The night smelled of rain and smoke. Rosaria's banners fluttered restlessly in the chill wind, and torches sputtered as though they sensed what was coming. The castle halls still rang with the echoes of laughter from earlier, yet Clive Rosfield could not join in. His sword weighed heavily at his side, and though his body was strong, his heart carried doubts heavier than steel.
He sat in the training yard long after the others had gone, running a cloth over the blade again and again. The steel shone under torchlight, but no matter how much he polished, he saw only failure reflected there.
Joshua… always Joshua.
The laughter of his younger brother still carried faintly from the great hall. The Phoenix. The blessed Dominant. The one Rosaria's people praised. The one their father shielded.
Clive clenched his jaw. He loved Joshua—he would kill and die for him—but the love was twisted by envy, by guilt, by an ache that whispered he would never be enough. His duty was clear: to be his brother's shield, his sword, his protector. And yet, somewhere deep inside, he felt less like a man and more like a shadow.
He pressed his palm to his chest. Beneath his tunic, in a small leather pouch, rested the trinket Sirius had given him years ago. He had nearly forgotten its weight, but tonight, for some reason, it felt warm.
---
The alarm bells shattered the night.
Clive was on his feet before thought caught up to him, sword drawn, heart hammering. The shouts of soldiers echoed down the corridors, frantic, panicked. Smoke rushed in with the wind, carrying the unmistakable scent of fire.
He sprinted through the halls, past servants fleeing, past knights rushing toward the gates. The castle shuddered as though the very earth had turned against it.
When he reached the courtyard, the sight stole his breath.
Flames licked the walls. Shadows surged through the gates—enemy soldiers, their banners black in the firelight. Screams cut the air. Rosaria was under attack.
"Joshua!" Clive's voice tore from his throat as he cut through the chaos, blade flashing. He cut down one soldier, then another, desperate to reach the inner keep. He had one duty—protect Joshua. If he failed, then he was nothing.
---
The keep's doors burst open as he reached them. Joshua stumbled out, his small frame trembling, his attendants scattered in terror. His eyes blazed with light too vast for a child to bear.
The Phoenix had awakened.
Clive froze as flames burst from Joshua's body, wings of fire spreading wide. The enemy forces reeled back as divine heat scorched the air. Joshua screamed, and the night sky itself seemed to burn.
"Joshua!" Clive cried, running forward—but the distance stretched like a nightmare, every step slower than the last.
And then, the world shattered.
From the fire, another shape tore free—a beast of flame and fury, too wild, too monstrous. The Phoenix faltered, devoured by a blaze darker than its own. Clive watched in horror as Joshua fell, his body swallowed in fire.
"No—NO!" Clive's scream cracked the heavens. He threw himself forward, heedless of the flames, heedless of the soldiers falling around him.
The last thing he saw was Joshua's face—eyes wide, lips forming his name. Then the boy was gone.
The Phoenix extinguished.
---
Clive fell to his knees, sword slipping from his hand. His breath came ragged, shallow. His vision blurred, and his chest clenched with agony.
He had failed.
He had failed the one person who mattered, the one promise he swore to uphold.
His mind screamed with guilt, tearing at itself. I should have been faster. I should have been stronger. I should have—
The words spiraled, dragging him deeper into despair. His thread trembled, fraying with every heartbeat.
High above, unseen, Sirius stood in the shadow of fate, watching Clive's strand writhe in agony. He had seen many threads unravel before, but this one—this one was different. It was unraveling not from death, but from despair so complete it threatened to sever the boy from his future entirely.
"If this continues…" Sirius whispered, eyes narrowing, "his thread will snap tonight."
He reached out, palm hovering over the shimmering line. The trinket he had given long ago began to glow faintly, resonating with Clive's soul.
---
On the battlefield, Clive's hand trembled as he pressed it to his chest. Warmth pulsed there, cutting through the storm of self-loathing.
The trinket glowed softly beneath his tunic, unseen, but its light seeped into him, steadying his breath. The fog did not vanish, the grief did not fade—but the crushing weight eased just enough for him to lift his head.
Tears streamed down his face as he gasped, clutching the charm through the fabric. "Joshua… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"
The warmth answered, not with words, but with presence. He was not alone.
Clive closed his eyes, and instead of breaking, he endured.
---
Sirius exhaled softly, relief flickering across his face. The boy's thread, though frayed, was no longer unraveling. The charm pulsed, weaving light through the cracks, protecting him from total collapse.
"Good," Sirius murmured. "You'll live. You'll carry this pain, but you'll live."
He folded his hands behind his back, gaze steady. "Without that charm, you would have shattered. Tonight would have ended you. But now… your story will continue."
He looked out over the burning city, where fate roared and screamed. "And when you finally rise… the world will tremble."
---
The flames raged long into the night. Rosaria fell. Families scattered. Soldiers died with blades in hand.
But one boy, broken yet unyielding, clutched a simple trinket as though it were life itself. And in truth, it was.
The Night of Flames would haunt Clive Rosfield forever, but it did not destroy him.
Not yet.