The scent of smoke still clung to her skin.
Aelira's breath caught in her throat as she jolted upright, coughing violently. Dirt filled her mouth. Her chest heaved. Damp soil stuck to her skin like a burial shroud. Her fingers dug into the cold earth, desperate to make sense of the darkness that surrounded her — but nothing made sense.
She was not supposed to be here.
She was supposed to be dead.
She remembered the fire — vivid, blinding. The flames had licked the sky as her screams tore through the coven grounds. Her wrists had been bound, her feet dragged across the altar stone. She remembered the scent of sage and sulfur, the chanting, the betrayal. Her sisters… the ones she called family… had surrounded her in a circle of salt and silence, watching as the High Priestess delivered the sentence.
"You are the cursed seed, Aelira. Your power was never meant for this world."
They had condemned her. Burned her alive.
So why now... was she breathing?
Shivering, Aelira crawled from the shallow earthen cradle she'd awoken in. Her fingers trembled as she wiped mud from her face, heart pounding wildly against her ribs. Silver moonlight filtered through the twisted canopy above, casting shadows that danced like specters across the glade. The forest was silent. No insects. No breeze. Just her heartbeat and the ever-present dread curling in her stomach.
She stumbled to her feet, unsteady. Her gown — the ceremonial white one they'd dressed her in before the ritual — now hung in tatters, stained with ash and soil. Her bare feet sank into the moss as she turned slowly in place, trying to remember how she'd gotten here.
Her skin prickled.
Something was wrong. Something inside her had changed.
Aelira pressed her palm to her chest, over her racing heart, and felt it — a low, pulsing heat beneath her collarbone. She gasped and tugged down the tattered neckline of her gown. Her fingers froze.
There, burned into her flesh like a living brand, was a sigil — ancient, glowing faintly with threads of silver and violet. It pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, veins of arcane energy branching out like roots beneath her skin.
"No," she whispered, stumbling backward. "This isn't real…"
But it was.
She had been marked.
The very thing the coven feared — the prophecy they tried to erase in fire — had come to pass. She hadn't been destroyed. She had been awakened.
Suddenly, a whisper slithered through the trees.
"The flame sleeps no longer. The bloodline endures…"
The voice was disembodied, ancient, and genderless. It echoed through the woods, brushing against her skin like cold breath. She spun in place, searching for the source, heart hammering harder.
"Who's there?" she called, but the forest offered no reply.
Instead, memories rushed forward like a wave crashing over her senses.
She saw the circle of witches. The High Priestess's cruel smile. The moment Kael — the only one who had tried to stop the ritual — was dragged away in chains. His voice, frantic, full of pain: "Aelira! Fight it! Don't let them—"
And then silence.
They had silenced him, just as they'd tried to silence her.
Tears burned her eyes. The grief she hadn't had time to feel before her death now hit her all at once — sharp and paralyzing. They had murdered her. Branded her as cursed. They had turned the coven into a place of fear and superstition.
And worst of all… they had feared what she could become. Not because it was dangerous.
But because it was powerful.
Suddenly, the forest around her shifted. Leaves rustled though no wind blew. The trees themselves seemed to lean closer, as if eavesdropping.
Then — a figure.
She barely glimpsed it — tall, cloaked in shadow, standing at the edge of the clearing. Her breath hitched.
"Kael?" she whispered.
The figure didn't move.
Her feet stepped forward without thinking, heart leaping with desperate hope — but in a blink, the shadow vanished. Gone like mist.
The curse mark on her skin burned brighter, and an unseen force rippled through the forest, sending a ring of energy outward. Birds burst from the treetops, shrieking. Aelira staggered and fell to her knees, clutching her chest.
Another voice, clearer this time, echoed in her mind.
"Three trials await. Blood, bone, and betrayal. Only then shall the curse be broken."
"Trials?" she whispered through clenched teeth. "What trials?"
But the voice had vanished.
The sigil still glowed beneath her collarbone, and her veins felt alive with magic she didn't understand. The ground beneath her pulsed with energy. This place — wherever she was — had been chosen for her rebirth.
She looked toward the path that opened beyond the trees. Darkness yawned ahead like a maw. But something in her blood thrummed with purpose now.
She wasn't just Aelira, the sacrificed witch.
She was something more. Something ancient. Something unwritten.
And if the coven thought they had erased her, they would soon learn a different truth.
Fire does not forget.