Chapter 88: The Fractured Flame
The mountains loomed vast and silent, their snow-dusted peaks reflecting no sunlight beneath the thick curtain of perpetual dusk. The wind howled in distant pockets of the range, whispering through jagged rock and brittle branches. Ariella stood at the edge of a narrow ledge, her cloak fluttering in the cold wind like a banner of defiance. Below her, a valley of petrified trees stretched into the distance, lifeless and grey—much like the hollowness blooming in her chest.
She closed her eyes. But the silence did not bring peace.
Visions danced behind her lids—Elara's scorched face, the crumbling village, the trembling hands of villagers who once spat her name now reaching in desperate reverence. And beyond them all: her mother, bloodied and lifeless, lost to flames that never should have reached her. Flames Ariella might have stopped—if only they'd trusted her sooner. If only she'd been more than a weapon in their eyes.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.
"I gave them everything," she whispered to the mountains. "And they gave me nothing but pain."
Her voice was swallowed by the wind, as if even the world had tired of listening. She turned from the edge, prepared to descend into the valley, away from everything—away from duty, destiny, and the ache of being unwanted. But a soft rustle halted her. The wind shifted.
She turned.
A woman stood among the mountain fog, robed in moonlight silk, her form shifting like a dream not yet fully dreamt. Her silver hair cascaded like liquid starlight down her back, and her eyes—deep pools of sorrow and time—held more memories than a thousand lives could live. It was not the White Queen. Nor the Blue. This figure was unfamiliar. And yet… something in her aura brushed against Ariella's soul like a forgotten lullaby.
"You flee," the woman said gently, her voice like snow falling on glass. "But pain follows, no matter how far you run."
Ariella's jaw tightened. "I'm not running. I'm choosing myself."
"Are you?" the woman asked, stepping forward. With each movement, her figure shimmered between substance and smoke. Her face, now clearer, was etched with stars and sorrow, as though constellations had mapped themselves onto her skin. "Or are you abandoning the only piece of yourself that ever felt whole?"
The words cut deeper than Ariella wanted to admit. She swallowed hard.
"I'm tired of bleeding for people who never cared," she said, voice raw. "Even now, I don't know if Elara understands. We were chosen… but what if I never wanted to be chosen?"
The woman's gaze softened, pitying yet unwavering. "And yet," she murmured, "a flame born cannot undo its fire. You and Elara were not chosen by fate… you called fate to you, with your bond."
She lifted her hand. In her palm, a tiny ember glowed—weak, flickering, but alive.
"She calls for you still."
Ariella stared at the ember. Though her heart resisted, her hand reached out, trembling. When her fingers touched the light, a sudden warmth flooded her chest. It was not fire—but memory. Elara's voice echoed in her mind. A plea. Not a command. Not guilt. Just… hope. The hope of someone who hadn't stopped believing.
The vision faded. The woman vanished like mist into the wind.
And Ariella stood alone again, save for the ember glowing faintly in her palm.
She held it close to her chest. For the first time in days, she didn't feel cold.
---
In the village, shadows had grown thicker. They no longer whispered from corners—they slithered openly in the streets, curling around doors, dimming lanterns, tainting air and water alike. They pooled in alleyways and seeped beneath floorboards. Even the wells ran dark.
The villagers dared not speak aloud after dusk. Even children, once carefree, knew to stay silent and still when the wind moaned low. Hunger and sickness spread like rot, but they made no complaints—not to Elara.
Instead, they gathered each morning outside the broken temple where she now stayed, kneeling silently in the dust. They brought no offerings, only their silence. When she emerged, pale and weary, they only bowed their heads lower. Reverence born not of love—but of fear. They had seen enough to know what loss truly looked like.
No one questioned her. No one dared ask for miracles. They had learned.
Inside, Elara sat on the cold stone floor, her hands clasped before her as if in prayer. The flickering remains of her fire glowed faintly at her feet. The Blue and White Queens stood beside her, their forms dimmer than ever, like dying stars.
"I can barely hold the barrier over the village," Elara said, voice hoarse. "My fire dims by the hour."
"It is not weakness," the Blue Queen said softly. "It is incompleteness."
"She is the other half," the White Queen added. "And until she returns, you are half-lit."
Elara's shoulders slumped. "She won't come back. I wouldn't."
"You do not know her heart as well as you think," the Blue Queen murmured.
"I do," Elara replied, almost brokenly. "I know she's hurt. I know I couldn't protect her mother. I know I can't fix what they broke in her."
The Queens exchanged a long look. Then, without a word, they stepped forward and placed their hands over Elara's chest. Warmth surged through her, fleeting but bright. Her breath hitched as light bloomed behind her ribs.
"She is moving," the White Queen whispered. "Your flames call to each other, even now."
Elara's breath caught. Slowly, her gaze lifted to the mountain paths beyond the village. She didn't speak—but in her silence, something stirred. Something hopeful.
---
That evening, the clouds churned lower than ever before. Thunder rumbled in unnatural tones—deep, guttural, as though the mountains themselves were groaning in anticipation. The air crackled as if something ancient was watching.
And then the earth trembled—not with destruction, but with return.
A hush swept through the villagers as a figure appeared beyond the edge of the forest path. Cloaked in storm-grey and bearing the weight of long miles, Ariella walked steadily toward the village. Her posture was firm, her gaze unreadable. She did not run. She did not glow.
But Elara felt it—the fire inside her reigniting. A quiet flame rising in the dark.
The villagers parted silently as she passed. Some tried to bow, but she didn't look at them. Her eyes were locked on the girl waiting at the temple steps.
Elara stepped down, cloak brushing against stone. "You came back."
Ariella's face remained unreadable. "I'm not here for them," she said. "Not anymore."
"I know," Elara said softly. "But I am."
Ariella studied her for a long moment. Her jaw tensed. But then her gaze softened. "You're still burning."
"Barely," Elara admitted.
Ariella nodded. "Let's fix that."
She reached out her hand. Elara took it. The moment their fingers touched, a surge of warmth spread across the village. It rippled like a wave—soft, but unstoppable. The clouds above split, just for a moment, revealing a sliver of light. The river stirred. The insects scattered. The air tasted cleaner.
The Queens reappeared behind them, brighter now.
"The bond is restored," said the Blue Queen.
"And with it, your true strength," added the White Queen.
Ariella turned to the villagers. Her voice was calm, cold, but clear. "We are not your saviors. Not your tools. Not your sacrifices."
They all nodded, eyes down, too fearful to speak.
"You will rebuild. You will remember. You will never doubt us again."
"We won't," the elder whispered.
Elara, still holding her hand, gave her a sideways glance. "You're staying?"
"For now," Ariella replied. "But I don't fight for them. I fight with you."
Together, they turned to face the horizon, where the darkness writhed and shifted.
The shadow had changed course—but so had they.