The soft howls from the wolves echoed through the open window, allowing the darkness to spill in. I felt the soft caresses of Manea behind me, her hands in my hair like waves in the sea.

She hummed a soft song quietly, like she might break the everlasting darkness and finally bring out the light. I couldn't help but sway on the stool as she combed my hair.

Too long. It was too long ago, and the memories should've died by now, but they haven't. Just like the death of light, just like the death of fire. This was too long ago, and it should've died like the ethereal and unforgiving shadows in her eyes. Those same eyes that I never saw again.

"Are you tired yet, Arya?" Manea said, her feather fingertips grazing my chin as she twisted me around.

I shook my head, letting my dark hair bounce. Manea tsked, but her beauty still stood, and I hated it. I wanted this to be real, yet I know it wasn't when she smiled.

The candles in the room flicker, stars against the night, and I felt the burning in my eyes from the wind.

Manea leaned forward, tilting my chin to face her. "Should I shut the window?"

Without letting me answer, she got up and released a beam of green. The color of growth, nature, and nurture. I could remember how she loved the color, and how Mother always ridiculed her for wearing it.

The wind splintered, then escaped. Manea slowly turned from the window to face me, still on the stool, still expecting the candles in the room to shut.

As Manea walked back, as the shadows behind her latched onto the train of her gown, I said, "Can you tell me a story now? You promised."

The room grew cold, but her eyes chose to stay bright and alive, too real and too heartbreaking for me to look at. "Of course I will." She came back to the seat in front of me and laid a hand over my small palms, gentle as a forgotten whisper.

She spun around and picked a book off her dresser. She told me that story every night, and I could recall every detail so vividly. "Tell me a different one," I whispered, wary to the guards that stand outside our bedchambers.

Manea chuckled, the flame of the candle dancing with her laughter. She caught me staring at it. "A beautiful flame. So delicate, so destructive. It reminds me of a little troublemaker." She looked toward me and patted my head. "Why are you so drawn to it, little Arya?"

"It looks like it will die," I murmured back, afraid she'll think I'm being too scared—too... fearful. "What if it does, Manea? What happens when a fire dies?"

Her lips curled in, her soft and elegant face contorting to fit the shadow filling it. Manea sighed and placed the book back. "Well," she said, "there's little I can do to explain." Her pale finger twined through the golden candleholder before she picked it up and hovered it between us. "Blow it out."

The flame sparked, and I jumped. "It'll die, Manea." Again, the burning sensation returned to my eyes, and I could feel the heat of the fire lace with the darkness that crept into her eyes. "Can it die?"

She moved the candle closer to her chin, allowing the delicate river of fire lick her skin. "Valarya, blow the candle out," she said again. Even through the little light, I caught her smile again, this time with the light that I knew will be dead. "Blow it out."

I blinked. Just once, I felt the droplets that were gathering in my eyes stop. For one second, it was as if the world had stopped climbing on my shoulders. For just that second, I could see the radiant crown of Thaeleck resting high above her head, a flame itself, and a candle burning high in the sky. I knew Manea was a flame.

Then I froze. The flame turned cold, and the bone-chilling coolness climbed around my neck like roses on a vine, like a wedding band around a finger, slowly integrating itself into my life. "I—I can't, Manea."

She brought the flame away from her body, her eyes drawing close. "You have to be brave enough to seek past your fear, Arya." Manea's words engraved themself into my head, a permanent grave through my body. "Don't ask questions if you can't get the answers."

Manea lifted the candle to her mouth and blew it out, the warmth of the candle too different from the cool breath of hers.

I sometimes wondered what would've happened if I had just blew the candle. Now, I could never find the answer from her. Now, I just learned to live with the undying want to know.

"Now, let me tell you a magical story," Manea whispered onto my forehead.