The central plaza of Ashvale had a very specific sort of charm—the kind that grew on you if you squinted hard enough and didn't mind the faint smell of goats. Most days it was just a sleepy patch of cobblestone nestled between tilted rooftops and crooked wooden signs. A place where the most exciting event was watching pigeons try to steal bread from the baker's window.
Today, though, a gentle breeze carried the scent of roasted nuts, and bright banners fluttered across the square. Spring Festival had arrived—not grand or glittering, but humble and cheerful, like everything else in Ashvale.
Elias breathed it in and sighed with something close to relief.
Rhea, of course, was already trying to lick something.
"Do not put that in your mouth," Elias said for the third time that hour.
"But it sparkles like candy," she protested, standing on tiptoe in front of an alchemist's stall. Her oversized cloak pooled around her ankles, and her hood flopped over one eye as she leaned forward toward a shimmering blue crystal nestled atop velvet cloth.
"That's because it's charged with condensed mana," Elias explained with a weary patience honed by a week of constant chaos. "And it will burn a hole through your tongue."
Rhea paused, lips pursed thoughtfully. "Will it make my poop glow?"
There was a clink of glass behind the counter. The elderly alchemist—a man whose beard seemed older than the town—narrowly avoided dropping a vial of powdered unicorn horn.
Elias turned slowly to look at her. "Why," he asked, "is that your first question?"
Rhea beamed. "Because if it does, I could be a nightlight!"
"You're six."
"Six and three-quarters!"
"You don't need internal bioluminescence."
"I could charge a lantern with my butt."
Elias buried his face in his hands. "I'm going to regret this walk, aren't I?"
"You regret everything," she chirped, skipping beside him as he took her hand and gently tugged her away from the booth.
Ashvale's plaza wasn't built for drama. Most days, its rhythm was predictable: merchants shouting about fresh wool, a bard getting booed for playing one note too long, someone tripping over Farmer Hargel's goat. It was safe. That was why Elias had chosen it—a quiet afternoon among flowers and fruit stalls to let Rhea feel like a normal child for once.
They didn't make it ten steps before the shadow fell over them.
It was the kind of shadow that didn't just block the sun—it challenged it. Heavy. Sharp-edged. And entirely too familiar.
Elias stopped mid-step, tension prickling up his spine.
Marek stood in the center of the plaza like a misplaced war monument. His armor still bore the soot stains of old battles, and his expression looked like it had never once experienced joy. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Eyes fixed on them.
Of all the people.
"Marek," Elias said, and managed not to groan aloud.
The man inclined his head stiffly. "Elias."
Rhea peeked up from behind Elias's side, blinking at the tall man with polite curiosity. "Hi!"
Marek didn't return the greeting.
"She reeks of hellfire," he said.
"Good afternoon to you too," Elias replied with forced cheer. "Lovely weather we're having."
"That girl," Marek said, voice low. "That's her."
Elias felt himself shift instinctively, stepping between them.
"She has a name," he said tightly. "It's Rhea."
"She shouldn't be here."
"She's a child."
"She's a demon."
"She's trying."
"That doesn't make her safe."
It happened faster than thought.
One moment Marek's hand twitched toward the hilt strapped to his back. The next—
Heat.
A pulse of it, like standing too close to a bonfire. The air shimmered, reality bending as if watching through boiling water. Rhea's hood fell back, and the playful gleam in her eyes was gone.
In its place: firelight.
Her pupils blazed red, incandescent. Lines of ancient script flared to life behind her like a phantom halo—sigils Elias recognized from the sealed tomes no apprentice was allowed to open. The cobblestones beneath her feet cracked as magic surged outward in a ring.
Rhea floated an inch off the ground, hair rising on invisible currents. When she spoke, her voice didn't echo—it layered, like several voices all speaking at once.
"No one hurts my Elias."
Marek moved too late.
A wave of force lashed out, heat-blurred and golden, like sunlight turned weapon. He crashed backward into a fruit stand. Apples and pears exploded in every direction. Someone screamed. A bard fainted.
And just like that, the square erupted into panic.
Shouts rose. Boots thundered against stone as townsfolk scattered. A potion seller upended her cart in her rush to flee. An elderly mage frantically attempted a containment spell while sprinting in circles.
"THE DEMON LORD HAS RETURNED!" cried the bard from inside the fountain.
Elias didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Rhea hovered in the center of it all—fists clenched, eyes glowing, runes turning in the air behind her like a slow, burning clock.
This wasn't just power. It was raw, wild instinct—emotional, unshaped. She wasn't casting a spell. She was the spell.
"Rhea!" Elias shouted, voice cracking.
She turned. Her gaze met his—but the fire didn't fade.
Heart pounding, Elias raised his palm. The rune on his skin, placed there by their accidental bond, burned with light.
He focused—not on force, not on restraint, but on connection. Healing magic flowed through him, not to fix, but to reach. A steady pulse, warm and quiet. The magical equivalent of a deep breath.
Their bond answered.
The air shimmered again, softer now. Like heat giving way to spring rain.
Rhea's feet lowered to the ground. The runes faded. Her eyes dimmed to their usual gold-flecked hue. The energy collapsed inward with a whisper and vanished like a dream.
Then she began to cry.
"I—I didn't mean to—I just—he scared me!"
Elias caught her before she hit the ground, holding her close as sobs wracked her small frame.
"I know," he murmured, rocking slightly. "It's okay. You're okay."
"I don't want to burn people!"
"You didn't. Not really."
Marek groaned from under a pile of produce.
"Mostly," Elias added under his breath.
The infirmary reeked of antiseptic, burnt apples, and resentment.
Marek sat stiffly on a cot, shirtless and wrapped in bandages. Across from him, Guildmaster Tyrin paced the room, his long white beard twitching with every step like it wanted to lecture someone on its own.
"She summoned a soul ring," Tyrin said.
"She panicked," Elias replied.
"Young mages train for years to control that kind of output."
"Or, you know, one week and a bad temper."
Tyrin stopped. "She nearly incinerated a veteran."
"She's six."
"She launched him through a fruit stand."
"Which softened the landing, technically."
"She is the Demon Queen reborn!"
Elias tilted his head. "She also thinks adding glitter to breakfast cereal improves spell casting."
Tyrin stared. "That's not relevant."
"It really is," Elias said. "You're talking about her like she's a ticking bomb. But she's a scared little girl with too much power and no idea how to manage it."
"She's dangerous."
"She's scared."
Tyrin let out a long, weary sigh. "And you're bound to her."
Elias nodded. "Accidentally."
"You know what that kind of soul-mark means, don't you?"
"It means I can't drink tea in peace," Elias muttered. Then, more seriously: "It means we're connected. So I will help her."
Tyrin shook his head. "You're in too deep."
"I've been in too deep since the day she called me 'Uncle' and tried to turn a rabbit into a dragon. I'm not walking away now."
That night, back at home, the world had grown quiet again.
Rhea sat on the bed with her knees tucked up to her chest. The fire had long since gone out, but she hadn't moved. She hadn't touched dinner. Not even the cocoa.
Elias sat beside her, handing her a blanket she ignored.
"I hurt him," she whispered.
"You scared him," Elias said gently. "That's not the same."
"But everyone ran away."
"They don't understand you yet. Give them time."
She curled tighter. "What if they never do?"
"Then we'll move to a forest and build a tea shop for fireproof animals."
She glanced up, blinking.
"I mean it," Elias said. "I'll be the grumpy host. You'll be the magical mascot. We'll name everything after herbs."
She gave a tiny smile.
"I just… I don't want to be scary."
"Then don't be," Elias said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're learning. You stopped yourself today."
"Only because you helped me."
He held up his palm. The rune still pulsed there—brighter now, with new threads branching like vines across his skin.
"That's what this is for," he said softly. "To help each other."
She stared at the mark, eyes wide. Then, quietly, she leaned against his side.
"Thanks… Uncle Elias."
He blinked.
"That's the first time you've called me that," he murmured.
"Don't get used to it," she mumbled, already half-asleep.
Elias smiled.
He looked at the glowing mark again. Their bond wasn't just reacting—it was growing. Changing.
He wasn't sure what that meant yet.
But as Rhea's breathing evened and her fingers curled into his cloak, he made a silent vow.
He'd protect her.
Even from herself.
Even from the world.
Even, if necessary, from destiny.
To be continued…