"Little Flame..."
The voice wasn't an echo. It wasn't a trick of the wind. It was soft, vibrating in the humid air of the forest, close enough that I could hear the subtle, ragged catch in his breathing. It was the sound of a man who had been running for miles, the sound of a man who was finally, desperately home.
Every instinct in my body—the primitive, survival-wired part of my brain—screamed that it was him. My heart didn't just beat; it launched itself against my ribs, demanding that I turn, that I run, that I answer.
But my mind was a fortress of ice. Don’t answer.
I gripped the note in my hand until the edges cut into my palm. My pulse slowed, forced into a steady rhythm by the sheer weight of his warning. I stared into the darkness of the pines, my jaw set, my fingers tightening
