The wind over Emberlight's western district was sharp with soot and spice, a tangled aroma of burning incense and meat carts. Beneath that urban perfume, something older stirred—a note of shadow too subtle for mortal noses.
The rooftops trembled.
A pulse of magic shivered through the slates as she landed silently—Liryel of the Shadowsong, first daughter of the Midnight Choir, assassin of kings, seducer of saints. Her obsidian wings folded tight against her back, feathers laced with whispering enchantments, her lithe body wrapped in a gown of dusk and threads that shifted like smoke.
She crouched atop a cathedral spire, eyes aglow with violet runes. Below her, children played with fruit peels. A bard sang. Coins changed hands. And just beyond, the Crimson Hearth Bistro—warm, mundane, wrongly protected—glowed like a heartbeat.
"His flame is dormant," she murmured, voice like silk across steel. "But the child... her ember dances in full."
From the shadows at her heel, two lesser agents slithered forward—one a scaled man with sapphire eyes, the other a thin woman veiled in crystal thread.
Liryel's orders were clear: observe, test, and, if possible... extract.
But she was no simple harvester of fate. Her mission was personal.
---
Years ago, Liryel had danced in Valen's court. Back then, Kael had a different name—a name written in blood and whispered in tombs. A warrior whose hands were stained with gods' breath and demon ichor.
She'd watched him walk away from it all—for peace, for love.
She'd hated him for it.
And she had never stopped desiring him.
---
"Approach the girl," she ordered her subordinates, not taking her eyes off the bistro. "Test her flame. Nothing more. Touch her skin, and I will peel yours."
"Yes, mistress."
They melted into the street crowd like ink into water.
But Liryel remained above—watching Kael.
Her tongue traced the edge of her lips.
"Do you still kiss like you used to, warrior?" she whispered, a strange smile curling on her face. "Do you still bury your fire between moans?"
She reached beneath her cloak and produced a silver sigil, its edge still warm with prophecy. It bore three shapes: a sword, a flame… and a child.
"The world doesn't forgive men who flee from power."
A gust of wind pulled at her feathers as she vanished once more into smoke, leaving only a whisper behind.
---
Back at the bistro, Kael paused mid-chop.
His hand twitched.
"Naevia," he said without turning, "put a ward on the back door. Use the old glyph."
His wife blinked. "Sensed something?"
He nodded slowly. "The past is circling."
Outside, the crowd swelled.
And two strangers moved closer to the girl with glowing hands.