The faint smell of water drifted through the air, soft and almost sweet. Rohan lifted his gaze skyward. Far off, dark clouds rolled in, blotting out patches of blue. A thin vein of lightning pulsed inside the gathering storm. Its echo of thunder trailed a moment later across the Tavora forest.

It’s fast approaching, Rohan thought. He knew he had to hurry back to the shelter before the storm broke. Though he was a cleric with powerful healing abilities, he was nearly useless on his own. His mana could mend others with ease and pull people back from the edge of death. But when it came to himself, he could do very little. That was the reason he had been allowed to join the adventurers in the first place. His healing abilities were too valuable to refuse. This was especially true in the Tavora forest, where even a bunny could be dangerous.

“Why did I decide to come here?” he cried helplessly, as he made his way towards the shelter—or what he thought was the shelter.

“That is not the way back,” came a gentle voice behind him.

He turned quickly and saw a familiar face smiling at him. The same face that had convinced him to take up this perilous journey.

“Healing and cooking are your only salvageable skills. I don’t know why you decided to join us,” Meena continued. Her smile lingered as Rohan looked at her with relief.

“Well, it is not a what. It is a who,” Rohan replied, following her steps. He looked at her with admiration, recalling the first day he met her.

It was the day his chief had brought him into the office and introduced him to Meena and her party of adventurers. He remembered very little of that meeting—except her. Her lean, muscular arms as she pulled out a chair for him caught his eye. The strange runes etched along her skin glowed faintly as she moved. He had been surprised to learn she was a mage, not a warrior—a fire mage at that.

He once saw her perform in a stadium. From far in the audience he had watched her stand in the centre, flames leaping to life at her command. They circled her like dancers in perfect rhythm, fierce yet controlled. She stood calm in the midst of it all, her dark skin glowing like obsidian in the heart of a volcano. It was then Rohan realised that love had a face.

“You need to walk faster,” Meena said suddenly, quickening her pace.

Snapped back to the present, Rohan stumbled forward. “Yes, yes—walking!”

But as he followed her towards the shelter, something stirred at the edge of his vision. A shadow darted between the trees—too fast to see clearly. The forest had gone oddly still, every sound swallowed by the growing weight of the storm. His mana prickled faintly in his chest, as if the forest itself had reached for it. He shivered, unsure if it was the cold air or something else entirely.

Soon, they stepped into the magical tent. Inside were the others—two more adventurers. One was a heavily armoured tank, the defender of the group. The other was a close-combat magic fighter. Although less powerful than Meena, he was skilled enough to hold his own. For a moment, the hum of wards and the warm glow of runes gave Rohan comfort.

But it did not last.

The storm that had looked so distant struck with sudden fury. Lightning tore through the sky, again and again, cursing everything it touched. The ground shook as thunder ripped across the forest. The magical tent, usually unyielding to nature or sorcery, began to rattle as if it were made of fragile cloth.

“This… this isn’t a normal storm,” the defender muttered.

The wild creatures of Tavora, twisted by the storm’s magic, swarmed out of the trees. Their eyes glowed with madness, their cries carrying hunger. They tore at anything the lightning had touched, devouring wreckage and flesh alike.

Then, with a deafening crack, the tent gave way.

The four adventurers were thrown into the storm—rain, lightning, and a tide of demonic beasts.

The defender planted his shield into the mud, holding ground against the horde. The magic fighter’s blade burned with spell-light as he struck back again and again. Meena raised her flames, but the storm smothered them—every spark hissed out in the relentless downpour.

That left Rohan. Heart racing, he stretched his mana into the air around them, weaving a barrier that pulsed with healing. His magic wrapped the others, closing wounds the instant they appeared, giving strength to limbs that faltered. But it was a race against time. They all knew it. The moment Rohan’s mana ran dry, their fight would end.

Hours passed. Fatigue set in. Rohan’s breathing grew ragged as his barrier flickered. Desperation weighed on them all.

And then Meena lifted her hands.

Her voice shook with words Rohan had never heard before. Flames blacker than shadow flickered to life, writhing against the storm. His heart froze. The forbidden fire.

“No—Meena, don’t!”

But it was too late. The black fire burst from her body, devouring everything it touched—the storm, the beasts, the forest itself. Rohan’s eyes met hers for a single, searing moment. Tears glistened on her cheeks as her lips shaped silent words, “Anything for you.“

The fire roared higher, brighter, until it swallowed everything. And then, it stopped.

The sky cleared. The creatures vanished. The storm was gone.

But Meena was gone too.

Ash stretched for miles where the lush forest had once stood. At its centre lay her body, lifeless, covered in soot.

Rohan dropped to his knees. He poured his mana into her again and again, healing spells spilling from his trembling hands. Days passed. Then weeks. But no matter how he tried, she never stirred. Eventually, his companions carried him back to town, leaving the blackened wasteland behind.

Years later, Rohan returned to Tavora, ready for a perilous adventure one last time—if only to see her ashes again. He was an old man now, his hair white, his steps heavy with time. They said no one had set foot in the forest since the storm, that Tavora had become impenetrable.

He stood at the border of the forest surprised. the wasteland he remembered had transformed. Where fire and soot once stretched for miles, there now stood towering trees that brushed the clouds. The forest floor glowed with soft light. Flowers bloomed in impossible colours. A grass pathway weaved forward as though it had been laid out for him alone.

Something in his heart told him to follow the path. Without him realising, the trees closed in around him, guiding him deeper, until at the end he found her.

Meena lay surrounded by orange and golden blossoms, her body untouched by time, a corpse that had never rotted.She looked as she had on that last night — dark skin gleaming like obsidian caught in firelight, the final moment love stood before him.

Rohan knelt beside her, his tears falling into the grass. He whispered her name, voice trembling with age and memory. At last, peace filled him.

He lay down among the flowers, closed his eyes, and let the quiet take him—one final sleep, in the place where love had never died.

— The End —