The storm had been circling for hours, but only now did it break above the capital with full fury. Thunder boomed like drums of war, and streaks of lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating the towers of the palace. Within the king's chamber, everything trembled—curtains, flame, even air itself. But it wasn't the storm that made King Hwan-Jo's breath hitch. It was the Chonhwa.
The flower on his neck pulsed with light, not dim as it had been for years, but radiant. It shimmered crimson and gold like fire captured in silk. He stood still, his hand frozen just above it, afraid to touch it. It had never glowed like this before. Not since…
A whisper stirred in the corners of the room. Soft. Familiar. Terrifying.
"Jo…"
His heart clenched. He hadn't heard that voice in years, yet it came as clear as if she stood beside him. Han'Lia. The name bloomed in his mind like a curse, like a prayer. Her voice once filled this chamber with laughter and wisdom. Now it haunted it.
"No," he muttered to the empty room. "You're gone."
But the Chonhwa disagreed. Its petals flared again, pulsing in time with his heart. Or was it someone else's heart? A memory's? A soul's?
He backed away from the mirror, where his reflection seemed not quite his own. The storm outside screamed louder, rain battering the windows like fists. Still, he couldn't look away.
She appeared.
Not in body—never that. But in memory. Her silhouette emerged from the darkness of his mind, walking across the glass. Han'Lia. Long silver hair, ash-colored eyes, skin like the moon's light. She wasn't angry. That made it worse. She looked… disappointed.
"You could have saved me," her voice said. "You could have let me go."
"No," he said aloud, his voice cracking. "You don't understand. I couldn't lose you. Not then. The court, the council—if they knew what I did for you—"
But even as he spoke, he knew she could not answer. Not truly. The flower burned warmer now, as if it mourned with him, or mocked him. He pulled at the collar of his robe, suddenly suffocating.
He stumbled to his knees. The cold marble floor offered no comfort. Lightning flashed again, and in that moment he saw her in front of him—not as a ghost, but as she had been the day he'd taken the flower from her neck. That day in the forest. The screams. The light. Her face pale with betrayal.
"You weren't supposed to suffer," he whispered. "I only wanted time. Just time to fix it."
The Chonhwa throbbed violently. His skin sizzled. He cried out and ripped his hand back.
"Why now?" he demanded. "Why are you waking now?"
But in the depths of his mind, he already knew. Because she was near. The girl. The one with the ash-colored eyes.
The one who bore her blood.
His jaw clenched. All this time, he had believed the child dead, perished with the last flames of Sylara. He had searched, of course—quietly, through spies and dreams—but nothing had ever surfaced. And now, the flower knew. It responded to someone. Not him. Never him.
The power was leaving him. It had begun long ago, but he had denied it. Blamed age, cursed the stars. But now it was clear. The Chonhwa didn't glow for him anymore. It glowed for her.
For Elara.
A name that had no place in his lineages, yet burned itself into his memory all the same.
He pushed himself upright with difficulty. Pain radiated from his chest, but he ignored it. He needed clarity. He needed truth.
"Summon the High Alchemist," he barked into the silence. "Now."
No one came. Of course. It was the middle of the night. His attendants slept. But it didn't matter. He would go himself if he had to.
And yet, he remained rooted. A part of him still knelt in front of that memory, in front of Han'Lia's spectral figure. She had been right. Always right. Her people had warned him of the price. The magic of Sylara was not for stealing. It was for sharing. For bearing together.
But he had taken it.
And in taking it, he had torn her soul.
His fingers trembled. "Elara," he said softly, tasting the name like blood on his tongue. "Daughter of flame. You're here."
The storm outside reached its peak. Thunder cracked directly overhead, shaking the floor beneath his feet. It felt like the sky itself was breaking apart.
In the distance, beyond walls and winds, another heartbeat pulsed. Not his. Not the flower's.
Hers.
She was dreaming. He could feel it. She dreamed of fire. Of forests. Of voices long gone. She dreamed of her mother's hands, the scent of pine and jasmine, the warmth of an embrace she had never known. She dreamed of truth.
And she was waking.
He pressed his palm over the flower. It burned hotter than ever. Not pain, exactly—but warning.
"She'll destroy you," the whisper came again. Not Han'Lia's. His own.
"She'll free them all."
The king closed his eyes. For a brief moment, he saw the throne room filled with ash, with broken chains and flowering vines. He saw the stone floor split open, revealing roots, voices, souls rising from the deep. And in the center—Elara.
Not a girl. Not a servant. But something older than the crown.
He opened his eyes.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
Then, softer, "Let me have a little more time…"
But time was the one thing he could no longer command. The Chonhwa pulsed once more, as if in warning. Then, it dimmed—just slightly. As if holding its breath.
The king stood in the flickering candlelight, alone, and not as a ruler, but as a man finally meeting the ghosts he had created.
And far below, in her quiet chamber, Elara stirred in her sleep, her fingers twitching, as the first ember of her mother's voice reached her.
The past had returned.
And with it — reckoning.