The battlefield was still. The storm had dissolved, leaving behind only silence, scorched stone, and the faint smell of burnt threads.
Damien leaned against a fractured wall, his body trembling as his flames guttered out. Every breath rattled in his chest, but he still found the strength to glare. Evelyn perched casually atop the rubble, legs swinging, grin etched in place like she was watching a comedy only she understood.
And Clara…
She stood in the center of it all, wings folding tight around herself, staring at her own hands. Fire hissed along her fingers, but laced through the flames pulsed thin crimson strands. They shimmered faintly, as if waiting for her command—or her collapse.
No one spoke.
Finally, Damien broke the silence, his voice low, ragged. "What the hell did you just do, Clara?"
"I don't…" She shook her head, her voice breaking. "I don't know. It just—happened. I didn't choose it."
"Didn't choose it?" Damien spat blood onto the cracked ground. "You think that matters? Look at your hands! Look at what you're carrying!"
Her flames sputtered as her control faltered, the crimson inside them tightening like veins. She clenched her fists, forcing the fire to vanish, but even when the flames died, the echo of the threads still pulsed faintly beneath her skin.
Evelyn chuckled, her voice carrying far too easily. "Oh, I love this. A chosen flame-bearer slipping into crimson corruption? It's poetic. You're a walking paradox, darling. Fire that threads. Threads that burn." She tilted her head, her grin widening. "Do you know what that means? You're the bridge. The flaw in the system. The story writes itself."
Clara shot her a glare, but her lips trembled. She couldn't find words.
Damien slammed his fist into the rubble, sparks flaring. "This isn't a joke, Evelyn. If those threads take root, she won't be Clara anymore. She'll be him." His gaze snapped to Yurin, who had been silent all this time. "You know what this means. Say something!"
All eyes turned to him.
Yurin stood perfectly still, threads fading slowly around him. His expression was unreadable, his calm mask almost too calm. Only his eyes betrayed anything—focused, sharp, as though weighing variables no one else could see.
Finally, he spoke. "Clara."
Her breath hitched at the sound of his voice.
"You must suppress it. Now. Before it anchors itself inside you."
Her wings shivered. "I… I can't. I tried."
"Then learn." His tone was sharp, but there was something else beneath it. Not anger. Not disappointment. Fear.
Evelyn's grin widened. "Ohhh. He's worried. That's new."
Damien's jaw clenched. "So what—you're just going to let her carry this? Hope she figures it out? That's your grand solution?"
Yurin didn't answer.
Clara's knees weakened. She fell to the ground, hands digging into the cracked stone. "I don't want this. I don't want his power. I'm not him."
But her fire betrayed her, sparking crimson at the edges like embers whispering secrets.
The silence grew heavier.
Damien finally broke it with a harsh laugh. "If she loses control, it won't just be her problem. It'll be ours. And if it comes to that…" His fists ignited faintly. "I'll do what needs to be done."
Clara's heart clenched. She opened her mouth, but no words came.
Yurin stepped between them without warning. The movement was calm, measured—but absolute. Damien's flames flickered uncertainly under his gaze.
"No," Yurin said. Quiet, but final. "If anyone decides her fate, it won't be you."
Damien stared at him, incredulous. "You're protecting her? After what just happened? You think she's strong enough to fight it off?"
Yurin's eyes narrowed slightly. His calm cracked—just for a fraction of a second. "She must be."
Evelyn burst into laughter, falling back onto the rubble. "Oh, this is rich. The monster protecting the girl who's turning into him. You couldn't script irony better than this."
Clara wrapped her wings tighter, trembling, tears threatening at the edge of her vision. She wanted to scream at Evelyn, argue with Damien, demand answers from Yurin. But the truth pressed too heavy on her chest.
Because deep inside, beneath the fear and denial, she could still feel it.
The crimson threads weren't gone.
They were waiting.
They were hers.