The market near the outskirts of the kingdom buzzed with a festive hum. Bright fabrics fluttered, bells chimed, and smoke curled from sweetmeat stalls, scenting the air with roasted almonds and saffron syrup. But for Devira, the world felt strangely muted.
She moved through the crowd like a distant echo, her crimson scarf trailing behind her. Tied around her wrist was a simple red thread — sacred, worn since childhood. It was a gift from a seer who had once whispered, "When this thread remembers, your destiny will stand before you."
She never understood those words.
Until now.
Her steps halted.
Her chest tightened.
The air shifted around her as if time itself inhaled.
Across the bustling crowd, he walked in silence — tall, cloaked in black and silver, his presence cold and commanding. He didn't belong to the chaos around him. The world seemed to bend slightly around his stride, as if shadows chose to follow him willingly. His hand brushed past hers—barely a touch—and in that instant, the red thread on her wrist jerked forward.
Caught.
It hooked onto the leather band at his wrist, binding them for the briefest moment.
They both stopped.
Devira turned—and met his eyes.
Not warm. Not curious.
But dangerous.
Beautiful.
Dark.
Eyes that weren't looking at her like a stranger.
They looked at her like a memory.
Her breath caught in her throat.
His hand twitched, but he didn't remove the thread immediately. Instead, he stood still, staring down at her, something flickering behind his deadly gaze. A recognition without reason. Her mark—burning faintly beneath her blouse—began to ache, like it had sensed him before her heart had.
For one long moment, neither of them moved.
No words.
No introductions.
Just silence—and a shared fire neither could explain.
The thread still held tight between them, fluttering softly in the wind like the last whisper of something sacred. Her pulse pounded. He leaned forward, ever so slightly, eyes scanning her face like reading an ancient prophecy. Their auras clashed, dark and old — tangled like vines born of war and heartbreak.
And then — he pulled back.
The thread snapped.
Her wrist burned.
He stepped away slowly, gaze still locked with hers — like he was walking backward through centuries.
She didn't stop him.
She couldn't move.
Because in that fire-forged silence, something inside her whispered:
The market noise returned all at once, loud and intrusive. Devira looked down at her wrist. The red thread was still there — broken slightly, frayed at the middle — but tied. Still tied.
She didn't know his name.
He didn't know hers.
But something had been remembered.
And the mark on her shoulder wouldn't stop pulsing.
His eyes, those unforgettable eyes, met hers one last time—dark, burning, haunted as if he'd known her in a thousand lives and had lost her in every single one.
The wind picked up again.
But the silence between them would echo far louder.
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The night air in Elthar was thick with incense and distant laughter, but Ekaksh felt none of the celebration's warmth. Cloaked in midnight black, he moved through the crowd like a shadow — silent, watchful, every step measured.
He wasn't here for the festival. Not truly.
Yet, amidst the flickering lanterns and swirling crowds, a strange tug pulled at his wrist, subtle but undeniable.
He looked down.
A thin, red thread had caught on the edge of his leather bracer — delicate, vibrant, unlike anything he had ever seen. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, then glanced up to find the owner of that thread.
She stood just a few paces away.
Her eyes met his, wide and searching, yet unafraid.
The noise of the city seemed to melt away, leaving only the charged air between them.
Ekaksh's breath hitched slightly. There was a dark intensity in her gaze — something raw and fierce, yet vulnerable. A mark of fire beneath calm water.
His eyes, sharp and commanding, held hers without a single word.
The red thread pulled taut, binding their fates silently, invisibly.
He felt the weight of something ancient, something unspoken, but neither of them said a word. Neither moved.
For a moment, they existed only as two fierce, wild forces caught in a storm neither understood.
Then, the thread slipped free with a soft snap.
Devira stepped back, disappearing into the crowd, but the impression she left burned in Ekaksh's mind like a brand.
His fingers curled around his wrist where the thread had been.
Ekaksh did not know her name. He did not know where she came from. And yet, he knew — somehow — that this was no ordinary meeting.
It was a spark. A beginning.