The ruin had been a tomb of silence.
No birds stirred, no wind whispered, the air so still even the insects held their tongues as Lira stepped beneath the moss-draped archway marking the vault's entrance.
The forest around it seemed to watch, its broken trees leaning inward, their roots clawing at half-buried stones.
It took two days to find—two sleepless nights threading through tangled paths, navigating traps carved into the earth, not triggered by heat or weight but by intent.
Lira cloaked her mind, dulled her thoughts, slowed her heartbeat to a murmur, moving as a shadow's ghost.
In the vault's deepest chamber, she found the shard—nestled in a cracked ceremonial basin, shrouded in dry moss, hidden behind a stone slab.
Her dagger's tip eased it free, her gloved fingers never grazing its surface.
It pulsed once in her hand, not with light or heat, but with a shiver of recognition, as if it knew her.
She wrapped it in leather, her breath held, her eyes averted, and climbed out, the vault's weight pressing at her back.
At the cave's final lip, where shadows bled into trees, something watched.
Not a hunter's gaze, but a presence—still, heavy, seeing.
Lira felt it, a prickle on her neck, but saw nothing.
That night, at camp, she peeled off her tunic and found the mark: three soft black lines burned into her shoulder, painless until she saw them, then sharp with memory.
______
Now, two days later, in the quiet of Trail's End, Lira stood at the bar, her silver hair loose, veiling her face.
The tavern hummed with morning calm, the hearth's embers casting a faint glow, the air rich with woodsmoke and polished oak.
Kio stood behind her, his fingers tracing the barely visible brand near her collarbone, his touch light but steady.
Lira flinched, her breath catching. "I didn't see them," she muttered, her voice low, frayed.
"You weren't supposed to," Kio said, his tone calm, a balm against her unease.
"What is it?"
"Mark of the Echo Flame. They brand what they want to track."
"Track for what?"
"Desire. Shame. Secrets."
Lira froze, her emerald eyes flickering with a shadow of fear.
Kio stepped to the cabinet behind the bar, retrieving a small ceramic pot.
He twisted off the lid, releasing a sharp scent of lemon and ash, pungent enough to sting her nose.
"What's that?" she asked, her voice steadier now, a spark of her snark returning.
"Balm," he said. "From rare herbs. Stings a bit, but it'll work."
She didn't protest, her shoulders slumping slightly, trusting his hands.
Kio dipped his fingers into the balm, its texture gritty, and smeared it across the mark, his touch gentle but firm.
Without warning, he snapped his fingers near her skin, igniting a faint spark—a natural reaction from the balm's volatile oils, not flame but a cold, fleeting heat that danced across her shoulder for a heartbeat.
Lira gasped, stumbling against the counter, her hands gripping the wood.
The sensation didn't burn but pierced, unraveling the mark's hold like a thread pulled loose.
The lines flared red, then faded to nothing, leaving her skin unmarred.
Tears pricked her eyes, not from pain but from release, the weight of being watched lifting.
Kio's fingers brushed her jaw, a fleeting touch that grounded her.
"You're safe now," he said, his voice low, steady, a promise etched in the quiet.
Lira blinked, her mouth opening, then closing, words failing her.
She stepped forward, just a fraction, and let her forehead rest against his chest, her silver hair spilling over his shirt.
Her breath hitched, soft and raw.
Kio didn't wrap his arms around her, but he didn't pull away.
He stood still, his warmth a silent anchor, letting her lean into the safety of his presence.
The tavern's hearth crackled faintly, its glow wrapping them in a fragile, fleeting haven, as the morning light crept through the windows, soft and unjudging.