Chapter 4. Flamebound
“You are… Hiree?”
For a fleeting moment, Darth stilled—as though time itself had paused around him. The name slipped from his lips before he could stop it.
The urge to believe—no, to claim—that she was the one he had long searched for rose sharply within him.
Then it vanished.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, lowering his gaze. “It was… unintentional.”
A rare restraint settled over him.
Strange.
Of all the people he had encountered across kingdoms and years, none had unsettled him like this.
“Who is Hiree?” Hera asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“It is of no consequence,” he replied, though his tone betrayed a trace of tension.
But Hera felt it.
A quiet pull. A whisper beneath her skin.
The name lingered in her thoughts longer than it should have.
“Hiree…” she murmured. “It sounds lovely. Though it is not my name…” She smiled faintly. “Still—you may call me that, if it pleases you.”
Darth’s jaw tightened.
“There is no possibility,” he said, more firmly than before. “You are not her.”
A brief pause.
“You look nothing alike.”
As if realizing how it sounded, he added, quieter, “I mean no insult.”
He stepped back, regaining his composure.
“You may remain here for an hour. You are free to paint any piece you favor.” His voice returned to its usual cold restraint. “But I have affairs to attend to. When your time is done, you will leave.”
“Well noted,” Hera replied, her tone light. “And thank you—for granting me access to your collection.”
Her eyes lingered on him, expectant.
But Darth said nothing.
He turned.
And walked away.
“Darth?”
He stopped—but did not turn at once.
Only after a breath did he face her again, his expression unreadable.
“What is it now?”
“It is nothing, truly,” Hera said, though her smile softened. “Only… it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Silence stretched between them.
Darth studied her—as though weighing something unseen.
“…Very well,” he said at last, his voice low.
Then he turned again.
But Hera, stubborn as ever, followed.
“Wait—just one last question!”
A quiet exhale escaped him—thinly veiled irritation.
“Do you ever yield?” he asked, glancing back at her.
“Not when I want answers.”
A flicker—brief, almost imperceptible—passed through his eyes.
“Then you will find disappointment often,” he replied coldly. “Do not trouble me unless it is necessary.”
And with that, he left.
His white robes trailed behind him like drifting smoke, his presence fading into the stillness of the hall.
Hera remained where she stood.
Confused.
Intrigued.
There was something about him—something restrained, something dangerous.
And yet—
She found herself smiling.
Why does it feel as though I have seen him before?
After her hour had passed, Hera departed and made her way to Scarlett’s home.
Scarlett had trained as an archer since childhood, her skill honed through discipline—and grief.
The war between werewolves and dragons had taken everything from her.
And in return, she had sworn vengeance.
“So let me understand this,” Scarlett said, arms crossed. “You rejected Cayden’s proposal. In front of his parents?”
“I told you—it’s complicated,” Hera sighed.
Scarlett studied her expression.
“…Are you certain you’re alright?”
“I am.” A small smile. Brief. Careful.
“And Cayden?” Scarlett pressed. “You believe he will stop?”
Hera let out a quiet breath, leaning back.
“You know him. He does not yield easily.”
A pause.
“I only wish he would stop acting so… desperate.”
Scarlett raised a brow. “And this man you mentioned earlier?”
At once, Hera’s expression shifted—softer, almost embarrassed.
“I—”
“Scarlett.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Flemeth stood there, composed as ever, her longbow resting against her shoulder.
“It is time.”
Scarlett exhaled. “Duty calls.”
She glanced back at Hera. “You will tell me later.”
“I will,” Hera said with a small laugh.
CIERRA.
A forest thick with ancient trees, their branches weaving shadows across the ground. Vines curled around trunks like silent watchers, and the air carried a stillness that felt almost… watchful.
Hera walked carefully, gathering maple wood.
Then—
A sound.
Low.
A growl.
She froze.
From the undergrowth, four werewolves emerged, their movements slow, deliberate.
Hunting.
Her grip tightened around the wood in her hand.
“Stay back…” she warned, though her voice trembled.
They did not stop.
They drew closer.
Closer—
Her breath hitched.
She shut her eyes.
Then—
A violent gust split the air.
The beasts were thrown back as if struck by an unseen force.
Hera opened her eyes.
And there he was.
Darth.
Standing between her and death.
“Come near her again,” he said, his voice quiet—but laced with something far more dangerous than anger, “and I will reduce you to ash.”
His eyes burned—embers glowing beneath the surface.
Flame flickered in his hand.
Alive.
The werewolves faltered.
Then fled.
Silence returned.
Hera could barely breathe.
“Y-you’re not mortal…” she whispered. “No ordinary man wields fire like that.”
He said nothing.
Only watched her.
As though trying to understand something even he could not name.
“If you are not human… then what are you?” she asked, stepping closer despite herself. “Dragon-born? Or something… beyond that?”
A faint tilt of his head.
“What do you believe?”
Her heart pounded.
She moved closer still—drawn, unable to resist.
And in that moment, something shifted between them.
Unspoken.
Unseen.
But undeniable.
