The wind whispered again.
It had been doing that for nights now. Soft voices brushing the edge of Mia's hearing—never loud enough to understand, but strong enough to make her heart race.
"Elvarin…"
She sat by the edge of the Floating River, knees drawn to her chest, the world quiet except for the sound of water gliding over the enchanted stones beneath. Mist drifted above the current, as if the river breathed in its sleep.
That name. Always that name.
Mia wasn't sure if it was calling to her or warning her.
The visions had begun three nights ago—flashes in her dreams of a boy with white hair and silver eyes. He stood in fog, always at a distance, always silent. But last night, he had spoken.
And he had said her name.
Or… the name she had heard before. The name Neyra muttered when she didn't think anyone was listening. The name Olcan avoided like it might curse them.
Elvarin.
The Healer. The Flame. The One Who Restores.
But she was just a girl—thirteen, wild-haired, unsure of herself and her powers. How could she restore anything when she barely knew who she was?
"Why me?" she whispered into the mist.
There was no answer. Only the river's quiet murmur.
Until—
"You called for me."
Mia jumped to her feet.
The mist thickened and parted, and out of it stepped the boy. Pale skin, white robes that fluttered as if touched by invisible winds. Eyes the color of starlight and frost.
He looked no older than sixteen, yet something about him felt ancient.
"Who are you?" Mia asked, taking a step back.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
"That doesn't answer the question."
He tilted his head. "You already know my name."
Her heart skipped. "Lysander…"
He nodded. "And I know yours, Elvarin."
"I'm not—" she started, then stopped. Did she even know what she was denying anymore?
"Come," he said, stepping closer. "Let me show you."
But Mia hesitated.
Her fingers twitched. If she screamed, Olcan would come. If she reached into her energy, she could throw fire—or something worse.
Lysander saw her fear. He didn't come closer. "You've seen me in your dreams. But I'm not just a vision. I'm real, and so are the memories waking inside you."
Mia's throat felt dry. "Why are you showing yourself now?"
"Because the prophecy is in motion. The threads are twisting faster than expected. And your enemies have already felt your presence."
She took another step back. "What enemies?"
"King Lucien watches through blood mirrors. The shadows have your scent. And the wolves of the north are restless. You are no longer safe."
The words chilled her more than the river breeze ever could.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Lysander stepped into the moonlight, and something shimmered around him—a faint glow, like moonlight caught in crystal.
"Your blood is awakening," he said softly. "And mine calls to it."
He reached out a hand.
Mia hesitated.
But just before her fingers touched his, the wind shrieked.
A warning.
The ground beneath her shook. Trees rustled violently. From the far end of the riverbank, a dark shadow burst forth—something cloaked in tattered robes, eyes glowing red.
A Shadow Wraith.
Mia barely had time to react. She stepped backward, heart pounding, power rising in her chest like fire about to explode.
Lysander stood between her and the creature.
"No," he said quietly, raising his hand.
Light erupted from his palm—a pale, silver fire that blinded her for a moment.
When she blinked again, the Wraith was gone. Scattered ash floated in the air.
Lysander turned back to her.
"They've already begun the hunt."
Olcan stormed into the clearing minutes later, sword drawn, eyes blazing. "Mia!"
"I'm here!" she called out.
He looked her over, then scanned the trees. "What happened?"
"A Shadow Wraith," she said. "But I wasn't alone."
"Who—?"
Before she could answer, Lysander was gone. Only footprints in the mist remained.
Back at Neyra's hut, the fire roared unusually high.
The old witch stirred her cauldron with frantic hands, her eyes flashing gold.
"She's been marked," Neyra said, voice shaking.
Olcan frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The Elvarin mark has awakened. It started showing during the last moon, but now… it's blooming."
She turned to Mia. "Lift your sleeve."
Mia obeyed slowly. On her forearm, faint glowing lines had appeared overnight. A spiral of runes, old and delicate, pulsing with soft red light.
"They appeared after my dream," she whispered.
"They appeared after he came to you," Neyra corrected. "He touched your spirit. Now you're bound."
Olcan's jaw tightened. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Neyra said, "she's no longer hidden."
That night, Mia couldn't sleep.
She stared at the ceiling, her heart hammering.
Bound?
Marked?
All her life, she had longed to know who she really was. And now that the truth was chasing her, she wasn't sure she wanted to catch it.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves mourning a lost pack.
She crept out of bed and walked barefoot to the river again.
And there he was.
Lysander.
Waiting.
"You keep doing that," she whispered.
"Doing what?"
"Showing up."
He smiled. "Because you keep needing me."
She crossed her arms. "I don't know if I should trust you."
"Neither do I."
She blinked. "What?"
"I don't know who to trust either," he said. "But I know what I feel when I see you."
A silence stretched between them. Mia didn't know what scared her more—his honesty or how much it echoed in her own heart.
"You saved me," she said finally.
"I always will."
They talked for hours.
About dreams and prophecies.
About bloodlines and pain.
About what it meant to love someone fate had already chosen.
"Do you believe in fate?" she asked.
Lysander looked at the stars. "I believe it's a map. But that doesn't mean you can't choose your own road."
"And if I choose wrong?"
He met her gaze. "Then I'll walk with you anyway."
Back inside, Olcan watched from the shadows of the hut.
He'd followed her.
And he had seen the white witch.
His chest ached with dread.
Lilith had warned him, long ago, that the prophecy would test them all.
"She'll love him," Lilith had whispered on her deathbed. "And he will either save her… or destroy her."
Olcan turned away and clenched his fists.
He would protect his daughter—even from fate itself.
Far across the world, in the frozen citadel of Echelon, King Lucien's blood mirror cracked.
The image of Lysander holding Mia's hand flickered and vanished.
He roared, hurling the goblet of bloodwine against the wall.
"Send the Deathbinders," he snarled. "Bring me the witch's head."
The shadows bowed.
And vanished into the night.