be easily swayed by the presence of others. Their mental architecture was brittle—like a pristine white sheet easily stained. While Frokk lived in excess to shatter his boundaries, fairies practiced emotional discipline to safeguard that vulnerable mind. Once that foundation became solid, they could begin to reveal fragments of their feelings once more—just as Shinar’s parents did in this moment. The two of them could manifest that degree of sentiment without causing each other distress. But other fairies, particularly the youth, might be destabilized by such displays of passion. Thus, emotional discipline was also a method of protection. And at this point? Their offspring was fully matured. That is why they could behave this way. And her sister, Nyra. She had always been precocious, even as a child. She absorbed and grasped concepts in a heartbeat. As those reflections became entwined and spiraled, they turned toward a strange deduction. If one of them had to survive, it should not have been her… “That is a futile line of thought, Shinar. If life were granted based on excellence, then it should have been Mother who remained, not I. Had she stepped into the labyrinth knowing she was barred from using essence, she still would have dispatched the fiend.” It was a statement that felt as though it struck her very center. Nyra provided solace in her characteristically flat delivery. But her logic was sound. Fairies fought reason with reason—it was their greatest attribute. Their mother had been one of the most brilliant minds the fairies had ever known. That was what Nyra was implying. Her gaze, though devoid of expression, radiated concern and affection. They communicated to Shinar without sound: You do not need to recover all at once. Just grasp onto something, anything, and persevere. It was not very different from what she had said before her passing. “This is not your doing. Do you understand?” She spoke it again, clearly this time. Upon hearing that, their father added his support, and their mother spoke once more of their ties. It was not loud. Even when fairies congregated, they did not create much noise. But stillness did not imply a lack of affection. For a brief interval, Shinar bathed in serenity. Even though she understood the conclusion. This was a conscious dream. They were all gone. She would never encounter them again. They had likely been consumed by the fiend. As her reflections darkened, the shadows began to return. A rustle. A noise, barely audible. And a hand cradled her face. It was Aden. “I didn’t expect you’d go pursuing someone else.” Aden had a fondness for fairy-style wit. Even now, he was uttering something preposterous. He had always regarded Shinar as a sister, not a romantic interest—so what was that remark intended to signify? “Fire represents both ruin and beginning. That is the essence of ‘Lefratio.’ Thus, heat is not a thing to dread. Merely something to respect.” Aden remarked. She was aware. That was why she whispered it to herself over and over. Fire was an element to be managed with care, not feared. Bran had used tobacco, conquering his primal terror as a Woodguard, specifically to provide her that single realization. And Lefratio—that was the surname of Aden’s house. Aden Lefratio. The title of a bloodline of fairy metalworkers. In the common tongue of the land, “Lefratio” translated literally to “the flame that never fails.” Or more simply, “resurrection.” Resurrection. To endure, even after being shattered. “Igniculus. Ignite the spark. Force life back into the dead coals.” Aden spoke. And that was his craft. He shaped existence into ore, blew life into the kiln. Today’s vision was profoundly nostalgic. Then—suddenly—the world went dark. Within the grove where her kin and Aden had gathered, black soot amassed. It rotated, drifted, and expanded, cloaking the trees. The daylight dissipated as if consumed. “You tainted offspring.” “Because of your existence, everyone perished.” Fairy sentiments might appear muted to mortals, but among their own kind, this was more than sufficient to transmit one’s malice. Even a solitary remark, heavy with subtext, conveyed it all. The voices emerged from the grime—untraceable, sharp, accusing. They held her responsible for the tragedy. Shinar was still captive within her malady. She could only withstand it. But then, her father stepped in her way. “If you are deceased, at least transform into floral dust.” Her mother moved forward as well. “Nothing but sprouting tubers, the lot of them.” Even insults now. “Shall I incinerate them all? Monsters aren’t the only ones capable of commanding the blaze.” Aden stepped between them. Her sister knelt before her, locking eyes. “So, what is your opinion of that man?” Even Nyra—who masked her heart better than anyone—spoke in this manner only to her. Before her passing, she would occasionally converse like this—now, too, it was just a typical dialogue between siblings. “He is a stubborn madman.” “Excellent. That is exactly what he ought to be.” Her sister beamed and stood, shielding the way. Soot gathered above the bitterness that clung like a plague. What had Enkrid mentioned previously? Something about a monster in his slumber speaking nonsense—he had dismissed it. The soot, now possessing a full consciousness, spoke: “Curse you. Utter my name! You are aware of my True Name, so speak it!” In her slumbers, she had always been hunted and shredded. But no longer. Shinar steadied her spirit. She could not conquer it all in one move. But she could commence. “If you believe it is too late, if you believe it is futile and cease your efforts—then nothing will ever evolve.” Enki, you were correct. Your words were authentic, and I honor them. Shinar parted her lips with significant effort. It required bravery. And that bravery transformed into her resolve and her power. She addressed the fiend: “…Remind me, who were you?” If it was the hour to let go, then she would let go. Those words bore her determination. “You miserable—!” The fiend shrieked in rage. Then it set the grove alight. A colossal rampart of fire occupied her field of vision. Her back and limbs carried gruesome burn marks—and now, the agony returned. Her family, who stood in her defense, began to char. Not even Aden or her sister could halt the conflagration. The fire swallowed the dream, and her. And yet, in the heart of the hellscape, a sapphire light gradually surfaced. It cleaved the fire and stood unmoving before her. Perhaps because of that… though the heat was intense, she could survive it. So she would. She would hold on. “One day, you will find your joy again, Shinar. So do not lose the memory of how to smile until that time.” Her father spoke as he was consumed. Yes, Father. That day has arrived. With a grin not timid but brilliant, like a flower in full bloom—Shinar smiled broadly. When she drifted back from the vision, her lashes were wet. She had been weeping. “…Not a terrible dream.” She whispered to herself as she rose. Reflections floated through her consciousness, and just before she had fallen asleep, she vaguely remembered hearing that Enkrid was making his way toward the water source. Shinar walked out from the timber cottage. The atmosphere was biting, but the dawn was luminous and crisp. It was the sort of day that compelled one to submerge their body into the spring.