Some people call it madness.
Others call it fate.
The moment she stepped out of the throne room, the cold returned.
The doors shut behind her with a deep, echoing thud.
And in that instant, the air turned hollow again—
Like the warmth had been stolen the second he was gone.
The maid beside her walked fast.
Too fast, as though afraid even the corridor could burn her.
"That was reckless," the girl whispered, sharp and hushed. She didn't meet Lira's eyes.
"I only spoke," Lira said softly.
"You looked him in the face," the maid hissed. "No one does that. No one stares into the flame and walks away untouched."
Lira didn't reply.
Because she had looked—
And she hadn't burned.
No… she had felt something else entirely.
Like warmth.
Like being seen.
That night, the feeling refused to fade.
She left her room before dawn.
Barefoot. Silent.
Drawn by something she didn't understand.
The halls were deserted. Shadows stretched long along the walls.
Her feet moved without thought, until she reached it.
The door was already cracked open.
She stepped inside.
The room was ancient. Quiet. Alive.
At its center stood a stone altar—black and broken down the middle.
Something about it throbbed beneath the air.
Her fingers brushed it.
A pulse shot through her hand, her wrist, her chest.
Not pain—just power.
Something that felt like it had been waiting for her.
Then—
The doors slammed open behind her.
She turned.
He stood there.
The Crown Prince.
Eyes glowing—no, blazing. Gold light poured from them like flame.
His voice exploded.
"What did you do!?"
She flinched from the sound—sharp, shattering—but didn't look away.
"I touched it."
"You touched it?" he repeated, louder, as if he couldn't believe she dared say it out loud.
He stormed forward.
"Do you have any idea what this is? What you've done?!"
His fury crackled around him. The air distorted with heat.
The altar glowed in time with his rage.
"You shouldn't be here!" he shouted. "You shouldn't even exist in this wing! In this palace! In this world!"
But Lira didn't back down.
She looked him in the eyes—those burning, wrathful eyes—and asked,
"Why?"
His whole body tensed.
And something snapped.
"Why?" he roared. "Because that flame is mine! Because everything in this room is tied to me! Cursed to me! Sealed for a reason!"
He was shaking now.
Eyes burning too bright. Breathing like he'd been set on fire from the inside.
"You weren't supposed to wake it," he said, lower now—but more dangerous than before.
"You weren't supposed to touch it. You weren't supposed to touch me."
Lira stepped closer.
He stared at her like he didn't recognize her. Like she was a mistake.
"I don't care," she whispered.
Then—
She hugged him.
He froze.
His hands stayed at his sides. His shoulders tight.
Her arms wrapped around him like she wasn't afraid of being burned.
And that was the worst part.
He didn't understand why she wasn't screaming.
Why she didn't run.
"You have no idea what you've started," he breathed.
But she just held him tighter.
Because deep in her chest,
She already knew.
The flame that should've faded—
Was burning brighter than ever.