Chapter I

No sky.

Only smoke.

Only rust, cables, steam, and silence.

She walks.

Kills on command.

Burns without mercy.

But the fire has rules.

And so does she.

A trap.

An abomination.

Ruins that breathe without air.

She speaks one word.

Burn.

It obeys.

But he does not.

He walks through fire.

Beautiful.

Unharmed.

Unknowable.

Curious.

Then—

Screams.

Smoke.

Alchemy.

A blade that sings in light.

Inquisitors.

The Church.

Her sister.

Her promise.

Fire answers rage.

They melt like wax.

And still, he watches her.

A name.

A choice.

A hand.

She takes it.

Then lets go.

Not trust. Not yet.

But something cracks.

Two names.

Carved in smoke.

Ravan.

Enya.

Smoke still rises from the ruins, framing the two lone survivors.

Neve.

The name explodes in her mind like a gunshot.

It's not a thought.

It's a panic.

Enya doubles over, hands on her knees, heart thundering in her temples.

The ruins burn around her.

The bodies… still smoking.

Flesh fused to sacred steel. Shattered sigils.

The smell is too much.

Burnt. Metallic. Familiar.

Like then.

"Neve…" she murmurs, but no sound comes out.

If the deal is broken—

If Gothel sold that off too, along with her—

Then Neve is in danger.

Enya can't breathe.

Can't think.

She runs.

Away from the ruins.

Away from what she did.

From the voice.

From everything.

But she's not alone.

There's a shadow behind her.

No sound. No words.

But always there.

One step behind.

Ravan.

As if his only path now is her.

As if, in fire and tears,

he's decided she's the only road that might lead somewhere.

To something.

To himself?

But Enya doesn't know.

Doesn't want to know.

Not now.

She runs.

Her breath tears at her lungs.

Her heartbeat is drum and chain.

Her legs burn—but she doesn't stop.

Outside, it's night already.

But the factories never sleep.

The sky is still gone.

Only artificial lights.

And the red glow of the furnaces pulsing beneath the smokestacks, like diseased hearts.

Enya runs.

Then walks.

Then runs again.

She knows this road well.

From the Undercity to the Middle Ring.

Straight as a scar.

The district changes shade as it rises.

Pipes turn sleeker.

The faces of the few passersby, less gaunt.

But the stench remains.

Always.

The building is still there.

The orphanage.

Comforting on the outside. Clean windows. A faded sign with a smiling sun.

Inside—rot.

Gothel has used it for years to mask her trades.

Killers dressed as caretakers.

Forgotten children, used as a shield from the Crown's eyes, to make the truth unthinkable.

And among them—Neve.

Lights off. Silence.

The orphans must be asleep.

Unaware.

Enya stops. Her chest rises in ragged gasps.

Her hands tremble.

Not from exhaustion.

From what she's about to do.

Take Neve away.

Pull her from the "pact."

Steal her from the hand that protected her—and threatened her.

But without medicine?

Where will she go?

How will she survive?

There's no time.

Not now.

A step. A sound.

Not hers.

Enya spins around.

Ravan.

Still there.

One meter away. Silent. Unnerving.

A statue with golden eyes.

"This isn't your business," she spits, teeth clenched.

He says nothing.

But doesn't move.

Doesn't leave.

He watches.

With that calm. Too calm.

As if he's saying: I know what happens when you lose control. I've seen it.

She clenches her fists.

The rage returns.

Not at him. Not really.

At everything.

She turns.

Ignores him.

And kicks the door in.

A clean blow.

The wood gives with a dull crack.

Two shadows emerge from the hallway.

Dark uniforms. Tired eyes.

But their hands—quick. Straight to their pistols.

"Enya…"

A strangled voice. One of them.

Tries to sound firm. Fails.

"We weren't expecting you."

The other starts shaking.

Glances nervously at his partner, fear crawling up fast.

They're the night guards.

Mercenaries well paid by Gothel.

Honorless dogs.

But even they don't want to face the Fire Witch off-script.

Enya stares at them.

No words.

No screams.

She opens her hands.

Flames bloom like hellflowers.

Crimson light. Choking heat.

The two brutes freeze.

Their weapons clatter to the ground.

Their knees buckle.

"No—wait!"

"We don't want trouble, please!"

Terror.

Sobs.

Two beaten dogs, fleeing with tails tucked low.

Enya exhales.

Not out of mercy.

Out of impatience.

They're wasting her time—and she's starving for it.

She runs.

Takes the stairs like she could break them with the weight of her steps.

The hallway stretches.

Every door, a judgment.

Then—her door.

Neve's door.

She stops.

Her heart pounds in her throat.

Her hands shake.

Enya reaches for the handle.

But—

a voice. Soft. From the other side.

"...Enya?"

A whisper.

A feather in the night.

But she knows it instantly.

Neve.

She understands. She heard.

She knows it's her.

Enya inhales.

Holds it.

Fakes calm.

Fails.

She opens the door slowly.

Silence. No alarm. No scream.

Neve is there.

Sitting on the bed.

Thin nightgown, hands folded in her lap.

Pale. More than usual.

Her eyes rise.

They lock on Enya.

No smile. No shock.

Only—

awareness.

Two sisters.

Left behind once.

Ready to flee the world again.

Neve says almost nothing.

She doesn't need to.

Enya understands.

She knows.

"We have to go, snowflake," she whispers.

Her voice is hoarse.

Like the flames burned her words too.

Neve stands.

Slow. Fragile.

Enya steps in. Helps her dress.

A jacket too big.

Little boots Enya wore at her age.

Quick movements. Shaking hands.

Every gesture, a swallowed scream.

Every second, a regret.

Enya glances back again and again.

Her gaze slices the dark like a blade.

No enemies.

No alarms.

No... Ravan.

Where the hell is that golden-eyed nuisance?

The silence weighs heavier than threats.

Neve is ready.

Enya grabs her hand.

Firm. Final. No softness.

And they run.

The night swallows them.

Stairs. Hallways. Doors slammed open.

Neve stumbles, clings tight.

"Enya... slow down..."

Her voice is a breath. A thread.

But Enya doesn't hear.

Can't stop.

Mustn't.

Footsteps.

Behind.

Many.

Heavy. Urgent.

Enya halts for a second.

Grinds her teeth.

"Shit."

She should've roasted those two bastards.

She's burned worse.

What difference would it have made?

But now it's too late.

It's not the sabers.

It's not the pistols.

It's not the circle of assassins closing in around them.

Hunger in their eyes. Tools of death clutched in crime-stained hands.

It's the voice.

Gothel's voice.

"Oh, dearest Enya," she says.

A slow, syrupy laugh that reeks of lavender and dried blood.

"You really thought you could just walk away?"

Enya freezes.

Every fiber tight.

Her heart, a grenade without its pin.

She wants to burn them all.

Starting with her.

Gothel.

The woman who raised her on missions and blackmail.

The serpent mother.

But—

Neve.

She's here.

Fragile. Breathing. Alive.

She can't risk her.

Can't burn her.

Can't show her what she really is.

"Enya... what's happening?"

Neve's voice is a wounded whisper.

Wide, trembling eyes.

"Why... why is the Matron looking at us like that? Why... the guards?"

No answer.

Just a growl.

Low. Deep. Inhuman.

Enya holds her.

A tight embrace.

Almost a vice.

A desperate sister's last attempt to shield her own blood

from the living flame she's become.

The only part of that silent hallway she hopes—

with every breath—

won't be devoured by the hell about to erupt.

"Don't move," she whispers.

Her voice is broken.

But the command is clear.

Neve's head presses into her sister's chest.

And she feels it.

Heat.

Rising.

Like lava.

Like liquid rage.

"It's hot... Enya—"

"Stay still."

Gothel's laugh sharpens.

"Oh, Enya... I know you too well.

You don't have the guts.

Not here. Not with her."

The guards tighten formation.

Steps creak on the floor.

Guns lift.

Blades gleam.

Enya closes her eyes.

Hands open.

Fingers tremble.

And then—

flames.

Silent.

Thin.

But real.

They slip between her fingers.

Like ancient serpents.

Ready.

But before hell can break loose—

Thud.

The first one drops.

Then a second.

Then a third.

Heavy bodies crumple with barely a sound.

Not dead.

Just—switched off.

Like broken machines.

Gothel spins around.

"What the hell—"

Too late.

A shadow glides across the room.

Silent.

Lethal.

Perfect.

Ravan.

Like a knight of night.

As if the darkness belonged to him by birthright.

Enya notices only one thing.

A second too late.

Neve is no longer against her.

She spins around.

Her heart stops.

Neve is—

in Ravan's arms.

Light as real snow.

Protected.

Lifted without noticing.

The girl's eyes widen.

Then meet his.

And she blushes.

Cheeks glowing hot.

"...Who—"

But Ravan doesn't speak to her.

His first words are for Enya.

"No more flames tonight."

His voice is steady. But not cold.

"She's safe."

Enya stands frozen.

Rage biting at her heart.

She wants to scream.

Wants to burn.

Wants to hate that move. That tone. That interference.

But—

she can't.

There's a knot in her throat.

A taste she doesn't recognize.

Gratitude.

She'll never admit it.

But it's there.

Gothel growls.

"Kill him!"

A sharp command.

Laced with venom and fear.

The mercenaries lift their rifles.

They fire.

Ravan shields Neve.

His body braces.

The bullets hit dead center.

Spark. Bounce off.

Drop like hail on steel.

Unharmed.

Gothel steps back.

Truly afraid, for the first time.

Her men—worse.

One drops his weapon.

Another takes a step back.

Because—

Enya is advancing.

Wreathed in flames.

Each step, a sentence.

Her eyes are no longer crimson.

They shine like a solar crown.

Pure.

Total.

Without mercy.

A creak—like old wooden doors. Then—

Screams.

Not the mercenaries'.

Not Gothel's.

The children's.

Doors open.

Little ones pour out.

Wet eyes.

Bare feet.

Crying echoing down the corridors.

Panic.

The mercenaries—collapse.

Not from flames.

From fear.

No pay is worth dying by fire.

No contract justifies hell—not in the final moments, not in the afterlife.

They flee.

One after another.

Like rats from a sinking ship lit by sparks.

The children scream in terror.

Gothel screams.

Curses.

Spits out threats like a wounded beast.

"Cowards! Idiots! Kill her! Kill them all!"

But no one stays to listen.

Only her.

And Enya.

Who advances.

Flames at her ankles.

Flames on her shoulders.

Flames in her hands.

Ravan moves.

Steps forward.

Tense. Ready.

But it's not needed.

Because—

Neve cries.

A soft sound.

Then a sob.

Then collapse.

She doesn't cry for herself.

Not just.

She cries for Gothel.

The Matron she thought was her friend.

For her sister, who hid what she truly is.

For the children screaming in the dark.

Betrayed.

Confused.

Shattered.

Enya stops.

As if struck in the chest.

The fire flickers. Pulls back.

Her breath catches.

Guilt.

Sharper than pain.

It cuts deeper.

Ravan watches her.

Steady. Unshaken.

His voice is clear.

"Enough."

One command.

No emotion.

"No more blood. No more fire. Not today."

He steps closer.

"She," he nods to Neve, "is the only thing that matters. Isn't that why you do all this? Isn't that why you fight?"

Enya shuts her eyes.

Curses.

Low. Hoarse.

Then—she runs.

Like a wounded beast.

Like a shadow fleeing its own reflection.

Ravan moves ahead.

Scoops Neve into his arms.

Light. Still trembling.

And they run.

Far.

Out of the orphanage.

Out of the cage.

Out of the past.

Toward the smoke.

Toward the cold.

Toward something else.