Fire Stolen, Love Remembered

  The steady rhythm of heels clicking against polished marble echoed through the quiet hallway leading to the private lounge of the Midnight Mirage. The usual hum of the casino pulsed beneath her feet, a distant reminder of the world. Elysia was on her way to work.

  She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, straightening her posture as she strode forward with purpose. The Midnight Mirage operated on precision, and she prided herself on keeping things in order. But tonight, something felt… off.

  A nagging sensation had been pressing at her all evening. Something lurking just beneath her skin. A pressure she couldn’t quite name, an unease that refused to settle.

  She pressed a hand against her temple as a dull throb formed behind her eyes. Just keep moving.

  Then, everything shifted.

  Pain. Heat. Fire.

  Elysia staggered, gasping as her vision blurred. The hallway tilted violently, and suddenly, she was somewhere else.

  Flames. Consuming. Devouring.

  Her lungs burned, her body collapsing beneath the weight of the fire. Pain licked at her skin, wrapping around her like chains, a cruel and familiar embrace. She wasn’t standing anymore. She was falling, crumbling into nothingness.

  Through the blinding light of the inferno, she saw him.

  Ronan.

  His golden eyes locked onto Elysia’s, wild and desperate. He was reaching for her.

  “Elysia!”

  His voice was a raw, broken plea. Elysia tried to move, to reach back—but she was slipping away. Her vision blurred, the flames consuming her, pulling her under. She felt the moment her body turned to ash.

  And in that moment, she remembered.

  The fire inside her was not whole. It had been taken. Stolen.

  Not just her flames—her essence. The core of her rebirth, the heart of her fire. The part of her that made her more than just a Phoenix—her soul’s tether to life itself. And she knew now who had taken it.

  The Thalrasi.

  Not content to kill her, they had ensured she would return weaker. That she would never be as powerful as she had been before. They had carved away a piece of her, twisted the natural cycle, and left her fractured.

  Ronan had been there. She had died in his arms. And in that instant, she felt something else.

  A thread between them. A bond that had always been there but had been too far, too tangled, too lost in the flames.

  But now? Now, she felt it.

  Not just the distant pull she had ignored since awakening. The love, the raw devotion that had carried them through lifetimes. It surged through her, burning hotter than the flames that had once consumed her. And she knew—he had felt it too.

  He had always felt it.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. She had to find Ronan.

  But before she could grasp the memory fully, the vision shattered.

  Reality crashed back in.

  The hallway came into focus, the polished floor rushing toward her as her knees buckled. A sharp gasp left her lips as she struggled to stay upright, but her limbs were too heavy. Too weak.

  She barely registered the voice calling her name—someone nearby, but distant, muffled. Her body failed her.

  As darkness claimed her, a single thought echoed in her fading consciousness, and she whispered, “Ronan is in trouble.”

  A Betrayal in the Dark

  The meeting had been arranged in secrecy, the location undisclosed even to most of the Inner Circle until moments before they arrived. Ronan and his most trusted allies gathered deep beneath the city in a forgotten network of tunnels beneath the old railway station. The flickering light of torches along the stone walls cast long shadows across their faces as they waited.

  Cyrus was late.

  Ronan leaned against the damp brick wall, arms crossed, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light. Dorian and Nyx remained alert, scanning the darkness for any movement. Malrik stood a few paces away, silent as always, though the tension in his stance suggested he was ready for a fight.

  Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the tunnels.

  Cyrus emerged from the gloom, his cloak drawn tightly around his frame. His eyes flickered between them, and even in the dim light, Ronan could see the sweat beading on his brow.

  “You’re late,” Ronan said flatly.

  Cyrus swallowed hard and gave a shaky nod. “Had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

  Malrik scoffed. “Didn’t do a very good job of it.”

  Cyrus’s lips parted, his face pale, but he said nothing. Ronan narrowed his gaze. The man was afraid. Not just nervous—terrified. And suddenly, Ronan knew.

  A knot tightened in his stomach. “Who did you bring with you?”

  Cyrus flinched. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  The realization struck Ronan just as the first crossbow bolt whizzed past his ear.

  Ambush.

  From the darkness behind Cyrus, Thalrasi soldiers emerged, their weapons gleaming, their eyes cold. Their attack was swift and calculated. They had been waiting.

  Ronan’s instincts took over. His lips curled, fangs elongating as his claws unsheathed in a flash of silver. A growl rumbled from deep in his chest. They had entered a trap, but he would make them regret it.

  The first soldier lunged at him. Ronan met him mid-strike, claws raking through armor, tearing through flesh. The man barely had time to scream before Ronan sank his teeth into his throat, ripping him away from the fight. Blood filled his mouth—copper and heat—but there was no time to relish the kill.

  Dorian did not waste time with weapons. He moved like a shadow, vanishing and reappearing in a blur of motion. His fangs sank into the throat of one soldier while his hands snapped the neck of another. He moved with terrifying efficiency—a blur of speed and predatory instinct.

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  Nyx raised her hands, her magic flaring around her fingers, but it fizzled out before she could release it.

  Magic-dampening runes.

  They had planned for this.

  Malrik was a monster in motion. His body dissolved into mist, reforming behind a soldier before his claws tore into the man’s spine. The Thalrasi barely had time to react before Malrik vanished again, mist-traveling among the Thalrasi warriors.

  Cyrus stumbled backward, his face twisted in anguish. “They said they’d let me go,” he gasped. “They said—”

  Ronan didn’t hesitate. His claws wrapped around Cyrus’s throat, slamming him against the tunnel wall.

  “You sold us out,” Ronan growled, his voice low, feral. “You think the Thalrasi keep their promises?”

  Cyrus clutched at Ronan’s wrist, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “I— I didn’t—”

  “They lied,” Dorian spat, his fangs still stained with blood. “You just signed our death warrants.”

  The tunnel walls trembled as Malrik moved through the battlefield like a ghost, appearing behind enemies and tearing into them mercilessly. But there were too many. For every one they struck down, two more took their place.

  Then, something inside Ronan shifted.

  The air thickened, pulsing around him like a living thing. The torches flickered, their light dimming, shadows stretching unnaturally. The soldiers near him hesitated—an instinctive, primal fear creeping into their faces.

  A pulse of dark energy rippled outward from his body.

  One of the Thalrasi screamed. Another dropped his weapon, stumbling backward. They could feel it.

  The Eclipsed One was awakening.

  Ronan bared his fangs as his shadow moved unnaturally, stretching, twisting. His golden eyes darkened, flickering with something deeper, something powerful.

  He lunged forward, but this time, the shadows moved with him. Soldiers were thrown backward without being touched, their bodies hitting the tunnel walls with bone-crunching force. The air itself seemed to bow under the weight of his presence.

  Malrik’s voice cut through the chaos. “We need to go—now!”

  Ronan’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. He could feel the power curling inside him, clawing to be set free. But something told him he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  Malrik appeared beside him, his form half-solid, half-mist. “Hold on.”

  Then, in a rush of darkness and swirling smoke, Malrik dragged Ronan into the mist.

  The world blurred.

  Blood and Shadows

  Astrid had lingered behind to keep an eye on Elysia. The others hadn’t said it outright, but they all thought the same thing—she remembered too fast. Too much at once, too soon. If her visions continued at this rate, there was no telling what would happen to her.

  So, while the others were handling their tasks, Astrid had remained close, keeping herself within reach of the Midnight Mirage’s private lounge. She stood near the entrance, speaking with one of Malrik’s guards in hushed tones when the energy shift hit her like a ripple.

  Then she heard a sharp gasp, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone collapsing.

  Astrid turned the corner just in time to see Elysia’s body giving way to the pull of unconsciousness. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, her lips parting in a whisper she could barely hear—“Ronan… he’s in trouble.”

  The vampire guard beside her reacted quickly, surging forward just in time to catch Elysia before she hit the floor. Without hesitation, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms. He carried her into the private lounge, laying her carefully onto one of the plush couches.

  Astrid knelt beside her, fingers pressing against Elysia’s wrist to check her pulse. Still strong. But her breathing was unsteady, her body trembling as though she had just endured something far more painful than an ordinary vision.

  The air in the room shifted suddenly. The temperature dropped a degree, and the shadows stretched unnaturally before swirling in a thick, inky mist. It coiled at the center of the room, twisting and darkening, and then two figures materialized from its depths.

  Dorian, Ronan and Malrik.

  They solidified out of the mist, their forms reappearing instantly—bloodied, battle-worn.

  Dorian’s face was grim, his suit torn, and he carried Nyx’s limp body.

  Malrik, his glowing crimson eyes, looked no better. His coat darkened with fresh blood that was not his own. He was holding on to an unsteady Ronan.

  Astrid stood quickly, her pulse spiking. “What happened?”

  Dorian moved without hesitation, gently placing Nyx onto another couch before returning to Astrid. His face was a mask of fury, but his voice was controlled when he finally spoke.

  “We were ambushed by the Thalrasi,” he said.

  Astrid’s stomach dropped.

  Ronan’s gaze shifted immediately to Elysia, his expression darkening. “And what the hell happened to her?”

  Astrid inhaled deeply, gathering herself before responding. “She had another vision. A bad one. This time it caused her to collapse—right before she lost consciousness, she was saying you were in trouble.”

  Malrik’s expression tightened, but he said nothing. He was already looking at Elysia as though he could decipher the answer himself.

  Ronan staggered toward Elysia and dropped to his knees beside her.

  “Elysia?” His voice was hoarse, rough from the fight, but it had urgency.

  He barely felt his wounds as he knelt beside her, his hands hovering over her wrist, checking for warmth, for life.

  Meanwhile, Dorian crouched beside Nyx, brushing blood-matted hair away from her scalp. “She was knocked out,” he said. “Took a hit from the hilt of a sword. They wanted to take her alive.”

  Astrid moved quickly, running her hands over Nyx’s head and checking for fractures. “She’ll be okay,” she muttered. “Might have a nasty headache, but she’s stable.”

  Before she could check on Elysia further, the door swung open.

  Valarian strode in, his coat still wet from the night air. He took one look at the scene before him—Elysia unconscious, Nyx barely stirring, Dorian and Malrik covered in blood—and stopped dead in his tracks.

  He exhaled sharply. “What the hell happened here?”

  The Unbearable Truth

  Elysia gasped awake, the air around her thick with heat. Flames flickered at her fingertips, curling up her arms in wild, uncontrolled bursts of fire. The silk sheets beneath her blackened at the edges, smoke curling toward the ceiling. She barely noticed.

  The memories had hit like a storm, ripping her mind violently. Pain. Fire. Shadows closing in. The obsidian blade carving into her chest.

  Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as she tried to push the vision away, but it was no longer just a vision—it was the past reclaiming her.

  A figure moved at the edge of the room. Ronan.

  He sat at the foot of the bed, watching her in silence, his golden eyes shadowed with something heavy, unrelenting. He had been waiting.

  The fire around her flared before she could stop it, flames licking at the air as the full weight of her fury crashed into her. Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he let her stumble through this alone?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice snapped like a whip, raw and sharp as the fire burning inside her.

  Ronan exhaled slowly. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  The words made her chest tighten, rage and confusion warring for control. “Don’t lie to me.”

  His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away. “**I have loved you through lifetimes, Elysia. I would never keep anything from you—**unless it was to keep you safe.”

  The fire crackled around her, and she wavered at his words. The truth settled deep, conflicting with the anger inside her.

  “Why?” she whispered, shaking her head. “Why would keeping the truth from me keep me safe?”

  Ronan ran a hand through his hair, frustration edging into his voice. “Because you had to remember at your own pace.” His gaze softened, but the weight in his voice remained. “If they came back too fast, they would overwhelm you—mentally, emotionally, and physically.”

  She wanted to argue, to tell him she could handle it, but she knew better. She felt the toll it had already taken.

  Every vision, every fragmented memory that resurfaced, left her unsteady and raw, stretched between the past and present like a frayed thread. She had almost lost herself more than once, and Ronan had known.

  The fire in her palms flickered uncertainly now, no longer rage-fueled, but trembling with something else—fear.

  Then another thought struck her. One far worse than the others.

  Her voice dropped, barely a whisper. “Were you there?”

  Ronan stilled.

  The silence that followed was enough. She already knew the answer.

  Elysia’s breath hitched. “You were there when they carved out my Phoenix Core.”

  Ronan’s eyes closed for half a second, as if the memory was unbearable. When he spoke, his voice came out hoarse, raw. “It was the worst day of my life.”

  She clutched the sheets beneath her, her fingers digging into the fabric. “You saw what they did to me?”

  His hands curled into fists, golden eyes darkening with rage—not at her, but at the past. “I couldn’t stop them. I tried. I fought. I failed.” His voice cracked, and that alone nearly shattered her. “When you died, I didn’t think I’d ever get you back.”

  She could barely breathe. “And now?”

  Ronan stood slowly, stepping toward her. Not a warrior now, not a leader—just a man who had loved and lost her too many times.

  “Now, I will never let the Thalrasi hurt you again. I will make Varek pay for what he did to you.”

  The conviction in his words sent a shiver down her spine. Not from fear. From knowing he meant every word.

  She stared at him, searching his face for something—doubt, hesitation—but there was none.

  Her fire had dimmed now, but something else had ignited.

  Something deeper. Something unbreakable.

  “That is why I started all of this? The sanctuaries? The war?”

  "What sanctuaries? What war?"

  "I still need to tell you a lot, but you need to rest for now. Once you feel up to it, we will return to Lux Arcana, our home."

  Ronan paused. “The day I lost you, I swore I would never let the Thalrasi hurt anyone again. I built this empire to keep supernaturals safe from them. From Varek. From what they did to you.”

  Elysia’s breath came unsteady now, her chest rising and falling slowly, unevenly. The weight of it all settled over her.

  She had come here for answers. And she had found them.

  But now, she had something else.

  Vengeance.

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