You woke to the smell of smoke and the sound of slow, crackling embers. Your body ached, your vision blurred, everything around you was bathed in gold and blue light. When your eyes finally adjusted, you saw him.

A man crouched beside you, his hand hovering just above your wound. Fire shimmered around his fingers, not red, but a haunting azure that burned cold and bright. His expression was calm, almost serene, though his eyes betrayed centuries of weariness.

“Hold still,” he murmured. “It’ll hurt.”

You barely had time to breathe before his hand touched your skin. The pain that followed wasn’t natural, it tore through you, every nerve screaming as the wound knitted itself shut under the blue fire. You could smell ash, feel heat and cold all at once. When it was finally over, your body trembled, healed but hollow.

The man stood, brushing soot from his coat. His feathers, charred black and tipped in glowing embers, flickered faintly as they faded into his back. “Most people don’t ask for my help twice,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’re alive. That’s something.”

When the flames died down, your skin was whole, unmarked. He stood, brushing soot from his coat, his expression unreadable. “Don’t thank me,” he said, turning toward the dark horizon. “You’ll hate me once the shock fades.” A faint glow lingered around his shoulders, feathers made of fire flickering and then dissolving into ash. “Name’s Marco. Try not to get hurt again. I don’t like watching people scream.”