Eira's POV
The snow should have numbed her feet.Instead, it hissed beneath her step.
Steam rose from the prints she left behind, curling like whispers in the frozen dusk. The fire beneath her skin — ancient, alive, and barely contained — stirred at the contact. It had always been this way, ever since the Mark appeared on her throat, burning through her at the age of thirteen. Now, five years later, the world still mistook her for cursed. Dangerous. Untouchable.
They weren't wrong.
Eira Virell wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and glanced over the frostbitten treetops. The mountain village of Velmark sat just ahead, carved into the cliffs like a secret — small, walled, and bathed in the soft gold of lanterns against the snow. She should have felt relief at the sight of it.
But all she felt was dread.
The North was no place for someone like her. The very air seemed to resist her presence. Magic here was frozen. Watched. Punished. If anyone discovered what pulsed beneath her skin — the fire that never went out — she wouldn't leave alive.
She stepped out of the trees.
Velmark was quiet at dusk. Doors shut early. Windows glowed warmly but held back the world like shields. Snow had fallen that morning, and even now, fat flakes drifted lazily from the sky, settling on her hood like petals.
No one paid her much attention at first. Just another traveler in furs. Another cloaked shadow in the snow.
Good.
She passed the blacksmith's forge, still faintly lit. She smelled burning iron. Heard hammer strikes from within. She kept moving. Each footstep felt like a gamble.
All she needed was the herb. Starbane root. It grew only in the North. The healer in her village had said Velmark's apothecary might have some in stock — if she paid enough coin and kept her mouth shut.
She could do that. She had to.
Lira's fever won't wait another day. The thought of her younger sister's pale face and sunken eyes made Eira clench her jaw.
Then she felt it — like a ripple in the air.Magic. Not hers.
A presence brushed against her senses, sharp and cold. It wasn't fire. It was something opposite. Like frost forming over her skin, trying to crack through.
She turned, slowly.
At first, all she saw was a man. Tall, armored, moving through the snow like he didn't feel it. His cloak flared slightly in the wind. Behind him, two more figures stood — watchful, armed. Soldiers.
But it was the man in front who made her breath catch.
His eyes met hers across the square.
Steel-gray. Unblinking.
And filled with magic.
Kael's POV
The moment he felt it, Kael knew.
Magic. In the village. Active. Undeclared.
And not the cold, regulated magic of Northern scribes. This was wild. Feral. Hot enough to leave a scar in the weave of the world.
He dismounted before his horse fully stopped. His guards followed at a distance — not too close. They knew better than to interfere when Kael moved like this. His instincts weren't to be questioned.
He walked into the village square, scanning faces. Locals. Traders. A few traveling merchants. None of them felt like the flare he'd just sensed.
Then he saw her.
A woman in a deep gray cloak, standing too still. Her eyes met his — and something in his chest tightened.
Not recognition. Not fear. Something older. Deeper. The air shifted around her, like it was trying to hide her.
But Kael had hunted fireborns before.
He could feel it in her — even if she hid the glow, even if she wore the cloak. Fire didn't go unnoticed. Not to him.
His boots crunched as he crossed the snow. The woman turned as he neared, like she already knew he'd come for her.
"Who are you?" he asked quietly.
She tilted her head. Her voice was calm — too calm.
"No one important," she said. "I'm just here for herbs."
Her lie was smooth, but Kael saw the flicker in her throat — the faint, glowing sigil barely concealed by her scarf.
The Mark.
His heart slowed.
"Show me your neck."
The words came cold. Final.
The woman's smile barely twitched. "And if I say no?"
"I'll make you."
That's when it happened.
A shimmer of heat pulsed out from her. No flame, no explosion — just pressure. The snow around her feet melted in a perfect circle.
The guards behind him drew their weapons.
Kael raised a hand.
"Don't," he said. "She's mine."
Eira's POV
Panic was a mistake. She knew that. Panic gave fire its teeth.
So she didn't panic.
She held her ground, even as her heart thundered against her ribs. This man — this prince, she realized too late — had just claimed her like she was some prize.
She should've run before stepping into this cursed town.
"I'm not yours," she said, voice calm.
His eyes searched her face, not with lust — but with suspicion. With history. Like she reminded him of something that hurt.
"Take off the scarf."
She didn't move.
Around them, villagers watched from behind windows. No one would help her.
No one ever helped a fireborn.
"If you force me," she said, "you won't like what happens."
Something flickered across his face — not fear. Intrigue.
"I want to see what happens," he said.
For a moment, the silence between them burned.
Then she moved.
Not to flee.
But to ignite.