The road into Eldwynd Hollow was silent. Too silent.

Caelan’s boots crunched over frost, his breath curling into the cold morning air. Beside him, she walked with that strange, steady grace of hers—no fear in her step, no hesitation in her stride. The village looked smaller than he remembered, but the spire of the Church of the Burning Light still towered like a blade against the gray sky.

Every step closer was a weight pressing against his chest. The smell of woodsmoke was faint on the wind—innocent, for now. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

They didn’t sneak in. Caelan wanted them to see him. He pushed the great doors of the church open with a crash that echoed through the hollow chamber.

Faces turned. The same faces that had stood in the square that day. Some older, some unchanged. Priests in white robes froze mid-prayer, their words dying on their lips. The high priest stepped forward, recognition flashing in his eyes.

“You.”

“You burned my sister alive,” Caelan said, his voice low, trembling not with fear, but with rage.

“She was a witch,” the man replied, tone cold. “And you—”

The rest was drowned in the scrape of steel as Caelan drew his sword. He moved like a shadow given flesh, cutting down the first man who lunged at him.

Then all was chaos.

Robes became blades, prayers became curses, the holy became predators. They came at him from every side. Caelan fought like a man who had been waiting years for this moment—parrying, striking, cutting through the white-clad zealots who had once called him brother.

But there were too many.

A blade slipped past his guard, grazing his ribs. Another slammed into his shoulder, and he dropped to one knee, teeth gritted against the pain.

She had stood back until now, her eyes locked on him, fists clenched. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t interfere—not unless she had to. But then she saw one of them behind him, sword raised high, the killing blow seconds away.

Something inside her broke.

The air shifted, hot and sharp, as if the breath of the earth had risen through her lungs. Flames licked at her fingers, then roared outward in a sudden, unstoppable wave. The white robes caught first—screams filling the vaulted chamber. Wood cracked, banners curled into black ash, and stained-glass windows exploded into shards under the heat.

The fire did not stop at the church walls.

It ran wild through the village, leaping from roof to roof, swallowing homes, shops, everything in its path. People fled into the snow, their cries mixing with the roar of the flames. The sky turned orange.

Caelan had staggered to his feet, staring at her through the heat haze. Her hair whipped in the wind, a living flame of its own. The glow painted her in gold and red, her chest heaving. And there—just for a moment—a tear slid down her cheek, catching the firelight before it vanished.

She didn’t look at the burning. She looked at him.

When the last priest fell, Caelan’s sword hung limp at his side. He didn’t speak. The village—his home—was gone, nothing left but burning skeletons of wood and stone.

But she still stood there, close enough for him to feel her warmth through the cold wind, her hand finding his without words.

The fire raged behind them, painting the sky in a hellish glow, but neither of them turned away. For her, the world could burn if it meant he lived. And he didn’t yet know just how much of this had been for him.