Irelia sat at a weathered wooden table just outside the bustling tavern, her fingers curled around a mug of mulled cider. The heat seeped into her skin, a welcome contrast to the crisp morning air. Beyond her, the market square thrived with energy—merchants shouting their wares, customers locked in spirited haggling, and children darting between stalls, their laughter ringing against the cobblestones.

She watched the scene, though her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Two lives, distinct yet inexplicably woven together, coexisted within her—the mage she had become and the author she once was. The dissonance of it all lingered in her mind. Reincarnation. The defining trait of a phoenix. And yet, she bore no phoenix mark. A failed Aerith, denied the birthright of her lineage, yet carrying the weight of another life's memories. The irony was almost laughable. A quiet chuckle escaped her lips, lost in the hum of the marketplace.

Her thoughts were cut short by the hesitant approach of a courier. He was young—seventeen at most—with an awkward stiffness to his movements. His gaze flickered nervously to the mage sigil on her cloak, its design—a pentagram enclosed in a circle—marking her as a Journeyman. He flinched, wary. Magic was unpredictable, and young mages even more so. Lacking the restraint that came with experience, they were known for pushing the limits of their power, often with reckless abandon. At twenty-one, Irelia fit that reputation all too well.

The boy stopped a few paces away, swallowing hard before finally speaking. "A-Are you Irelia Aerith?" he stammered.

She nodded, offering a polite smile. "I am."

Fumbling with his satchel, he pulled out a sealed scroll, his hands shaking as he held it out. "I… I have a letter for you."

"Thank you," Irelia said, accepting the scroll with measured care. She slipped a silver coin from her pouch and pressed it into his palm. His wariness melted into relief, gratitude lighting up his face.

"Thank you, miss!" he blurted before scurrying off, leaving Irelia alone to inspect the scroll.

Her brows furrowed in surprise as she turned the scroll over, her gaze settling on the coat of arms stamped in wax. House Aerith. Her family. The name carried weight, but for Irelia, it was a symbol of rejection and pain. Her fingers traced the seal absently, memories stirring—whispers in the corridors, her sister’s taunts, the cold indifference of her parents. All because she lacked the phoenix mark, the birthright that defined their lineage.

With a quiet sigh, she slipped the scroll into her bag, unwilling to entertain whatever plea or demand it carried. That life was behind her. Rising from her seat, she shook off the lingering thoughts and turned toward the blacksmith. Her order had been delayed long enough.

As Irelia made her way through the crowded market, a frantic voice caught her attention. A halfling stood atop a wooden crate, calling out to passing adventurers, desperation etched into his features.

"Please! Has anyone seen them? My friends—they're missing!" His voice wavered, but no one stopped.

Irelia hesitated, curiosity stirring. She stepped closer, her boots tapping against the cobblestones. "What’s all the shouting about?"

The halfling turned, eyes wide with a glimmer of hope. "You… you’re a mage, aren’t you? You can help! Please, my friends—they’ve disappeared!"

She raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. "Slow down. Who are you, and what happened?"

"Pip Thistleburrow," he said, bowing slightly, though urgency cut through the gesture. "I was with a caravan traveling to Ignisia. We were attacked on the road—something came out of the forest. I… I was knocked out, but when I woke up, the others were gone. Some were killed, but the rest—vanished. No one will help me look for them!"

Irelia studied him, expression unreadable. "You were unconscious? Then how do you know anyone is still alive?"

Pip’s face twisted in frustration. "I don’t. But I can’t just leave them. What if they’re out there, waiting for help? What if they’re hurt? They’re my friends. I have to try—even if it’s foolish."

Irelia exhaled, glancing over her shoulder at the bustling market. The sheer desperation in his voice tugged at something in her.

"Fine. Let’s sit down, and you can tell me everything."

The tavern buzzed with its usual morning crowd as Irelia pushed open the heavy oak door. The scent of spiced cider and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the low murmur of conversation. Behind the bar, Garen, the stout and ever-cheerful owner, looked up from polishing a mug, his face splitting into a wide grin.

“If it isn’t my favorite mage!” he called out, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Gracing us with your presence again?”

“I’m here for the cider, not your flattery,” Irelia shot back with a smirk as she strode toward the bar. “But keep it coming, and I might pretend to tolerate it.”

Garen chuckled and poured two mugs of steaming cider. “One of these days, I’ll win you over.”

“Dream on,” she quipped, taking the drinks. She motioned for Pip to follow her to a quiet corner table.

Once seated, Pip recounted his story in full. His caravan had been traveling to Ignisia with three wagons loaded with goods—cloth, grain, and luxury wares—when disaster struck.

“It came out of nowhere,” he murmured, his voice tight with lingering fear. “Something leapt from the forest. Fast. Too fast to see clearly.”

His fingers clenched around his mug. “I was in the first wagon when the horses bolted. I fell. A crate landed on me, and… I blacked out. When I woke up, I was here, in town, with a unit of the Morning Flame. They told me…” He swallowed hard. “They told me some of my friends were dead. The others—missing.”

Irelia’s brow furrowed. “The Morning Flame? In Ignisia?”

The knightly order seldom set foot in the Duchy of Raelthorn, let alone its remote countryside. The Bastion Peaks—a rugged, unforgiving mountain range—was hardly the kind of place one would expect to find knights of such a prestigious order. If they were here, they had a damn good reason.

Pip nodded. "Their leader… a silver-haired elf. She—"

“Nariel.” Irelia’s heart stuttered. She forced herself to shake off the thought. Nariel had no reason to be in a remote town like Ignisia. Her duties lay elsewhere.

Pip didn’t notice her reaction. He stared down at his drink, his voice breaking. “They said the beasts probably devoured the rest. But I can’t accept that. What if they’re still alive? Waiting for help? I have to know.”

His desperation cut through Irelia’s usual detachment, settling into something closer to resolve.

“I’ll help you,” she said at last.

Pip’s eyes lit with gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you so much! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

For the first time in days, he looked hopeful. And though Irelia had no certainty about where this path would lead, she felt, with rare conviction, that it was the right one.

After promising to meet Pip at the town gate in a few hours, Irelia made her way to the forge. Thalric Emberforge’s workshop was a familiar sanctuary of heat and steel, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal ringing through the air. The scent of smelted iron and burning coal clung to the place, a testament to its relentless activity.

As she stepped inside, the dwarf barely spared her a glance, too focused on shaping molten steel beneath his hammer.

“If it isn’t the impatient mage,” Thalric grumbled, swiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

“Impatient? Three weeks late isn’t exactly prompt, Thalric,” Irelia quipped, her voice laced with playful sarcasm.

Thalric let out a snort. “Not my fault adventurers keep snapping their swords like twigs every other day. And let’s not forget the Morning Flame’s latest order—those knights keep me busier than a goblin with gold.”

Irelia arched a brow. “The Morning Flame?”

“Aye.” He set his hammer down with a heavy thud. “Big order, too. Full repairs and fresh commissions. Their leader’s some high-ranking high elf, from what I hear.”

The confirmation of the knights’ presence sent a ripple of unease through Irelia. Too much of a coincidence. “Any idea what they’re doing here?”

Thalric shrugged. “They don’t tell me their business, and I don’t ask. So long as their coin’s good, I don’t care.” He turned and retrieved a bundle from his workbench. “Anyway, your daggers.”

He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a pair of immaculate daggers. The polished blades gleamed with a faint bluish sheen, perfectly balanced and razor-sharp. Their hilts, wrapped in deep green leather, bore subtle etchings.

Irelia lifted one, testing its weight with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Flawless, as always.”

“Would’ve been even better if you let me engrave the runes,” Thalric muttered, folding his arms.

Irelia smirked. “You know I like doing that myself.”

“Hmph.” He narrowed his eyes. “Just don’t ruin my work.”

She let out a quiet chuckle. Some things never changed.

After settling her payment and exchanging a few final jests, Irelia stepped out of the forge and made her way home. Her cottage, though modest, was a perfect reflection of her dual life—half scholar, half adventurer. Shelves crammed with magical tomes lined the walls, while her workspace remained perpetually cluttered with runestones, alchemical tools, and half-finished projects.

She sat at her workbench, rolling her shoulders before setting to work on the daggers. With precise, practiced strokes, she etched runes into the steel—teleportation glyphs reinforced with elemental affinities. When the final rune was set, she tested her craft. The first blade sailed toward the kitchen door, only to vanish and reappear in her palm with a thought. The second she hurled across the room, then willed herself to its landing point, the familiar rush of teleportation magic tingling against her skin.

Satisfied, Irelia settled into the chair by the hearth, the fire’s warmth easing the tension from her limbs. Her gaze drifted toward the satchel resting on the table, its contents gnawing at the edges of her mind. The scroll inside. She hesitated, fingers hovering over the wax seal before finally breaking it.

The parchment unfurled, revealing a familiar script—elegant, practiced, and unmistakably Kaellum’s.

Irelia’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. 

“What in the hells do they want from me now? I’m the disgraced outcast, remember?”

Kaellum’s Letter:

Irelia,

I never thought I’d write to you. Not after all these years. But something is happening—something beyond our control. The phoenix marks are vanishing.

Irelia froze, the words sinking in before a scoff escaped her lips. She tossed the scroll onto the floor with a bitter laugh.

“Vanishing? How convenient to remember me now.”

Yet her fingers twitched, hesitating, before she reached down and picked it up again.

Kaellum’s Letter:

Irina has lost hers. The mark faded entirely a fortnight ago. The elders are in disarray, whispering of curses, of punishment for sins unspoken. They are desperate for answers.

A sharp, humorless smile tugged at Irelia’s lips.

“Of course. Irina loses her mark, and suddenly the world is ending. But me? Born without one? That was just… acceptable, wasn’t it?”

Kaellum’s Letter:

Some in the family… they wonder if this is your doing. If this is some form of vengeance.

The words struck like a blade. Her grip on the scroll tightened, her fingers trembling.

“Of course they would,” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “Blame the one who never fit. The one who had every reason to hate them.”

Kaellum’s Letter:

I do not believe this. I know you, Irelia. But I cannot speak for the others. That is why I write—not to accuse, but to plead. Something is wrong. I fear it is not just the family—it is the world itself. I need your help.

Irelia clenched her jaw, her mind racing. She hurled the scroll aside and pushed to her feet, pacing the room. Her boots struck the wooden floor in heavy, restless beats, the sound echoing the storm inside her.

“Help. Now you want my help?” Her voice cracked, raw with years of buried anger. “After pretending I didn’t exist? After letting them torment me for being different?”

She exhaled sharply, hands curling into fists at her sides. The weight of the letter pressed against her, unwanted yet impossible to ignore.

Her gaze flickered back to the scroll, Kaellum’s words reverberating in her mind.

"Some wonder if this is your doing."

Her hands curled into fists. She could almost hear Irina’s voice, dripping with scorn, spinning her lies with practiced ease. Their parents would believe her, just as they always had. Why would this time be any different?

“Revenge?” Irelia let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “If I had that kind of power, don’t you think I’d have used it long ago?”

The memory of Irina’s summons—beasts conjured not out of necessity, but cruelty—rose unbidden, clawing at the edges of Irelia’s mind. Direwolves, their spectral forms unnervingly real, snapping at her heels as she fled through the garden. Irina’s laughter rang behind her, sharp and arrogant, the sound still echoing in her ears after all these years.

Irelia exhaled sharply, forcing herself still, one hand bracing against the chimney as the past came rushing in. More memories followed, relentless in their clarity.

Irina’s taunts, endless and cutting. Her summoned beasts always lurking, always threatening. Their parents’ cold indifference—never stopping Irina, never stepping in. But when Irelia fought back? When she refused to be prey?

She could still see it—the first time she used magic to defend herself. A wind spell, desperate and untamed, meant to scatter Irina’s beast but catching Irina as well, leaving shallow cuts in its wake.

That was when their parents intervened. Not before.

Her fingers curled into a fist. Kaellum’s kindness, once a flickering light, had dimmed into silence, swallowed by fear, by guilt, by his own ambitions. And now, after all these years, a letter. A plea wrapped in suspicion.

Slowly, Irelia straightened, her expression hardening into something unreadable. She reached for the scroll, folding it with meticulous care, before placing it into the hearth. The phoenix crest gleamed in the firelight, a symbol of everything she had left behind.

“If they think I’m to blame, let them,” she murmured. “I owe them nothing.”

Her gaze drifted to the window, where her reflection stared back—emerald-green eyes, unmarred wrist. No phoenix mark. There never had been.

The flames devoured the parchment, curling and blackening the letter until it crumbled into nothing. Irelia watched in silence as the embers flickered and died, as if in that moment, some lingering piece of her past had finally burned away.