The Stranger in the Abyss

"Interesting," he finally said, his voice smooth, edged with something unreadable. "You weren't supposed to survive that."

The words crawled under her skin, but she was too weak to respond. Her fingers clawed at the ground as she tried to push herself up, only for her arms to give out beneath her.

He took a slow step closer, his boot nudging aside the remains of a creature she had burned to ash.

"That power," he mused, tilting his head. "It wasn't yours."

Her breath hitched. A sharp pain lanced through her chest.

She hated the way he was looking at her—like a puzzle he was piecing together, something to be studied rather than saved.

She clenched her fists, ignoring the sting of raw, burned skin. "Who are you?"

The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether her question was worth answering. Then, instead of replying, he moved.

Not a step. Not a shift. Just—one moment he was distant, the next he was close. Too close.

The air thickened, laced with something sharp, something dangerous.

Arienne tensed, but she couldn't move.

"Someone who doesn't waste time saving the dead," he murmured.

Before she could react, he crouched down, as his hand caught her chin, tilting her face upward—not rough, not gentle, just… decisive.

A silent judgment.

He was close enough that she could see the faint smirk playing at his lips, and how his silver-gray eyes, cold and keen as a honed blade, studied her with quiet amusement and curiousity.

Shadows clung to him, drawn in by the stark contrast of his sharp features, the cut of his jaw, the slight curve of his mouth that never quite gave away his thoughts.

His dark brown hair, nearly black, fell in an unruly mess, a careless contrast to the precision in his every move.

A man shaped by danger, accustomed to command.

And right now, he was studying her as if deciding whether she was worth keeping intact.

"I wonder," he murmured, almost to himself. "Does it hurt more knowing you were supposed to die, or knowing something decided you shouldn't?"

Arienne forced herself to glare at him, summoning whatever strength she had left.

"Who… are you?" she rasped again.

He chuckled, low and quiet. "Just a fellow exile."

His gaze flickered over her once more, the smirk fading slightly. "And if you don't want to become just another corpse in this place, I suggest you start listening very carefully."

Arienne's body ached, every nerve raw from the power that had coursed through her—power that was not her own.

The cursed flames had vanished, leaving behind only exhaustion and a hollow, sinking feeling in her chest.

She had fought, burned, survived. But she could barely move now, barely breathe.

And this man—this stranger—was watching her as if she were something fascinating, something he had been waiting for.

A flicker of unease settled in her gut.

She forced herself to push up onto her elbows, though the effort made her vision blur. "If you're here to kill me, get it over with," she rasped.

The man's lips curved slightly, but there was no warmth in it.

"Kill you?" He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No, Phoenix. You'll do that yourself soon enough."

Something in his voice sent a chill through her.

He knew. He knew about the power.

Her fingers dug into the dirt. "What are you talking about?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out lazily, plucking a strand of her black-crimson hair between his fingers, twirling it as if considering something.

His silver-gray eyes held no urgency, no concern.

Only calculation.

"Do you even realize what just happened?" he asked, his voice almost gentle, but laced with something sharper underneath. "That fire was lent to you."

She yanked her head back, breathing hard.

He let the strand slip from his fingers. "You felt it, didn't you? A presence. Something waking up inside you, deciding that you weren't finished yet."

Arienne's throat went dry.

Because she had felt something.

A force, vast and overwhelming, pressing against her very soul. It had ignited within her, unfamiliar yet impossibly strong. And now, it was gone, leaving her emptier than before.

He stood up, towering over her.

"Do you think the Abyss just hands out second chances?" he murmured. "Do you think it gives power without a cost?"

She clenched her teeth. "I don't care what it was," she hissed. "It kept me alive."

The man exhaled through his nose, almost like he was amused by her stubbornness. "For now."

A gust of cold wind rushed through the abyss, stirring the ashes around them.

The monstrous corpses she had burned lay scattered, unmoving. But she knew others would come.

He extended a hand. "You have two choices, Phoenix."

She stared at it, wary.

"You can sit here, bleeding and broken, until the next wave of creatures finds you."

His fingers flexed slightly, as if daring her to refuse. "Or you can come with me and live long enough to figure out what's really happening to you."

Arienne's breathing was still ragged, her body still screaming in protest.

She didn't trust him. She didn't trust anyone.

But the Abyss was merciless.

And the way he spoke—the way he knew—told her that whatever had just happened to her, whatever had chosen her… he had seen it before.

Slowly, she reached up, her fingers brushing against his.

His grip tightened, firm and steady, pulling her up just enough for her to stand on shaking legs.

He didn't let go immediately. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice a quiet whisper against the dark.

"You're not the first to hear the Phoenix's call," he murmured. "But you might be the last."

Then, with a flick of his coat, he turned. "Try to keep up."

And without another word, he disappeared into the shadows.

Arienne exhaled, forcing herself to move, to follow.

Because she had a feeling that wherever he was leading her… was exactly where she needed to go.