Ashes in the Vein

The midnight storm had retreated, leaving the earth drenched and steaming under the early dawn. Inside the stone corridors of the citadel, Lucien paced like a caged beast. The night’s visions had not faded. Instead, they pulsed stronger with each breath he took — whispers of fire, the scent of jasmine and blood, and eyes like burning embers that saw through him.

Seraphina.

He didn’t know her name then, but now that he did, it was a chain around his mind, binding his thoughts to her.

“You summoned her,” the Oracle had said, her voice a rattle of dried leaves.

“No,” he had replied, though his voice wavered.

She had only smiled. “You always do, eventually.”

Now, in the candle-lit study where he prepared his potions and scrolls, Lucien stood at a table, the rune-etched wood beneath his fingertips humming faintly. The flame of a single black candle danced with unnatural vigor. He stared at it, daring it to speak.

And it did.

Not with words, but with an image.

A vision, flickering in the smoke: Seraphina, standing in the ruins of the old forest temple, her hands lifted, red magic swirling around her like serpents.

“She’s calling the Flame again,” he whispered.

“Lucien?”

The voice at the door startled him. Amaris, the head librarian, stepped into the room, her robes dusty from the archives.

“There’s been a disturbance in the Southern Wards,” she said. “A farmer’s child wandered into the woods and was found speaking in tongues. Runes were carved into the trees — old magic, dangerous magic.”

Lucien’s pulse quickened. “Show me.”

Minutes later, he stood in the glade, the child asleep under a protection ward. Around them, trees bore twisted symbols — marks he hadn’t seen since his youth.

“Blood magic,” Amaris said grimly.

“No,” Lucien corrected. “Witchfire.”

He turned to the child. “Did she speak a name?”

Amaris hesitated. “Only once. Seraphina.”

The name struck the air like thunder.

Far from the citadel, beyond the ruined borderlands and past the haunted marshes, Seraphina stood before a mirror of black obsidian, her hands slick with blood.

She had seen Lucien’s face in the flames the night before.

“Fate always circles back,” she murmured, her voice velvet and venom. “But this time, I hold the leash.”

A low growl sounded from the shadows.

Behind her, Auren — her sentinel — emerged. His eyes glowed like a wolf’s, his body stitched together by magic older than time.

“He dreams of you,” Auren said, bowing his head.

“He always does,” Seraphina replied. “Because I allow it.”

“You intend to go to him?”

She traced a line across the mirror, and it shimmered with fire.

“I intend to burn away the lie he lives in.”

She waved her hand, and the mirror displayed the citadel. Lucien pacing, fretting, unaware of how deeply his soul still belonged to her.

Their bond had never broken. Just buried.

Seraphina turned from the vision and stepped into a circle of salt and ash.

“Tonight,” she whispered, “I return.”

Lucien stood on the northern parapet, watching clouds roll in like waves of ink. Amaris joined him, her expression unreadable.

“Storm’s returning,” she said.

“It’s not weather,” he replied. “It’s her.”

Amaris gave a slow nod. “You need to tell me the truth, Lucien. Who is Seraphina?”

Lucien closed his eyes. Memories rushed forward.

“She was once my everything. My shadow. My flame.”

“And now?”

“She is the blade I forged and lost.”

Amaris inhaled sharply. “You loved her.”

“No,” Lucien said, and the wind carried the lie away. “I still do.”

Below, the bells of the western tower rang out. A warning.

Lucien turned, eyes widening. “She’s here.”

That night, a chill swept through the citadel. Doors creaked open without cause. Flames guttered in their sconces.

Seraphina walked the lower halls like a ghost made flesh, her robes whispering secrets to the stones. Guards who saw her could not recall her face — only the heat that lingered after she passed.

In the sanctum where the Archmages once convened, she lit the central pyre with a thought.

Lucien entered, heart thundering.

“Seraphina.”

She smiled — a dangerous, familiar thing.

“Lucien.”

They stood in silence, the fire between them.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“I should be everywhere,” she replied. “You forget who I am.”

“I remember too well.”

She stepped forward. “Do you? Or did you bury the truth to protect your new world?”

He looked away.

“I came to warn you,” she said. “The Flame stirs. The old powers awaken. And they remember what you did.”

“What we did,” he corrected.

Seraphina’s eyes darkened. “I never ran.”

Lucien’s voice cracked. “You destroyed everything.”

She stepped closer. “I unveiled everything.”

The silence stretched.

Lucien stared into the fire. “Why now?”

Seraphina tilted her head. “Because the end begins where the beginning was never finished.”

And with a flick of her hand, she vanished, leaving only the scent of jasmine and fire.

Hours later, alone in his chamber, Lucien sat with the remnants of an old letter. Her handwriting — graceful and cruel.

He traced the words:

When the shadows call, I will answer with fire. And when you forget, I will return.

He looked to the window, where the sky burned with unnatural light.

Seraphina had returned.

But not for forgiveness.

She had returned for reckoning.

And Lucien knew — their war was not over. It had only just begun.