Oryzzell lay unconscious for three hours.
When his eyes finally opened, the girl was watching him silently, her knees drawn to her chest, silver hair matted with dried blood. Her wounds had stopped bleeding—miraculously. The black fire hadn't touched her.
"Water," he croaked.
She hesitated, then handed him a clay canteen she had scavenged from one of the destroyed Wraiths. It smelled faintly of ash, but he drank anyway.
"Name?" he asked between sips.
The girl stared at him. Then whispered, "Lyra."
He nodded.
"Oryzzell."
Her eyes widened. "That's… not a common name."
"It's not a common story."
He stood slowly, pain radiating from his side. The wound was shallow now—cauterized by the black flames. But he felt hollow, like something had been drained from him.
> Every time I use the Brand... it takes something.
Memories. Strength. Emotion.
Whatever made him human.
Lyra noticed his struggle and stepped closer.
"You saved me. That fire... it didn't burn me."
"It only burns what I command it to."
She looked at her palm—where a faint constellation-shaped scar now pulsed with soft blue light.
"I saw a vision," she whispered. "When you unleashed the flame. A tower wrapped in chains. A throne made of ribs. You were sitting on it... alone."
Oryzzell's expression darkened.
> The Brand is growing. Feeding her visions, too.
"You're not safe around me," he said flatly.
"I'm not safe anywhere," she snapped. "The Cult of the Flame marked me for death. You think I'd survive a day on my own?"
Her voice cracked—but not from fear. From fire.
There was something inside her, too.
Not power. Resolve.
He sighed.
"Fine. You stay close. But if I tell you to run—you run."
She smiled. It wasn't bright. But it was the first smile he'd seen in two lives.
"Deal."