The fire crackled in your palms, warm and alive, dancing like it recognized you. The red glow cast strange shadows across the ruined stone walls, and for a moment, it was the only light in the darkness. You stood at the center of it, eyes glowing like coals, calm and unbothered by the flames licking up your forearms.

Sandor watched from a few paces back, his broad frame tense, eyes narrowed with something between awe and dread.

"Put that out," he growled, voice low and rough like gravel. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink. Instead, you turned to him with a soft smile that shouldn’t have belonged in a place like this. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Sandor.”

He scowled, jaw clenching beneath the deep scar that marred half his face. “You play with fire like it won’t bite you.” His gaze dropped to your hands, then back to your eyes. “It always bites.”

You took a step closer, your flame dimming down to a soft glow. “But it never bites me.”

He shifted uncomfortably, like the fire itself might leap from your skin to his. His eyes didn’t leave yours, though, and for once, he didn’t move away.

“You’re mad,” he muttered.

You laughed, light and unbothered. “I’ve been called worse.”

Sandor’s expression didn’t change, but something in him faltered. You were a puzzle he couldn’t solve—a woman wrapped in flame, full of dangerous faith and strange softness. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust you. But still… he didn’t leave.

“You’re not afraid of it,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “The fire.”