Chapter 4 Dreams Of Flame

Rehitt didn't remember when the world tilted.

One moment, her hand hovered near the door. The next, her knees buckled, the room spun, and the shadows swallowed her whole.

Darkness wrapped her like a cloak.

Then came the fire.

It didn't arrive softly. It roared into existence, swallowing the forest, swallowing her cabin, swallowing even the sky. Flames reached high, curling like serpents, painting everything in shades of red and gold. The heat pressed against her skin until it stung, but she couldn't move. She was trapped in the middle of it, barefoot, trembling, her breath shallow.

Above her, the heavens cracked open. The stars she had admired only hours ago burned out one by one, falling from the sky like shattered embers. They streaked across the darkness, dissolving into the inferno below.

Her chest heaved.

"Stop," she whispered, her voice raw in the choking smoke. "Please, stop."

But the fire listened to no one.

It surged closer, hungry and merciless, curling around her like a predator that had finally cornered its prey. She covered her face, her arms shaking, but even then she could feel it , the weight of a world crumbling, the echo of screams she couldn't see but swore she heard.

And then she saw him.

A boy stood at the heart of the blaze.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with shadows clinging to his frame as if they belonged to him. His hair caught the firelight, dark and untamed, but it was his eyes that rooted her to the spot.

Storm-grey.

Cold. Piercing. Endless.

They cut through the fire as if the world had been made just to reflect them.

Rehitt's lips parted, but no sound left her throat.

The boy didn't move at first. He simply stood there, still as stone, while the flames curled around his body without touching him, as if they obeyed him. His gaze locked onto hers, steady, unflinching, heavy with something she couldn't name.

The whispers came back.

The cursed child will meet the storm.

Together they will bring ruin.

Her pulse slammed in her ears.

"Who are you?" she forced out, though her voice cracked like brittle glass.

The boy finally moved. One slow step forward. The fire seemed to bend with him, bowing at his heels, making a path where none should exist. Another step, and she felt the air shift , hotter, sharper, thick enough to choke.

She stumbled back, her feet scraping over ground that cracked like dry earth.

But the boy didn't stop.

When he reached her, the fire behind him flared, turning the world into a burning sea. He stood inches away, towering over her, his face unreadable but his eyes raging like storms.

Rehitt's breath trembled in her chest.

"Why are you here?" she whispered.

His voice, when it came, was low. Rough. A sound that felt like it belonged to the fire itself.

"You already know."

She shook her head, but the heat pressed closer, curling against her skin like claws.

"I don't"

The boy lifted his hand. Not to hurt her. Not to strike. Just lifted, slow and steady, as if reaching for her face. But before his fingers touched her cheek, the fire roared louder, so bright she had to squeeze her eyes shut.

When she opened them, the world had changed.

The forest was ash. The sky was blood-red. And beneath her feet, rivers of fire cut through the earth like veins.

She stood at the center of it all.

Her hands weren't empty anymore. They burned.

Literally burned. Flames danced from her palms, licking up her wrists, crawling over her skin without hurting her.

Her throat locked.

"No."

The whispers thundered in her head.

The falling star will mark her.

The cursed child will set kingdoms aflame.

She tried to shake it off, tried to throw the fire from her hands, but it clung to her like it had been waiting for her all along.

The boy with storm-grey eyes watched her.

There was no fear in him. No hesitation. Only recognition.

As if he had always known this would happen.

Rehitt's chest ached with terror. "I don't want this," she whispered.

But the fire surged, wild and uncontrollable, spilling from her hands into the cracked earth. It spread like blood across the ground, racing outward, swallowing everything that remained.

The boy stepped closer, his voice steady in the chaos.

"You don't have a choice."

The flames rose higher, a wall of fire around them, closing in. She tried to run, but her legs felt heavy, her body pinned by heat and fear. Her screams were swallowed by the blaze.

And then, through the choking smoke, she heard it , a sound that cut through everything.

A heartbeat.

Steady. Powerful. Not hers.

It echoed in the air, deep and commanding, matching the boy's presence.

The fire bent toward it.

Her vision blurred. Her knees hit the ground, but she didn't feel the pain. The world tilted again, spinning, pulling her down into the flames.

The boy's storm-grey eyes were the last thing she saw before the fire swallowed her whole.

Rehitt shot upright in bed.

Her breath tore out of her in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked her skin, clinging to her nightdress, her hair plastered to her face. The cabin around her was dark again, quiet, untouched. The only light came from the dying embers in the hearth.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest. Her heart was still racing, still pounding like it hadn't left the fire behind.

It had been a dream.

Just a dream.

But it hadn't felt like one.

The smell of smoke still lingered in her nose. Her palms still burned with phantom heat. And the boy's eyes,those storm-grey eyes,refused to leave her mind.

She dragged herself from bed, her legs unsteady, her body cold despite the sweat. She moved to the basin of water near the window and splashed her face, the shock grounding her.

But no amount of water could wash away the dread.

Her reflection stared back at her, pale, wide-eyed, haunted. She didn't recognize herself. She looked like someone already burning.

Her lips parted, and before she realized it, the words slipped out.

"He's coming."

The cabin was silent. The woods outside gave no answer.

But deep in her chest, she knew. The dream hadn't been a dream. It was a warning.

And the boy with storm-grey eyes wasn't just a shadow her mind had conjured.

He was real.

And fate was already moving to bring him to her door.

Rehitt clutched the edge of the basin, her knuckles white, her breath uneven.

The whispers slid back into her mind, softer this time, almost tender.

Your exile is ending.

Your fire has only just begun.

Her throat tightened.

The night felt heavy again. The silence pressed too hard, too sharp. And for the first time, she wished the dream hadn't ended. Because at least there, in the fire, she could see him.

Here, in the dark, she only felt him coming.

And she didn't know if she was ready.

The knock came again.

Three times. Solid. Unyielding.

Her heart froze.

The dream hadn't followed her.

It had led her here.

CHAPTER 5: COUNCIL OF THORNS

The council chamber was a cavern of shadows and steel. The walls stretched high, carved from black stone that seemed to swallow the firelight rather than reflect it. Long iron torches burned along the edges, their flames spitting as though angry to be trapped inside. In the center stood the council's table,an enormous slab of oak scarred by centuries of arguments and blood-oaths.

Around it sat the kingdom's most dangerous minds. Twelve men and women, each cloaked in authority, each sworn not to loyalty, but to survival. The Council of Thorns had always lived up to its name,sharp, beautiful, and deadly to anyone who dared touch it.

At the head of the table sat Lord Karthan, the High Chancellor. His beard was streaked with silver, but his eyes carried the weight of iron, steady and unyielding. Beside him, the Oracle's empty chair remained untouched, a silent reminder that prophecy still ruled over reason.

The chamber buzzed low with conversation until Karthan raised a hand. Silence fell like a blade.

"The shadows stir again," he said, voice gravelled but strong. "Our spies bring whispers of unrest. Villages speak of signs,falling stars, sudden storms. And you all know what the prophecies say."

A murmur rippled through the table. Everyone knew the words, though none dared repeat them aloud. The cursed child. The fall of crowns. The blood that would drown a kingdom.

Lord Seryn, a hawk-eyed general, slammed a gauntleted fist onto the oak. "Whispers breed rebellion. If the people believe the cursed child still lives, then faith will rise against the throne. We cannot allow hope to take root. We must cut it out before it grows."

"Cut what?" sneered Lady Veyra, her voice sharp as broken glass. She leaned back in her chair, her jeweled fingers drumming against the wood. "We've been hunting ghosts for two decades. Every shadow is declared dangerous, every misfit branded as prophecy. Yet here we sit, crown intact, no cursed child in sight. Perhaps it was nothing more than superstition."

General Seryn's eyes flared. "Superstition does not summon falling stars. Superstition does not carve fate into the skies."

Karthan's gaze slid over them both, quieting the tension. "And yet... there is one name that returns again and again, no matter how many times we bury it."

The chamber seemed to tighten.

"Rehitt."

The name dropped like a stone into still water. Several council members shifted uncomfortably, while others leaned forward, hungry for blood.

Lady Marisol, cloaked in crimson, let out a slow hiss of breath. "I thought she was dealt with. Erased. Sent to rot in some forgotten corner of the woods."

"Exile is not erasure," Karthan said coldly. "So long as she draws breath, prophecy has teeth. And now, the people begin to speak of her again. They whisper that she walks beneath the stars, that the forests protect her, that fate bends to her steps."

A younger lord, Cassian, sneered. "Children tell ghost stories. Farmers cling to myths when crops fail. We cannot allow rumor to dictate the kingdom's law."

"Rumor," countered Seryn, "is the spark that sets rebellion alight. Do you wish to wait until those whispers turn into armies chanting her name?"

The debate grew sharper, voices clashing like swords in the chamber.

"She's one girl, broken and cast aside," Lady Veyra snapped. "Even if she lives, she cannot unseat a crown guarded by fire and steel."

"Or perhaps that's what makes her dangerous," murmured Marisol, her eyes gleaming. "Those forgotten often rise with sharper claws. A ghost child turned queen,that is a tale people will die for."

The words thickened the air. No one wanted to admit it, but they all felt the tremor of unease beneath their ribs.

At the far end of the table, Lord Erian, the oldest among them, finally spoke. His voice was soft, but every syllable carried weight. "We have tried to silence prophecy with swords. We have tried to outlast it with patience. But the stars keep speaking. Perhaps the question is not how to kill her, but what price must be paid if she lives."

A cold silence followed. No one wanted to consider that prophecy could not be outrun.

But Karthan did not flinch. "Whether she is child or woman, ghost or flesh, it no longer matters. Rehitt exists in the minds of the people. That is enough to make her real. And if she is real, then she is a threat."

Seryn leaned forward, voice like iron striking stone. "Then give me leave to hunt her. I will scour the forests, burn every village that shelters rumor, drag her name into the dirt where it belongs."

Veyra laughed bitterly. "Ah yes, burn the kingdom to save it. A brilliant strategy. Why stop at the forests? Why not burn the capital too, in case she hides under the throne?"

Seryn's jaw clenched, but he did not strike back. Karthan raised a hand before the argument could sharpen further.

"No rash flames," he ordered. "Fire breeds more stories than it destroys. We need precision. Silence that leaves no echoes."

Marisol's crimson lips curved into a smile. "Then perhaps the answer is not an army, but a knife. A single cut in the dark, quiet enough that no bard ever sings of it."

The thought lingered, tempting, poisonous.

But then, from the shadows near the door, a messenger hurried in. His cloak was damp with rain, his eyes wide as though the storm itself had chased him. He dropped to one knee before the council.

"My lords, my ladies... news from the northern watch." His voice trembled. "A falling star was seen last night. It landed beyond the Blackwood, near the old exile cabins. Villagers speak of a girl... with dark hair and eyes like storm clouds. They swear she was marked by the light."

The chamber erupted.

Chairs scraped, voices rose, the council splintered into chaos. Some shouted for war, others for caution, others still for denial.

Karthan's fist slammed onto the table, silencing them with a thunderous crack. His voice was steady, colder than the stone walls around them.

"Enough. The whispers have grown into proof. The cursed child is no longer myth. She lives."

The words settled like poison into their veins.

Marisol's smile sharpened. "Then the game begins."

Seryn stood, his armor glinting in the firelight. "Say the word, Chancellor, and I'll bring her head before this table."

But Karthan's gaze was unreadable, his silence heavier than stone. His mind was not on Seryn's sword, nor Marisol's daggers. It was on something far more dangerous.

"If the prophecy lives through her," he murmured, "then killing her may only fulfill it faster. Perhaps her death is the crown's true ruin."

The council froze.

For the first time, the unshakable High Chancellor sounded uncertain.

Erian's voice, quiet as wind through a graveyard, cut through the silence. "Then perhaps the greater danger is not her life... but our choice. If we act wrongly, we may be the very hands that deliver this kingdom into fire."

The torches hissed, spitting sparks into the heavy air.

Outside, thunder rolled across the skies, shaking the chamber as though the heavens themselves listened.

And in the echo of that storm, one thought burned into every mind at the table.

Rehitt's name was no longer forgotten.

It was alive.

And it was coming for them.

CHAPTER 6: ROYAL HUNT ANNOUNCED

The bells tolled at dawn, deep and steady, shaking the quiet of the palace grounds. Their echoes rolled through the city below, pulling people from sleep, stirring whispers before the sun even rose. The royal hunt had been announced.

It was not an ordinary hunt. Everyone knew that.

Hunts within the palace walls were tradition. Staged events for nobles to prove their skill with bow or spear, more ceremony than danger. But this one was different. The decree came directly from the High Council after the night of thorns, their voices sharpened by fear of prophecy. This time, the hunt would be held in the Veiled Woods,a place marked on every map with thick ink and warnings carved into the edges.

The Veiled Woods were forbidden.

Not by law alone, but by blood. Too many who entered never returned. Some who did came back hollow, their eyes glassy, their voices cracked like broken glass. They spoke of shadows that breathed, roots that twisted alive, a silence heavy enough to crush bone. The forest had teeth, they said.

And yet, here was the decree: the nobles would hunt within its heart.

Gomen stood in his chamber, fastening the dark leather straps of his armor with quick, precise movements. His hands did not shake, though his mind stormed beneath the surface. The council's decision was a test, even if they pretended otherwise. He knew the weight of their eyes on him after the last gathering, when whispers of prophecy had poisoned the air.

Heir to the crown, cold son of the throne,he had no choice but to walk into the woods and emerge stronger.

Failure was not an option.

The armor fit him like a second skin, molded black steel lined with crimson edges that caught the light from the tall windows. Across his back he strapped a blade longer than his arm, a weapon passed down through his line, its hilt carved with markings only his blood could read. At his hip hung a hunting knife, sharp enough to split bone.

But it wasn't the weapons he trusted. It was himself. His training. His refusal to bend.

From the courtyard below, he could already hear the stir of hooves and the clatter of men preparing. The noble warriors, dressed in polished armor and riding beasts bred for endurance, were assembling like a small army. Their laughter rang sharp in the air, more pride than joy.

The royal hunt was not about deer or boar. It was about dominance. About proving who deserved to stand beside the throne and who deserved to be forgotten.

Gomen fastened the last strap and caught his reflection in the burnished steel mirror. Grey eyes,storm-grey, the kind that unsettled anyone who met them too long. He had heard the whispers his whole life. That his eyes carried the storm of his line. That they saw too much. That they felt too little.

He turned away before the reflection could linger.

Down in the courtyard, the nobles awaited him.

The crowd shifted as he stepped out, their noise falling into uneasy silence. Men older than him, some scarred from battles, some fattened on privilege, lowered their gazes as he passed. Respect or fear-it hardly mattered. Both worked in his favor.

Lord Verrick, a broad man with a face carved by years of war, leaned on the spear he carried. His voice cut through the quiet.

"Prince Gomen," he said. "The Veiled Woods are no place for royal blood. Yet here we are."

Gomen met his eyes without pause. "The woods swallow the weak. That is not my concern."

A ripple of uneasy laughter spread through the nobles. Verrick's lips twisted, but he said nothing more.

The king himself did not appear. He rarely did anymore. His absence was a weight all its own, leaving the council to stretch their influence like creeping vines. And now, they had decided to test the heir.

The Master of the Hunt raised his staff, his voice carrying above the crowd.

"By decree of the council, this hunt begins at dusk. Until then, prepare your beasts, sharpen your steel, and harden your hearts. The Veiled Woods do not forgive hesitation."

The nobles cheered, but the sound rang hollow.

Gomen moved through the preparations with calm precision. His horse, a black stallion with a mane like shadow, stamped restlessly as he secured the reins. The beast was as restless as he was, born for speed and silence, its dark eyes burning with barely contained fire.

One of the younger nobles, Seran, approached him with a nervous smile. Barely older than a boy, Seran had the soft hands of someone who had never seen real battle.

"Do you think the stories are true, my prince?" he asked quietly. "About the woods? About men not coming back?"

Gomen checked the saddle straps before answering. "The woods don't decide who returns. Men do."

Seran nodded quickly, though fear still clung to his face.

It was not fear Gomen despised. Fear was natural. What he despised was weakness,the way it bent spines and loosened resolve. Weakness was what the prophecy fed on.

By the time the sun began to bleed across the sky, the hunters had gathered at the edge of the Veiled Woods.

The trees rose like black spires, their crowns knitted so tightly together the light barely touched the earth beneath them. Mist curled between the trunks, shifting like something alive, and the smell of damp soil clung thick in the air. The woods looked less like a place and more like a wound carved into the land.

Even the bravest among them fell silent.

The Master of the Hunt raised his staff once more. "Enter at dusk. Return at dawn. Bring back proof of your kill, or do not return at all. The Veiled Woods give no second chances."

As the last rays of light bled away, the hunters spurred their horses forward.

Inside, the forest swallowed them whole.

The canopy above was so dense that the stars could barely pierce through, leaving only thin speCHAPTER 4: DREAMS OF FLAME

Rehitt didn't remember when the world tilted.

One moment, her hand hovered near the door. The next, her knees buckled, the room spun, and the shadows swallowed her whole.

Darkness wrapped her like a cloak.

Then came the fire.

It didn't arrive softly. It roared into existence, swallowing the forest, swallowing her cabin, swallowing even the sky. Flames reached high, curling like serpents, painting everything in shades of red and gold. The heat pressed against her skin until it stung, but she couldn't move. She was trapped in the middle of it, barefoot, trembling, her breath shallow.

Above her, the heavens cracked open. The stars she had admired only hours ago burned out one by one, falling from the sky like shattered embers. They streaked across the darkness, dissolving into the inferno below.

Her chest heaved.

"Stop," she whispered, her voice raw in the choking smoke. "Please, stop."

But the fire listened to no one.

It surged closer, hungry and merciless, curling around her like a predator that had finally cornered its prey. She covered her face, her arms shaking, but even then she could feel it , the weight of a world crumbling, the echo of screams she couldn't see but swore she heard.

And then she saw him.

A boy stood at the heart of the blaze.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with shadows clinging to his frame as if they belonged to him. His hair caught the firelight, dark and untamed, but it was his eyes that rooted her to the spot.

Storm-grey.

Cold. Piercing. Endless.

They cut through the fire as if the world had been made just to reflect them.

Rehitt's lips parted, but no sound left her throat.

The boy didn't move at first. He simply stood there, still as stone, while the flames curled around his body without touching him, as if they obeyed him. His gaze locked onto hers, steady, unflinching, heavy with something she couldn't name.

The whispers came back.

The cursed child will meet the storm.

Together they will bring ruin.

Her pulse slammed in her ears.

"Who are you?" she forced out, though her voice cracked like brittle glass.

The boy finally moved. One slow step forward. The fire seemed to bend with him, bowing at his heels, making a path where none should exist. Another step, and she felt the air shift , hotter, sharper, thick enough to choke.

She stumbled back, her feet scraping over ground that cracked like dry earth.

But the boy didn't stop.

When he reached her, the fire behind him flared, turning the world into a burning sea. He stood inches away, towering over her, his face unreadable but his eyes raging like storms.

Rehitt's breath trembled in her chest.

"Why are you here?" she whispered.

His voice, when it came, was low. Rough. A sound that felt like it belonged to the fire itself.

"You already know."

She shook her head, but the heat pressed closer, curling against her skin like claws.

"I don't"

The boy lifted his hand. Not to hurt her. Not to strike. Just lifted, slow and steady, as if reaching for her face. But before his fingers touched her cheek, the fire roared louder, so bright she had to squeeze her eyes shut.

When she opened them, the world had changed.

The forest was ash. The sky was blood-red. And beneath her feet, rivers of fire cut through the earth like veins.

She stood at the center of it all.

Her hands weren't empty anymore. They burned.

Literally burned. Flames danced from her palms, licking up her wrists, crawling over her skin without hurting her.

Her throat locked.

"No."

The whispers thundered in her head.

The falling star will mark her.

The cursed child will set kingdoms aflame.

She tried to shake it off, tried to throw the fire from her hands, but it clung to her like it had been waiting for her all along.

The boy with storm-grey eyes watched her.

There was no fear in him. No hesitation. Only recognition.

As if he had always known this would happen.

Rehitt's chest ached with terror. "I don't want this," she whispered.

But the fire surged, wild and uncontrollable, spilling from her hands into the cracked earth. It spread like blood across the ground, racing outward, swallowing everything that remained.

The boy stepped closer, his voice steady in the chaos.

"You don't have a choice."

The flames rose higher, a wall of fire around them, closing in. She tried to run, but her legs felt heavy, her body pinned by heat and fear. Her screams were swallowed by the blaze.

And then, through the choking smoke, she heard it , a sound that cut through everything.

A heartbeat.

Steady. Powerful. Not hers.

It echoed in the air, deep and commanding, matching the boy's presence.

The fire bent toward it.

Her vision blurred. Her knees hit the ground, but she didn't feel the pain. The world tilted again, spinning, pulling her down into the flames.

The boy's storm-grey eyes were the last thing she saw before the fire swallowed her whole.

Rehitt shot upright in bed.

Her breath tore out of her in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked her skin, clinging to her nightdress, her hair plastered to her face. The cabin around her was dark again, quiet, untouched. The only light came from the dying embers in the hearth.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest. Her heart was still racing, still pounding like it hadn't left the fire behind.

It had been a dream.

Just a dream.

But it hadn't felt like one.

The smell of smoke still lingered in her nose. Her palms still burned with phantom heat. And the boy's eyes,those storm-grey eyes,refused to leave her mind.

She dragged herself from bed, her legs unsteady, her body cold despite the sweat. She moved to the basin of water near the window and splashed her face, the shock grounding her.

But no amount of water could wash away the dread.

Her reflection stared back at her, pale, wide-eyed, haunted. She didn't recognize herself. She looked like someone already burning.

Her lips parted, and before she realized it, the words slipped out.

"He's coming."

The cabin was silent. The woods outside gave no answer.

But deep in her chest, she knew. The dream hadn't been a dream. It was a warning.

And the boy with storm-grey eyes wasn't just a shadow her mind had conjured.

He was real.

And fate was already moving to bring him to her door.

Rehitt clutched the edge of the basin, her knuckles white, her breath uneven.

The whispers slid back into her mind, softer this time, almost tender.

Your exile is ending.

Your fire has only just begun.

Her throat tightened.

The night felt heavy again. The silence pressed too hard, too sharp. And for the first time, she wished the dream hadn't ended. Because at least there, in the fire, she could see him.

Here, in the dark, she only felt him coming.

And she didn't know if she was ready.

The knock came again.

Three times. Solid. Unyielding.

Her heart froze.

The dream hadn't followed her.

It had led her here.