HER DAUGHTER'S REJECTED MATE
And then, as if the tree could hear thought as easily as breath, a voice rose in the clearing—gentle, neither female nor male, neither old nor young.
“Because this flame does not burn.
It remembers.
And you… You were never forgotten.”
Ori stepped back, overwhelmed.
“Am I… Flameblood?” he asked aloud.
“No,” the voice whispered. “You are something new.”
“What am I, then?”
A breeze stirred the leaves.
“You are a choice made flesh.”
Below the hill, one of the village elders stirred in her sleep.
And dreamed—for the first time in decades—of Lena, of Nya, of wolves that burned without smoke, of cities rising without kings.
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