The day began with a tremor.
Not of land.Not of storm.
But of threads — spiritual, divine, soul-bound.
Lian Qiao woke to find her hand pressed against her chest, as if trying to keep something inside from clawing its way out.
And maybe… it was.
The fifth flame still pulsed just beneath her collarbone.
Not angry.Not loud.But insistent.
A quiet knocking on the door of her soul, asking:
Do you remember what you gave up to save him?Do you remember what you took with you when you died?
She sat up in bed slowly, her skin warm with a heat that wasn't hers anymore.
The Flamebinder lay against the wall, utterly still.
It had not spoken since the seal cracked.
And that silence — from the sword, from the lake, from herself — was what frightened her most.
🌌 In the Eastern Sky
Mo Yujin stood in the stillness of his personal courtyard, the sky behind him fractured ever so slightly — a hairline crack in the divine barrier.
He traced it with his eyes, not his hand.
It hadn't widened. Yet.
But it hadn't healed either.
Just like her.
"She's slipping," he murmured to no one. "And the more she remembers, the more it feeds on her."
Behind him, Frostbane hummed faintly, cold rising at the edges of his boots.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"But I will not let her fall alone again."
🌸 Back at Peach Blossom Sect
Lian Qiao tried to train.
She tried to focus.
Master Bai had set up a small sparring array in the outer courtyard — six illusionary opponents, all slow, all safe, all routine.
She burned through them.
Literally.
The moment she moved, her flames spiked. Her palm caught the edge of a sigil ward and melted it into air. One illusion let out a squeal and vanished in panic.
Even the sparring dummies refused to reform.
She stood panting, surrounded by charred ground and silence.
Her lips trembled. Her throat closed.
"I'm losing control," she whispered.
"Not yet," came a voice from behind.
She turned, startled.
Mo Yujin.
His robes dark. His boots dusted with travel. His eyes — unreadable, as always — but locked only on her.
They stood in silence.
Then he stepped forward.
She flinched — just slightly — and he stopped.
But not from offense.
From understanding.
"You feel it too," he said.
She nodded.
He took one slow step closer.
"You haven't told me what the fifth flame means."
Another nod.
"Are you afraid I'll leave?"
She looked up sharply. "No. I'm afraid you won't."
That stung. But it was honest.
He took one more step, close enough now that their fingertips nearly brushed.
"Then say the truth, Qiao'er."
She opened her mouth — but the words died in her throat.
Because if she spoke it out loud, it would become real.
That the flame inside her was no longer hers alone.That it was ancient.Devouring.And once sealed behind her own death.
Instead, she whispered:
"It remembers you."
He didn't ask what she meant.
He simply reached out.
And took her hand — flame-hot, trembling, too much.
And didn't let go.
Above them, unseen by either of them, a single blossom drifted from the peach tree…
…and burned midair into ash.