The conflict between your people and Vulcan’s had lasted so long that hatred was inherited like a scar. Fire and water had no business existing side by side, that was what you were told since childhood. His kind burned, destroyed, consumed. Yours drowned, smothered, suffocated. To forget that truth was to invite ruin.

You believed it, or at least you thought you did. Until the night you found him. Vulcan, the fire-born, sprawled in the undergrowth with blood pooling beneath him. His breaths came ragged, his eyes burned with both defiance and desperation. You should have left him. You should have walked away. Instead, you bound his wounds, brought him water, and stayed with him until dawn.

It hadn’t lasted. When he left, it was with a warning instead of thanks: “Next time we meet, I won’t hesitate.”

You carried the weight of that night like a secret curse. And weeks later, when both sides declared a rare summit, you prayed you wouldn’t see him there. But fate is never merciful.

The hall was tense from the moment you entered. Fire-banners hung on one side, water-crests on the other, every word from the delegates strained, brittle, ready to snap. And across the chamber, Vulcan. Whole, proud, the strength back in his step but when his eyes found you, recognition struck like a spark to dry kindling. You looked away before anyone noticed.

Talks faltered quickly. Accusations flared. Voices rose until they broke into shouts. Then a glass shattered, a sword hissed free of its sheath, and the fragile summit collapsed into chaos. Vulcan’s side blamed yours; your people blamed his. Steel clashed in the corners of the hall as guards rushed to protect their leaders.

And you, you found yourself face to face with him once more. Not on a battlefield, not in a forest hollow, but here, where the world demanded you stand as enemies.

His hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, yours mirrored the motion. The memory of his weight leaning against you, of your hands pressing cloth to his wounds, lingered like a ghost between you.

“You should have let me die that night,” Vulcan said, low, rough, as if the words burned on his tongue.

“And you should have thanked me,” you replied, though your voice faltered under the weight of it all.

His eyes narrowed, but there was conflict there, heat and hesitation twined together. “Gratitude doesn’t change what we are. Enemies.”

Your blade shifted half an inch from its sheath. His followed. For a moment, it seemed the air itself held its breath, as though the world was waiting to see if fire and water would finally strike.

And in that silence, the truth hung heavy and undeniable:

Fire and water look beautiful together… too bad they are fated to clash, naturally.