Fire and Ice - 1
The tavern was too quiet, its pulse stilled to a whisper.
The hearth below glowed faintly, embers casting a dim warmth across empty tables, the air heavy with the scent of polished wood and lingering ale.
Outside, the night murmured, wind weaving through distant trees, but inside, silence reigned.
Mira sat on the second-floor balcony, one leg slung over the rail, her bronze skin catching the moonlight.
A small flame danced at her fingertip, crimson-gold and flickering, held with the restraint of a pyromancer who knew its cost.
She didn't touch it, just let it hover, a spark waiting for a reason to burn.
Her red hair spilled wild over her shoulders, her curvy frame draped in a loose tunic, its hem riding high on her thighs.
Rin had been gone for a week, her scent faded from the pillows.
Lira had slipped away two nights ago, her mission quick, she'd claimed, with a rogue's smirk. Now, the tavern held only Mira—and Kio.
She exhaled, the flame winking out, leaving a faint scorch in the air.
She'd lingered here longer than Rin, longer than Lira, bathing with them, teasing them, joining their games.
But her own game?
She didn't know Kio's rules.
He hadn't touched her.
Not once.
Not when she'd left her robe on his bedroom hook after a storm-soaked night, its damp fabric clinging to her curves.
Not when she'd traced a heated line across the floorboards under his feet, the wood smoldering faintly.
Not even when she'd let her fingertip burn a thin mark down her thigh in full view of the bar, her amber eyes daring him to react.
Kio hadn't flinched.
Always watching, always still, but never reaching.
And Mira was unraveling, her fire flickering too close to the surface.
Her room bore the scars of her restlessness.
A wall blistered from a moment's lost control, the paint peeling under her heat.
Her sheets steamed faintly, the air heavy with residual warmth.
Her mirror—polished obsidian, a rogue's tool for scouting—reflected too much: not just her face, with its sharp jaw and full lips, but her expression.
Want. Need. Fear.
She stared into it, fists clenched, her nails biting her palms.
"You're not the first," she whispered to herself, her voice rough. "But maybe you're the last."
That night, after the tavern closed, Mira wandered downstairs, barefoot, the cool floorboards grounding her.
Kio had retired—his lantern dark, his door cracked open half an inch, a sliver of shadow within.
She didn't enter.
Instead, she drifted to the pantry, her finger trailing along the wood, leaving a faint trail of scorched scent and ash, just deep enough to mark her presence.
She climbed the stairs in silence, her tunic brushing her thighs, her heart a quiet storm.
In her room, something waited on her pillow—a square of silk, wrapped around a small glass vial, its contents cold to the touch.
Beneath it, a note in Kio's steady, unhurried script: You'll ask me. When you're ready to be quiet.
Mira's fingers trembled, the vial's chill seeping into her palm.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the silence pressing against her, her fire banked but burning, waiting for the moment.