Chapter One — The Girl with the Golden Heart
The wind carried the scent of rain and wild thyme across the hills of Thalen, a small village tucked beneath the shadow of the Greyspire Mountains. The day was quiet—too quiet—except for the soft humming of a young woman kneeling beside a wounded farmer.
"Breathe, Tomas," she whispered, her voice low and steady. "The fever will pass. Just breathe."
Her name was Aelira Voss, though most in Thalen called her the golden heart. No one remembered who started the name—perhaps because when she smiled, even the sick swore the world grew lighter.
She pressed her hands over Tomas's chest. A faint, golden light pulsed beneath her palms—soft at first, then brighter. The man gasped, the fever's flush fading as color returned to his face. When she pulled her hands away, only a small scar remained where the wound had been.
The villagers who gathered outside her cottage murmured prayers to the old gods.
"She's touched by the Divine," one whispered.
"No," said another, crossing himself. "That's witchcraft. Power like that never comes without a price."
Aelira heard, but said nothing. She had learned that healing bodies was far easier than healing fear.
---
By sunset, she walked to the well at the edge of the fields, rinsing her hands in the cool water. The surface shimmered with reflected gold from the dying sun. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel peace.
Then—
A shadow fell over her.
"Still saving the world, Aelira?" a familiar voice teased. She turned and smiled.
Kael Dravorn stood there, armor dull with travel dust, sword at his hip. His dark hair had grown longer since she last saw him, and a new scar traced his jaw. He looked older, heavier with unspoken things.
"You're late," she said, her smile widening. "You promised to return before harvest."
He grinned back, though his eyes betrayed something weary. "War doesn't wait for promises."
They sat by the well, the silence between them thick with memories. He told her of battles fought in the Queen's name, of nobles scheming for power, of men dying for crowns they would never wear. Aelira listened, her golden hair catching the last light of day.
"I hate it there," he admitted finally. "The court, the lies… You don't know how lucky you are, here among people who still believe in kindness."
She lowered her gaze. "Kindness is fragile, Kael. Sometimes I think it's the first thing the world tries to kill."
He laughed softly. "Then it's a good thing you're stubborn."
But when he looked at her, something else flickered in his expression—something like guilt.
---
That night, Aelira dreamed of black water and golden fire. In the dream, a voice whispered her name—ancient and cold.
> "Your heart will save the world, little healer…
but who will save your heart?"
She woke with a start. The candle had burned low. Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains.
At the edge of the forest, unseen by mortal eyes, a pair of crimson lights watched her window—eyes belonging to something not human, waiting for the first crack to form in her golden heart.