## CHAPTER 95: _"When Fire Fears the Flame"_
The forests of Elira wept fire.
Every leaf, ember-kissed. Every tree, trembling as if the sky had whispered a death sentence. The moon, once silver, hung blood-orange—watching. Arien stood at the border of the Whispering Woods, his feet half-buried in ash, his heart full of things he could no longer say aloud.
Lysia was asleep.
No, not asleep.
Held.
By the spell.
By the curse.
By memory itself.
Each night, her eyes fluttered open for seconds—searching, forgetting, crying. And each time, Arien sang her name like a lullaby to bring her back.
But today, she did not stir.
So he walked deeper into the forest, past where the trees bled ink. Past the forgotten graves of old gods. Past the part of him that wanted to give up.
He met the Flamewitch.
She was not human. Nor divine. She was something else.
Her hair was smoke. Her skin, living coals. Her voice, thunder in a bottle.
"You carry a fire you do not understand," she said.
He didn't answer.
"You burn for a girl who forgets you every dawn."
Still, he said nothing.
"You want to save her?"
"Yes."
"Then you must become the flame that doesn't consume."
—
Back in the Capitol, Lysia dreamt of fire.
Not the destructive kind.
The kind that warms.
That comforts.
That remembers.
She walked through halls built of stars. On each wall, memories flickered like paintings:
- Her father handing her a sword forged of moonlight.
- Her mother teaching her to braid spells into song.
- Arien, bleeding from the mouth, whispering: "Stay."
She reached the last wall.
It was blank.
The Flamewitch appeared beside her in the dream.
"You cannot reclaim love with memory," she said.
"But I loved him."
"Then go to the forest. Meet the fire. Let it test you."
Lysia awoke.
—
By dawn, they both reached the clearing.
Arien, burned but standing.
Lysia, shaking but alive.
The fire circled them.
"You must remember each other—not by thought," the flame hissed, "but by soul."
Lysia reached out.
Arien closed his eyes.
Their hands met.
And then the fire danced.
—
In that moment, a memory broke through:
A night when they were children—before curses, before bloodlines. Before magic carved scars into their names.
They had met before.
In a market.
She had spilled peaches.
He had helped her.
She had smiled.
He had laughed.
Just two strangers, once.
And now, bound.
"I remember you," Lysia whispered.
"And I never forgot," Arien replied.
—
The fire retreated.
The curse screamed.
The gods wept.
But Arien and Lysia stood still.
Together.