Broken Things Don’t Bleed

Star POV

The wind tastes like ash and burnt wood.

Not from the village—we're long gone from that grave cast over with fire—but from something older. It presses on my skin like a bruise, like the world is holding its breath and waiting for something to break.

I tighten my grip on the dagger I stole from one of the soldiers. It's too big for my hand and notched at the edge, but it's something and enough to protect myself. I've learned that something is better than nothing. I've survived on less.

Kael walks a few steps ahead of me, his long legs cutting through the underbrush with purpose. I hate how confident he moves, even with a sling over his arm and blood dried on his shoulder. Like the forest could swallow us whole and he'd still come out standing.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask.

It still hurts to speak, like dragging sound from a broken throat.

He glances over his shoulder. "North."

That's not an answer.

"Why?"

"Because south is war camps, east is a blood-plague zone and west leads straight into the Morie Priestess's territory." He gives a humorless smile. "Unless you want to be exorcised and dismembered in that order."

I didn't smile back.

He sighs and slows his pace so we're walking side by side. I hate that I'm grateful. My legs are trembling again. The ember inside me flickers faintly, as if mocking my weakness. Like it's waiting for something to suffer through.

"North is deadlands," I mutter. "Nothing but sand and bones."

"Exactly," Kael replies. "No people. No priests. No kings."

I stop. "No food. No shelter. No life."

"No danger," he says, turning to face me. " And no eyes watching. Just silence."

His expression softens for a moment. I don't like it. Kindness feels like pity when it comes from someone stronger.

"I don't need silence," I say. "I need answers."

He holds my stare, then nods slowly. "Then ask."

The trees creak overhead. Far above, the sun barely filters through, weak and cold. I cross my arms over the ember mark, trying to still it's quiet hum.

"Why me?"

Kael doesn't answer right away.

Then he spoke, "Because gods don't choose saints. They choose survivors."

We stop at a broken statue near a stream too thin to drink from. The sculpture is cracked through the middle—a kneeling warrior with no face, no sword, only time-eaten stone where a name once was. It smells of old magic. Forgotten prayers.

Kael kneels beside it, brushing snow-flecked moss from its base. "This was once a shrine."

"To what?"

He shrugs. "Probably a god with too many followers and not enough mercy."

I lower myself to the ground slowly. My legs buzz with exhaustion. The ember inside me shifts, like it resents the stillness. My fingers tremble as I unwrap the bandages on my palms. Burned. Cracked. Black.

But glowing.

Tiny threads of fire still pulse through the fissures. Like veins growing Like roots.

"What is it doing to me?" I whisper.

Kael looks up. His eyes catch the light just enough to show the unease buried behind them.

"I don't know," he admits.

He moves to sit beside me, careful to leave space between us. "But it didn't kill you. That counts for something."

"Maybe it's slow."

"Maybe." He leans his head back against the statue, eyes to the sky. "Maybe it's waiting."

The fire dreams come again when I sleep.

Not flames. Memories. Not mine—but burned into me like a scar I didn't earn.

The sky screams red. The ground is cracked and bleeding. I'm standing in a hall of stone where a god is dying, its heart torn open by a sword made of silence. The air is thick with betrayal and gold. There are voices—thousands—chanting. Pleading. Praying.

And then....

A hand grabs my face.

"Vessel," a voice growls. "Do not forget what was promised."

I jolt awake.

My hands are glowing.

Not faintly. Blazing.

Kael is already in front of me, hand on his sword. "Lira—"

"I can't stop it—" I gasp, clutching my chest. The ember sears hot, pulsing wild behind my ribs.

"Don't fight it. Breathe." His voice cuts through the panic.

"I am breathing!" I scream, and fire rips from my mouth like a dragon's last breath.

The trees ignite. The stream hisses and vanishes.

Kael shields his face, stepping back, not from fear—but awe.

The fire doesn't burn me.

It never does.

When it fades, I'm still kneeling.

Ash swirls around me like mist. My palms are scorched but whole. The earth beneath me is glassed over. Kael approaches, slow, cautious.

"You're not human," he says, not accusing, not kind.

"Neither are you," I snap.

He nods once. "Fair."

I lower my hands to my lap. The ember pulses slowly now. Steady. Sated. A creature curled beneath my heart.

"I saw it again," I whisper. "The dying god. The sword. The voices."

Kael kneels. "You're not dreaming."

I already knew.

He touches the mark on my collarbone, just two fingers. I flinch. But he holds still.

"You have a relic inside you. A real one. Not cursed bone or fake blood. A god's heart. It's not magic. It's memory. Will. Rage."

I meet his eyes. "How do you know that?"

He doesn't blink. "Because I helped kill it."

Silence.

Even the ember stills.

"You—what?"

Kael lets his hand fall away. "I was there, in the Citadel, when the gods fell. I stood with the knights of the Hollow Flame. We thought we were saving the world. Ending tyranny. Burning the old to make room for something new."

"And instead?"

He looks away.

"We lit a match and called it mercy."

I don't speak again that night.

When I sleep, the ember doesn't stir.

But the god inside me does.

It whispers things I don't understand. Names. Promises. A song with no melody, only fire.

And I whisper back.

Not because I want to.

But because I don't know who I am without it anymore.