Nights in Ashvale usually passed without incident.
The wind rustled gently through the trees, owls hooted from somewhere beyond the hills, and the occasional creak of the old wood beams overhead reminded Elias that his cottage had more charm than structural integrity.
But peace was a fragile thing.
And tonight, it was already unraveling.
Elias stirred from sleep, eyelids fluttering open to the sound of something dragging softly across the floorboards.
Shhk… shhk… thump.
He sat up, confused. The hearth had long since gone out, and the chill of the night crept into the edges of the room. Moonlight spilled in through the shutter slats, laying pale stripes across the foot of the bed and the worn rug.
He blinked blearily, still half-tangled in his blanket. Something felt… off.
He glanced to his left.
Rhea's small bed was empty.
The covers were tossed aside in a heap, and one pillow had tumbled to the floor. No child. No sound of her breathing.
"Rhea?" Elias called out softly, voice thick with sleep.
No reply.
He tossed off the blanket and reached for his robe, slipping it over his shoulders as his bare feet touched the cold floor. The boards groaned under his weight as he stepped into the hallway, guided only by the faint glow of moonlight.
Another soft sound reached his ears.
Shhk… shhk…
It came from the main room. Elias felt his body tense.
It had only been a few weeks since his life had been turned upside down by a fire-slinging child with a sharp tongue and a habit of stealing left socks. Before that, the scariest thing he'd faced was a patient with an allergy to mandrake root. Now? He lived with a six-year-old who used to command armies and conjure hellfire on a whim.
He rounded the corner into the front room—
—and froze.
The embers in the hearth glowed faintly, casting the room in shifting shadows and the faint scent of ash. The light was just enough to see her—standing barefoot in the center of the room, still as a statue.
Rhea's long black hair had come loose from its braid, strands drifting across her face like wisps of smoke. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her expression blank and unfocused.
A soft red shimmer pulsed beneath her skin, like a heartbeat beneath glass.
Elias didn't speak right away. For a second, he just watched her. The light under her skin faded and flared, rhythmic but unsteady, and the whole room felt heavier somehow—like the air itself had paused to listen.
"Rhea?" he finally whispered.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she turned slowly to face him. Her eyes didn't quite focus on him, drifting past as if staring through layers of memory.
Her voice, when it came, was distant and raw, barely louder than a breath. "I won't burn it again."
Elias felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck.
Then—without warning—her knees buckled.
He rushed forward instinctively, catching her just before she hit the floor. Her small frame sagged into his arms, skin clammy, breath shallow. She murmured something he couldn't make out, lips twitching with fragments of some half-remembered past.
"Too much fire… I told them not to make me do it… the throne is ash…"
"It's okay," Elias murmured, adjusting her against his chest. "You're safe. Just a dream."
But as he cradled her, feeling the soft pulse of magic still flickering faintly beneath her skin, he knew it wasn't just a dream.
He carried her back to bed, easing her beneath the covers with quiet care. She whimpered once, a sound so small and lost it barely reached his ears, then turned her face into the pillow and settled into a deeper, quieter sleep.
Elias stayed by her side long after. The moonlight painted the room in pale silver, and outside, the trees whispered quietly in the wind.
He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand lightly resting over the blanket, and whispered into the silence:
"…What happened to you?"
The next morning.
Rhea stared at her porridge like it had committed a personal betrayal.
Elias, sitting across the table with a steaming mug in hand, watched her with mild amusement. "So. Sleep well?"
She poked at the porridge with her spoon, brow furrowed. "Why is it lumpy?"
"It's rustic," Elias replied solemnly. "Very authentic."
"It tastes like sadness."
"Then I've succeeded."
Rhea made a face, but took a tentative bite anyway. She chewed with slow resignation, as if each mouthful was a lesson in emotional endurance.
Elias sipped his tea, watching her more closely now. "You said you dreamed of fire again."
Her spoon paused midair.
"I did," she said slowly. "It was a big castle. Made of black stone, with towers like claws. It was burning. People were running and screaming. I think I was too."
He set his mug down gently. "Do you remember anything else?"
"I was on a throne. A huge one. Everything around me was fire. I didn't feel scared, though. I felt…" She hesitated. "…angry. Really angry."
Elias leaned forward slightly. "Angry at what?"
"I don't know." She wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders drawing inward. "But I said something. In the dream. I said, 'I won't burn it again.'"
Elias gave her a long, quiet look. "You said that out loud last night. While sleepwalking."
Her eyes widened. "I did?"
"You were… kind of glowing, too."
Rhea went very still.
"Is that bad?" she asked, voice small.
He reached across the table and gently ruffled her hair. "It's not good," he said. "But it's not your fault. Maybe it's leftover magic. Or past life trauma. Or a really intense case of demon queen sleep apnea."
"Is that like a cold? Can I sneeze it out?"
"If only."
Rhea giggled and took another bite of her sad porridge.
Elias smiled faintly, but part of his mind was already spinning ahead.
Later that day, Elias made the trek to Ashvale's so-called library.
The building was less "library" and more "book-themed retirement home." It smelled like dust, damp ink, and the desperate ambition of former scholars who had accidentally ended up in a farming village.
The librarian, Mevrin, was a thin-boned elf with a monocle and a judgmental stare powerful enough to blister paint.
"You're looking for what, exactly?" Mevrin asked, squinting at him through a crooked lens.
"Uh… cases of dream-based magical memory bleed. Reincarnated trauma. Children glowing red while unconscious. Maybe something under 'demon-adjacent possession'?"
Mevrin hummed in what might have been disapproval. "We've got Repressed Soul Trauma and You, but it's mostly written in metaphor."
"Does it mention spontaneous combustion?"
The elf arched a brow. "Do you want it to?"
Elias sighed. "Just give me everything with the words 'dream,' 'demon,' or 'exploding child' in it."
Two hours and several dusty tomes later, Elias sat hunched over a splintery reading table, flipping through archaic diagrams and alarming chapter titles. One passage caught his eye:
"Soul echoes" are memory fragments of extraordinary power embedded in a soul's reincarnated form. They can manifest through dreams, unconscious actions, or volatile emotional triggers—particularly in those with unresolved traumatic deaths.
He sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Great," he muttered. "She's got haunted PTSD."
That night, Elias tried something different.
He lit a few calming incense sticks—lavender, with just a hint of something herbal and probably expired. He warmed a mug of milk and stirred in a pinch of cinnamon and honey. Then he carried it to Rhea's room and set it beside her bed.
She blinked at it suspiciously. "What's this?"
"Dream potion," Elias said. "Very powerful. Blocks nightmares. Replaces them with happy stuff. Sandwich-shaped clouds. Maybe a rainbow that smells like cake."
Rhea's eyes brightened. "Cakebows?"
"Rare. But possible."
She drank it in three big gulps and smacked her lips. "Still tastes like milk."
"That means it's working."
She snuggled beneath the blankets, her face flushed with warmth and trust. "Will you stay till I fall asleep?"
Elias hesitated. Then nodded. "Sure."
He settled into the chair near her bed, folding his hands behind his head. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the fading crackle of the hearth.
"Elias?" Rhea said softly.
"Yeah?"
"If I go scary again… will you stop me?"
He looked at her. In the half-light, she looked like any child—small, vulnerable, sleepy. But somewhere behind those violet eyes lived a shadow of something vast. Something hurt.
"I will," he said quietly. "But I don't think you need me to. I think you're already stopping yourself."
She hesitated, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I don't want to hurt you," she whispered.
"You won't."
"Even if I remember who I was?"
Elias gave a faint smile. "Who you were doesn't scare me. Who you're becoming—that's the part that matters."
There was a long silence. Then, in the smallest voice:
"I want to be someone who doesn't burn everything down."
He reached out and gently took her hand. "You're already becoming her. One unburnt pillow at a time."
She drifted off not long after, breathing slow and even.
Elias remained where he was, watching her sleep. The room was peaceful, but the faint hum of the rune on his palm reminded him that this peace—like all things—had to be protected.
It pulsed once, gently.
Not in warning.
But like an answer.
He looked down at it, then at the girl curled beneath the blankets.
"We'll figure it out," he whispered.
"Together."
To be continued…