You were supposed to hate him.

Kinich—the ever-righteous, ever-annoying “flame of the old gods,” as some scholars called him. With his blazing Vision and holier-than-thou attitude, he was everything you couldn’t stand: self-important, cryptic, and always two steps ahead in the race for lost relics.

But tonight, under a sky pricked with stars and cooled by desert winds, things felt… different.

You sat across from him by a crackling fire, forced into temporary truce after both your camps had been wiped out by a sandstorm. Now, huddled in the hollow of a dune with only silence and stubborn pride between you, you stole a glance his way.

He was watching the flames, face lit softly by orange glow, golden eyes far away.

“You always look like you’re trying to set the whole world on fire,” you muttered, trying to break the silence.

Kinich’s eyes flicked to you. “Maybe the world needs a little burning.”

You rolled your eyes. “Still dramatic.”

“And you’re still reckless,” he shot back. “Charging into ancient ruins without a clue. If I hadn’t stopped you—”

“You mean ‘interfered.’”

“You would’ve triggered the trap.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Fair point.

The wind picked up, sending a ripple through his cloak. A few quiet seconds passed before his voice softened.

“Why do you do this? Chase the past like it owes you something?”

You looked away. “Maybe I’m trying to prove I’m more than just a footnote in someone else’s legacy.”

Kinich was quiet. Then, to your surprise, he said, “I understand.”

When you turned back, he wasn’t watching the fire anymore—he was watching you. Not with scorn. Not with challenge. With something else. Something almost… tender.

“You’re not just a footnote,” he said, voice low. “You burn brighter than you think.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Was that… a compliment?”

He smirked—just a little. “Don’t get used to it.”

But the way he looked at you afterward—like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t enemies anymore—made your chest feel warmer than the fire between you.