The Dragonfall Valley was quiet.
Wind howled softly between the stone pillars, where ancient carvings told forgotten stories. Snowflakes fell slowly, melting upon the warm gravestone set at the valley's heart.
Michael knelt alone, one hand resting on a small stone slab, the other gripping a photo.
The photo was faded, but the smile on her face was still bright.
Melanie.
Short brown hair, soft eyes, green robes laced with ivy patterns. She stood with him on the steps of an old dojo, long before power, long before war.
Michael didn't speak. He just stared.
Eventually, he whispered, "I told them I didn't believe in love. That strength mattered more. That emotions are weakness."
He smiled bitterly.
"And then you died. And I've never stopped feeling."
Flashback – 9 Years Ago
Melanie sat on the porch of their home, holding a steaming cup of tea. Her green aura shimmered faintly, calm, flowing, yet unpredictable.
"You know," she said, "the more they envy me, the stronger I get."
Michael stood nearby, practicing tonfa strikes in the open yard.
"You say that like it's a good thing."
Melanie laughed. "It's not bad. As long as I don't start craving it."
Michael paused. "Have you ever... felt guilty? That people hating you makes you powerful?"
Melanie sipped her tea, thoughtful. "I did. Then I realized the power itself isn't evil. The emotion around it is."
He walked toward her, sat beside her. "What happens if no one envies you anymore?"
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Then I'll just be me. And you'll still love me, right?"
He kissed her forehead. "Always."
Flashback – 3 Years Later
Michael stood outside a healer's hut, his fists clenched.
Inside, Melanie lay on a bed, her body thinner than before, her skin pale.
The flower on her chest — once vibrant green — had dulled, shriveled.
The healer shook her head. "It's not the sickness. It's the power. It's fading because she let it go."
Michael stormed inside.
"Why would you do that?" he demanded.
Melanie looked at him, her tired eyes filled with peace.
"I didn't want it anymore. I didn't need people to envy me to feel alive."
"You needed it to survive."
"No. I needed you."
Michael fell to his knees beside her. "Then don't leave."
She held his hand. "Then don't forget who I was."
Present – At the Grave
Michael placed the photo beside the gravestone. Snow gathered on the edges.
He traced the engraving with one gloved hand.
MELANIE KATE — She was more than powerful.
A long silence followed.
Then, footsteps behind him.
It was Mai.
She stood a few meters back, expression unreadable.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said.
"You didn't."
She approached slowly, looking at the grave, then the photo.
"She was beautiful."
"She was strong," Michael replied. "But only because she chose to let go of it."
Mai looked at him. "You're telling me to give up power?"
"I'm telling you... If you forget what you're fighting for, you'll lose yourself. Like I did."
Mai glanced down. "Maybe I already did."
Michael didn't answer.
They stood in silence, two soldiers carved from opposite kinds of grief.
Then Mai's eyes shifted to the sky.
That flicker.
Orange. Faint, pulsing.
She stepped back.
"I have to go."
Michael nodded. "Be careful. Some flowers don't bloom. They burn."
Mai turned and vanished into the falling snow.
Later – Deep forest path
Mai walked alone.
The trees here were old. Twisted. Whispers of something unnatural echoed through the branches.
Each step made her pulse tighten.
Then she saw it — buried beneath frost, nestled between two stones.
A single flower. Orange. Glowing faintly. Petals sharp as knives.
She knelt.
Reached.
Her hand hovered above it.
A voice — her own — echoed inside her skull.
"Are you still Mai?"
She touched it.
Pain.
Not physical—emotional. Mental.
Visions.
Dead bodies. Screams. Herself — laughing, coated in blood. Duncan crying. Tiffany walking away. Fire in her veins.
She pulled back, gasping.
But it was too late.
The flower pulsed. A vein of orange lit beneath her skin. Just a flicker. Just a taste.
And then silence.
Mai staggered back. The forest had gone still.
She clenched her fist.
"Not yet."
She walked away — but the flower remained.
Waiting.
Calling.
If you liked it, leave a review or Favorite the story:).