The Scar burns
The scar on my palm burned the moment the Prince crossed the village gates.
A pain like fire and ice, deep and ancient — not just on my skin, but in my blood.
I clenched my fist, hiding the flame-shaped mark under my shawl.
The village bell tolled. One. Two. Three. They were here
Prince Kael of Eiraeth rode in at the head of a black-armored procession.
his cursed shadow flickering behind him like smoke.
Every child hid. Every woman bowed. Every man looked away.
He was the boy who was supposed to die at birth.
The one the Dark born curse spared — only to twist him slowly.
Now, as he turned twenty-one, his soul was slipping into the realm of shadows, and the royal seers had declared:
"Only the Witch of the Forgotten Flame can save him."
And the flame… was on my hand.
But I wasn’t a witch.
I was a healer. A girl who whispered to dying herbs and hid from storms.
Until now.
Until he stopped in front of me.
"You." His voice was cold lightning. "The mark on your hand — show it."
My heart thudded. Behind him, the air shivered. The sky dimmed.
I should’ve run. Lied. Screamed.
Instead, I raised my hand… and the scar lit up with fire.
A gust of soul-wind burst through the crowd, sending every torch out.
Kael’s cursed shadow flared, and he smiled for the first time.
"Found you."
