Chapter VI

12 May

The Soul Flame

Part I

In this world, stillness didn’t exist. Emptiness was impossible. Shadow spirits slipped between the floorboards, nestled inside untended corners, or curled up inside forgotten cracks in the walls. They were mischievous and fleeting—drawn to movement, warmth, the sway of grass in the wind. Unbound by soul or form, they inhabited objects without resistance: flowers, loose tiles, shoes left unattended. Most vanished after a moment, content with a single flutter, a brief experience.

Emha stood in the middle of the tea house, the pot cradled in her hands. Shunji dangled sleepily from its handle like a plum-sized fruit, wings twitching. She gently unhooked him and tucked him back into her apron pocket. The keys were still chanting—"Teaaaaa! Teaaaaa!"—their tiny voices overlapping like cracked wind chimes. Coalby had disappeared halfway into a drawer again.

Not quite a manifester, not quite a creature, he was something in between—forever stuck in his primal form.

None of them were her equal. Just fragments. Flickers of soul flames, or beings born from odd rituals and side effects. And though the room was full—of movement, of voices, of energy—something in her felt hollow.

What she longed for wasn't just company, but recognition—someone who could dive into the depths of her mind, trace every thought like a familiar path, and with the same quiet intensity, understand. Not just listen, but see her—fully, fiercely—and in that seeing, allow her to finally unfold.

Her thoughts made her still.

The last year she had spent in this house had changed her. Or perhaps consumed her. The contents of the house—its forgotten drawers, its mismatched shelves, the endless piles of abandoned things—had taken over her days. She sorted, cleaned, catalogued, repurposed, enchanted. Every morning, she woke with an ache in her chest—sometimes dull, sometimes sharp. Loneliness. Maybe even abandonment. But as soon as she began working—her hands busy, her mind tangled in small tasks—she returned to the present. And she found she enjoyed it. The mess, the mystery, the ritual of it all.

Soon enough, a year had passed.

She had never spoken of the loneliness. Not to the keys, not to Coalby, not even in the dark, quiet moments when the house creaked around her.

But she stayed—because even when she was surrounded by other manifesters, even when life was full of voices and noise and movement, the ache remained. There was nowhere to go but inward.

A small smile curled on her lips.

She felt a quiet responsibility for the house. Over time, she had noticed how its mood shifted with every small gesture of care—how the clutter settled, how the forgotten items regained a sense of spirit. It was subtle, but real. The house responded to her. And in that, she felt needed.

This house is mad. Intriguing. Mystifying. I love it, she thought to herself.

The teapot, as if sensing the shift, spoke softly: "Lady... a nice cup of tea will straighten your head."

Emha blinked, her wings straightened. "Okay." Her tail flicked like a metronome. "Can't think without tea. Where's the—?"

Coalby was still wedged in the drawer, fur puffed and a bag of tea clamped tightly in his mouth. "Here, Emha," he murmured, only for her key to swoop in, snatch the bag, and shred it open with tiny fangs. Leaves exploded into the pot like a green blizzard.

"Only the finest for you!" it declared to the rider's key, which had been loafing beside an empty cup, oblivious.

Coalby's fur stood up. "Youuuu!"

"Lock him up!" the key shrieked.

Emha moved fast. She plucked the drowsy rider's key from the table and tucked it into her key's grasping hands. "Here. Entertain yourself."

Instant peace. Her key clutched its friend, eyes starry, and began peppering it with kisses. "Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!"

Coalby looked physically pained.

"Don't look, Coalby," she muttered, trying not to laugh.

Emha salvaged the tea leaves with practiced hands—scooping, measuring, depositing just the right amount into the pot. The rest she flicked aside, earning an approving twitch from Coalby's whiskers. A pat to his head, a brush of fingers against fireplace stone—her sigils flared red, and flames licked to life. Before the first spark could settle, Coalby was already in motion, his body spiraling around the kettle with the ease of a creature who'd done this a thousand times before.

"Eighty degrees," she reminded him.

"Got it, Emha!"

He paused as if he finally realized, "Why is the teapot speaking?"

"It seems to contain a soul flame, just like the keys," she replied, inspecting the pot. "However..." She gave it a gentle shake. "Why have you remained silent until today?"

The teapot blinked with the one eye it had open and answered sweetly: "Shake me more, please. It's been so long since I've been held."

So she did—rhythmically this time, like a quiet little dance. The pot stared at her in amusement.

Then she opened the lid and inhaled the smell of the tea leaves—this type of obscuritea had a rich scent of honey, ripe fruit, wildflowers, and warm wood, with a naturally sweet and musky complexity born from nature's gentle bite.

She narrowed her eyes, leaning in for a second whiff. "Coalby... what kind of tea is this? It smells a bit peculiar."

Coalby lifted his head slightly from the kettle. "That's the bitten obscuritea," he replied matter-of-factly. "You bought it a few weeks ago at the market, remember?"

Emha blinked. "Bitten?"

He nodded. "Yes. The bite marks on the leaves oxidize and give off that sweet aroma. It only happens when the plants are grown in valleys where the shadow spirits are more erratic and playful. They nip at each other when they inhabit the same stalk—like a weird kind of flirting."

Emha raised an eyebrow. "So the flavor comes from shadow spirit brawls?"

"More like... their playtime," Coalby corrected. "The tea's rare because it only happens under those conditions. Mischief makes it better, apparently. Expensive, too—but still pretty easy to find if you know where to look."

Emha gave a low hum, then stared into the pot, as if reconsidering everything she'd ever brewed.

"I'm obsessed with tea. I always ask for the most unusual blends or rarest leaves, just to satisfy my curiosity... then forget half of what I bring home."

Coalby said, his tone calm but faintly proud, "I've been reading up. Someone has to keep track."

She gave a small smile. "You're doing a great job." She smelled the tea again. "Everything tastes better with a bit of chaos."

"The water's ready," he replied.

"It's time." She took the kettle and poured hot water into the teapot.

"Ahhh—it tickles!" the pot giggled.

"Two keys making out, even the teapot seems to get some action," Emha said with a sarcastic smile.

She lined up five teacups and poured the first round. Then, with one gulp, she swallowed her cup of tea and lay back on the floor, nervously swinging her tail, tapping it against the floorboards.

"Lady, it seems like you need some shaking yourself," the teapot remarked.
"Oh gods, the teapot is reading my mind," Emha exhaled, staring up at the ceiling.

The key chimed in with a mischievous squeak: "Emha needs a key to be put into her keyhole!"
Emha burst out laughing, then abruptly straightened her face.
"Wait—hold on. For you to say that... what do you feel when you're inserted into a keyhole?"

She sat up, just as her eyes landed on the rider's key, still full of tea and fast asleep beside the cup.
"Well," said her key, stretching its wings, "it depends. Sometimes I fit just right and the door unlocks perfectly. Other times it's a bit disappointing. And then—sometimes—it's ecstatic. There are some high-value doors out there!"

Emha stared at him, dumbfounded.
She had never considered it before. Was this all... pleasurable to them? Did enchanted objects feel satisfaction from fulfilling their purpose? Was pouring tea for a possessed teapot the equivalent of—?
Her wings flushed pink at the tips.

Coalby shyly approached Emha and tapped her side with the end of his tail.
"I made some more tea for you," he murmured.
For a moment, a thought unfurled in the corner of Emha's mind—quiet, uninvited. What if Coalby's desire to become a manifester wasn't just about form or freedom, but...
"Nope," she muttered, shaking her head as if the thought itself were something to swat away.

Then Coalby added, a little too earnestly, "I wish I could be bigger... so I could pick you up and shake you too."
Emha blinked. "No, Coalby—what are you saying?" she laughed.

"Just like you shook the teapot," he continued, his voice soft. "It looked fun... there's only so much I can do to make you happy, being this tiny."

The teapot burst into a wheezing laugh, tea sloshing over its rim. Its one eye narrowed with a kind of tired amusement.
"How innocent," it croaked. "Make her happy? You?"

Coalby flinched—not visibly, but something in the tilt of his tail gave him away.
The pot's tone shifted—gentler now, but no less cutting. "You think it's enough, don't you? Boiling water just right, keeping the floor dry, naming teas... You think that's what she needs?"

Emha's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
But something in her stomach twisted.

Coalby didn't answer. His gaze dropped. Quiet. Without looking up, he picked up a cloth and began wiping the spilled tea from the floor.
"Emha doesn't like when the floor is wet," he muttered. "Please control yourself."
Then, with the tip of his tail, Coalby picked up the teapot lid and gently set it back into place.
"You're losing your mind," he said gently.

Emha smiled.
Coalby's presence was soft, but his boundaries were precise—expressed not through force, but in quiet, deliberate actions. He always seemed to know exactly what to say, and when. There was strength in that kind of softness, a kind she deeply respected.

She, on the other hand, had never felt safe enough to express her tenderness so openly. Not because she lacked the instinct—but because if someone crossed that line, she wasn't sure she'd know how to protect herself. Vulnerability, to her, felt like a luxury only the skilled could afford.
And Coalby? Somehow, he made it look effortless.

Feeling the lack of attention, Emha's key offered to make the third and last flush of tea.
As soon as the tea was ready, the teapot opened its second eye.
"Oh! I have two eyes," it announced cheerfully.

But the moment those words left the pot, the key's expression twisted. Its little face contorted with sudden rage. Without hesitation, it launched itself at the teapot, grabbing it with all its might and flinging it high into the air.
"You made me! You used me—and then you left! You left meeeeee!"

Emha sprang to her feet, but it was too late.
The key let go. The teapot crashed against the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.
But no soul flame emerged.

Emha stood frozen, stunned.
And then the house shifted.
Not its usual, sleepy creak—but a full lurch, like a wave rolling underfoot. The floor swelled and twisted, throwing Emha off balance. Even her tail couldn't anchor her this time.

Then, stillness.
Emha sat up slowly, heart pounding. Her eyes locked with Coalby's.
He blinked, confused. "Emha... are you okay?"
She opened her mouth to speak—but stopped. Her gaze dropped to him in disbelief.
Coalby had doubled in length.

Part II

The mount's light steps rang with soft metallic clicks as it walked over the murmur-stone path, led by the rider toward the Susurria Flame and Shadow Market.

The creature moved with smooth elegance—its dragon-like head held high, glinting with scales that reflected a soft green shimmer in the daylight. Though its body bore horse-like proportions, its long serpentine neck twisted and turned with serpentine awareness, scanning the surroundings. Four protective metal cuffs clamped around its legs, each engraved with warding sigils—to deter mischievous spirits from attaching themselves to either the mount or the goods it carried. In places like Susurria, such precautions were not a luxury but a necessity.

Unlike most markets, Susurria wasn't a dense square or plaza. It unraveled across a long, winding road stitched together with timeworn stones. Low, lopsided houses spilled into one another, their facades wrapped in a network of old and new wires. Paper signs—soaked, torn, and barely legible—dangled above tunnel-like entrances carved between the homes. Some passages had old wooden plaques hanging above them, worn smooth by decades of wind and water, naming businesses whose existence could no longer be confirmed. Still, manifesters came and went from these narrow corridors, some vanishing behind the tunnels only to reappear out of different ones entirely. The doors and passageways acted as portals—glitches in geography that made walking through this place feel like flipping through the pages of a living book.

However, the rider didn't seem to hesitate. He guided the mount to one of the courtyards large enough to dismount and tied the reins to a post before lifting the lantern from the saddle. Without pause, he walked into one of the darker corridors, choosing shadow over attention. The shadows swallowed him whole.

At the end of the corridor, the walls opened into a modest home. A small kitchen area sat to one side, where a dragon-manifester family was preparing lunch—peeling fruit and chatting in quiet tones. The scent of something sweet, almost citrusy, hung in the air.

Memory brushed against him like a breeze through ash—brief, fragrant, and gone.

He didn't follow it.

A young woman—likely the daughter—rose from the table, wiping her hands on her apron. Without a word, she guided the rider through a beaded curtain into the back room. Shelves lined with finely crafted lanterns filled the space, each made from different materials, stones, and inscribed with various sigils. Some were new; others worn, polished, or gleaming with age. Yet every lantern, regardless of condition, shared one thing—extraordinary workmanship. An outsider might wonder how such a modest home could house such treasures. But that was the charm of the Flame and Shadow Market: here, wealth wasn't loud, and power wore humble faces.

The truth was, most dragons were naturally drawn to shiny metals. Many spent lifetimes collecting and hoarding objects—only after that came the house. As the old saying goes, "A truly happy dragon is one that sits on a pile of shiny things."

That instinct likely stemmed from biology: the glossier the scales, the healthier and more youthful a dragon manifester appeared to potential mates. Because of this, dragons became exceptionally good at spotting high-quality materials—and just as quick to call out the fakes.

In the end, even the most intelligent beings were still guided by something primal. No one was truly exempt.

You either learn to use it in your favor—or lose yourself to it.

"I'm looking for something sturdy. Not easy to crack," the rider said at last, his voice deep but calm.

"What's wrong with my lantern?" the flame hissed. "Try to put me in a new one again and I swear—I'll burn every one of your fingers, one by one!"

The rider didn't look down.

"Hey! Don't ignore me just because I haven't grown legs and walked away! I have a soul, you know!"

Even though the rider didn't react, the vendor leaned in, studying the container.

"What an interesting soul flame," she said. "Mind if I ask who it belonged to?"

Conversations like this were normal in the market, especially here, where manifesters came to find the right vessels to place their soul flames into. Unlike shadow spirits that forcibly inhabited objects, soul flames spoke voluntarily once settled. They often carried emotional value—fragments of knowledge, memories, or instincts extracted from ancestors. The vessel chosen was important: the more meaningful it was to the manifester, the more stable the bond. It seemed the rider had isolated this flame on purpose. Perhaps he hadn't yet found the right object.

The rider's jaw twitched slightly.

Instead of replying, he picked up a larger lantern, its heavy glass veiled in soot.

"The flame has outgrown its container."

"I got bigger? Really? Oh—my dreams of becoming a blazing, all-consuming fire are finally happening!" The flame flickered vigorously with excitement and gladly hopped from its old lantern into the new one, gently pushing itself up with two tiny ember hands over the glass rim.

"What kind of knowledge does this soul flame possess? Sounds like you might've belonged to a dangerous manifester," the vendor laughed.

"Yes. He once wished to burn all of the Dragon Kingdom," the rider said.

The vendor smiled. "We all sometimes do."

"That will be fifteen aura points." The rider unwrapped his bandaged hand, and a number sigil shimmered into view, shifting across his skin. "Done."

And so the rider left.

Riders flame got a new lantern! Also two soul flames kissing?

The flame muttered, "Listen, do you really have to always be this mysterious and pretend to ignore others? You know, I heard from another flame something about avoidant attachment. Maybe you should look into it."

"It's always the quiet ones," the flame added. "Deep down you crave connection—but oh no, let's not be vulnerable."

The rider paused, adjusting the lantern's position slightly, as if inspecting a scratch that wasn't there.

With a dry grin, he finally responded. "Remember, you are just a flame—a part of someone's consciousness."

Before the flame could say anything further, a soft laugh erupted from the corner.

"Avoidant attachment? Even you, little flame, find his company dull."

Two figures stepped out from the shadows—a female and a male, both bearing unmistakable vampire manifester traits.

The female's skin was a dusky grey, her black hair cascading down between two large, leathery bat wings that curved out from her head. Two neatly braided loops were tied with ribbons. Her long, sigil-marked fingers held a book titled Blood Type Guide. The book was inhabited by a soul flame, its cover bulging with oddly pointy lumps that shifted like something unborn. Two soul flame-like eyes blinked open and shut.

The male, tall and silent, had white porcelain skin and stark white hair. He wore a black robe with silver embellishments. A sword hung at his side, and embedded beneath the grip was a tiny, curled dragon embryo—clearly visible to anyone who knew what they were looking at.

"I want a charm like that!" the flame exclaimed, pointing at the sword.

"Blood type X," the book spoke in a dry, rustling voice. "The rarest and tastiest blood."

The pale vampire manifester suddenly locked eyes with the rider. "Who are you?" he asked, scanning him from head to toe. His gaze paused at the rider's head—no wings in sight—but something about his complexion hinted at vampire blood as well.

"Don't tell me he's the one that—"

The sentence halted midair. The woman's eyes snapped toward the rider—too quickly.

"No, no, he is not," she said. But her voice betrayed her.

"Noelia," the rider said, soft but unsurprised. "How have you been?"

He smiled—casual, unbothered. Practiced.

"That's all you have to say?"

"Is there a problem?" He tilted his head. "What brings you to the Susurria Market? I see you've kept your soul flame."

"You have the guts—" Her claws unsheathed, scraping sharply against the book's cover. The book responded by twitching its wobbly limbs and forming an exaggerated angry face—but said nothing, only trembling in protest as it tried to push her hand away.

The male figure stood just behind her, watching it all without flinching. He had seen her like this before: not enraged, but unraveling. Her power was not in question—that had never been the issue. It was her edges. The way they frayed when the rider appeared.

He didn't hate the rider. Not exactly. But he feared what he represented: an emotional wound that not even the royal bloodline could cauterize. And in that wound, something dangerous was festering.

He adjusted his stance. One hand rested loosely on the hilt of his weapon, but not from threat. It was a ritual of grounding. A reminder: he was not her friend. He was her shield.

The rider sighed, like someone too tired to perform guilt.

"Are you angry again?" he asked. "It must be exhausting... carrying all that fire just to stay in control."

"How dare you speak to me like that." Her voice rose like a blade unsheathed. "I'm the carrier of the dragon. One day I will become one. And who are you?"

Her gaze narrowed.

"What do you even have to offer—other than your dirty blood?"

"Seems like you're in a bad mood today, and I have business to attend. Enjoy the market." And so he turned around and swiftly vanished into the dark, leaving Noelia behind.

Noelia's voice broke through the silence.

"Leon, tell me... I don't understand. Why?" Her hands clenched at her sides. "I have everything. Beauty, charm, power. Why doesn't he want me? Why can't he see what I am? How can he resist my blood?"

Leon stepped closer, lowering his voice. "My lady, you're exposing yourself. This is dangerous. No one should know you're here—or that you're carrying the dragon."

He raised one hand, and a shimmer passed through the air beside them, bending the light in waves.

"Let me restore the barrier."

Leon was Noelia's assigned guard—his loyalty bound by an oath made to the Vampire Kingdom. His true powers were a matter of speculation. The man had never revealed his sigils to anyone but the princess. Some whispered about what they'd seen in battle, but no one truly knew the scope of what he carried.

Noelia, on the other hand, wore her sigils in plain sight. There was no reason to hide them—her powers, and the strength of her royal bloodline, were widely known. And that was exactly why a guard had been assigned to her.

Because it's harder to fight what you cannot predict.

She knew she should have ignored him. She knew she shouldn't have let her weakness show. She had rehearsed it all in her head a hundred times: The next time I see him, this is what I'll say.

But when it came to him, her boundaries were always too easy to break.

"You're still inexperienced, my lady," Leon said gently. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

"I haven't seen him in two years," she hissed, her voice rising. "And he just turns around and leaves. It pisses me off so much. I thought I could resist, but I want his blood—so much. And he... he..." Her breath caught, trembling between fury and longing.

Leon hesitated. He didn't know what to say.

She was unraveling—and for the first time, he considered the question himself.

What must his blood taste like?

He had heard rumors about their affair. He'd listened to Noelia's occasional rambles.

And if this was truly who he suspected... he dared not think further. It might compromise his duty. His job was to remain sharp.

Unfortunately for Noelia, she couldn't trace where the rider had gone.

Leon should have felt relief. But for someone to leave no trace—not even one that he could detect—meant only one thing:

This wasn't an ordinary manifester.

This could be dangerous.

"What is his name?" he asked.

Noelia looked up, her voice softening.

"Rider," she said.

He pulled out his notebook and quietly wrote it down.

Noelia glanced at the page, noticing the faint mark beside the name.

"Blacklisted," she muttered with a sigh.

He wanted to tell her to stay away from him. To warn her.

But then he remembered—

the more unattainable this man was, the more she seemed to want him.

Everyone wants what they can't have.

And for royals—who grow up owning everything they touch—desire becomes something else entirely.

Leon wondered:

Was it about love? Power?

Or was it the one thing she couldn't command—his choice?

Did she want him to kneel... or to choose her freely?

He thought for a moment. Logic wouldn't work—not with her.

So he leaned into it instead.

"My lady, you should totally go and find him," he said flatly, hoping that by making it sound easy, he'd dull the edge of her desire.

She smiled slowly, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"That could be fun," she said. "You're coming with me."

She looked at him like she'd won a small game he didn't know they were playing.

✦

"Rider," the lantern said, after they reached a quiet edge of town where they'd be staying the night.

"Who was the guy next to Noelia?"

"Her guard," he replied, removing the saddle pack. "Since Noelia obtained the dragon a year ago, she's been assigned a full squad. I guess that one's her favorite."

The flame flickered. "You know a lot about her."

"Everyone knows about her," he said. "She's the vampire princess who bonded with the dragon. You can't escape that kind of news."

He paused. "However, I couldn't care less about her."

He crouched down near the lantern.

"I have no feelings for her."

The flame leaned in. "Have you ever told her that?"

He hesitated. Just for a breath.

"No."

Another pause.

"She never asked," he added.

Then, quieter:

"And I never gave her promises, either. So... why would she be mad at me?"

"I don't really want to be talking about her," he said. "Tomorrow we have to get to the house. I can't believe I finally found it."

"Don't you think it's a bit odd?" the flame asked. "It felt like the house found you. What's so special about this place you've been chasing all this time, anyway?"

He didn't reply.

The flame narrowed its ember-eyes, then—in a fit of frustration—shoved a heap of coal into its mouth.

"Fine," it grumbled, voice muffled. "Talk to no one, then."

It kept eating until it was too full to speak anymore.

The rider uncorked a small flask and poured a measure of fermented Obscuritea—a bitter, near-black alcohol that shimmered faintly in the cup.

He didn't sip right away. He just held it there, like it had weight beyond its volume.

Then he drank. Slowly. Silently.

A few minutes passed. He felt the warmth settle. Heavy.

And just before sleep took him, he saw a clear image in his mind—

The dragon girl.

Closing the door.

Right in front of him.