The battlefield trembled beneath the weight of Velithra's fury. Lightning forked from her wings, fire erupted from her hands, and the very stones beneath the warriors' feet cracked and shattered. She hovered above them like a silver storm, her hair gleaming, her eyes burning with the wrath of millennia.
"Thyssar ven'kaelith!"
("Fools, you dare defy me!")
The lead warrior, heart hammering in his chest, stepped forward. The ember in his palm pulsed like a heartbeat, glowing brighter as he focused all his courage and determination into it. His voice rang in the ancient tongue:
"Aelor myn'thar veyrath!"
("Velithra, your reign ends here.")
Velithra's laugh was a scream of silver flame.
"Kaelith wyr'ena, thyssar an'vor!"
("I am the storm before the stars, the flame that devours eternity!")
Her attacks tore through the battlefield, waves of fire and lightning tossing the other warriors aside, yet he advanced. Step by step, he closed the distance, his grip on the Ember unwavering. The air around it shimmered, the fire within reacting to his courage.
She lunged, wings sweeping like molten steel. He ducked, rolling under a blast that could have split mountains. Sparks danced around him, fire sizzling against the ground, shadows leaping in impossible angles. Then, with every ounce of strength, he launched himself upward, straight at her heart.
Time seemed to slow. The Ember burned in his hand like a sun, radiating heat and light. He drove it into her chest, the surface of her skin giving way under the divine flame. Velithra's scream shattered the skies, pain, rage, and disbelief mixing into a sound that would echo for eternity.
"Thalor nythar velithra!"
("No! This cannot be!")
With a violent surge, he pulled the Ember out. It had turned silver in color, glowing with a cold, pure light. He staggered back, eyes wide, sweat stinging, as everyone around watched. Velithra's form twisted and shrank violently, collapsing to their size. Her wings crumbled, hair dulling from brilliant silver to muted gray, and she fell to the ground, unconscious.
The lead warrior fell to his knees, chest heaving, tears streaking his dirt-stained face. He lifted his gaze to the heavens, whispering a prayer in the ancient tongue:
"Veyrath luminar, Lumira thalor'an."
("O eternal light, guide this soul.")
He pressed the silver Ember to his chest. Pain exploded through him, searing through his body like molten fire, and he screamed, a sound of agony and sacrifice. His knees buckled, his body hit the ground hard. His eyes flared silver, the vessel of Velithra's power now bound within him. He went still, finally at peace, yet lifeless.
The remaining warriors knelt around him, murmuring:
"Thalor veyrath anira."
("He carries the flame now. May the heavens guard his soul.")
Lyra jolted awake, a sharp gasp tearing from her lungs. Sweat clung to her skin, her heart hammering in her chest. The nightmare had returned again, the screams, the fire, the agony of that ancient battle, etched into her memory like scars on stone.
Every night, without fail, she relived it, and every night it hurt as though it had just happened.
Her bedroom was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of city lights spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. Modern, sleek, minimalistic,.but impossibly luxurious.
Black-and-white abstract art hung on walls that whispered wealth without arrogance,.
A plush rug softened the sound of her bare feet as she slid from the sheets, her grey silky hair falling over her shoulders in the dim light.
She glanced at the clock, 3:00 a.m. Her breath caught in a sigh, the insomnia already creeping in.
Lyra walked to the balcony, glass sliding open silently, and leaned against the cool railing.
The city hummed beneath her, a sea of lights, moving and alive. She had moved countless times, reinvented herself over a hundred lives, changing names, faces, and stories.
Nobody knew her truth. She was filthy rich, yes, but she didn't flaunt it. People only whispered, puzzled by the woman who carried the beauty of youth yet moved with the grace of someone who had seen centuries.
They guessed her age, twenty-seven. She let them wonder.
The chill of night urged her back inside. In the bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror. Grey hair, long, glossy, and impossibly beautiful. People had asked her countless times how her hair stayed like that. She always smiled and said, "Genetics." The truth, of course, was far older, far darker.
With a sigh, she washed her face, the cold water removing the remnants of panic from the dream. Her skin glowed faintly under the soft bathroom lights, smooth and flawless, untouched by time, her curse and her gift.
Unable to calm her racing mind, she moved to the living room. Plush, modern furniture stretched around her, sinking into the leather sofa, the television flickered on, casting light across the space. News, talk shows, reruns—anything to distract her from the memories that gnawed at her, reminding her that some pasts never truly fade, no matter how many lifetimes she lived.