A fate that should have burned

[Perspective: Hidden Warrior]
The world was always fire. It had no beginning, not for him. He remembered no lullabies, no tender warmth of a mother’s voice. Only the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, and the endless march of soldiers too broken to look back. He didn’t have a name when he was young. Just a designation. A number.
But amidst the endless war, he once found something strange: quiet.
It was in a ruined city, between one battle and the next, that he first saw her. She danced beneath red lanterns that barely held their glow, on a cracked wooden stage lit by moonlight and loss.
She wore a porcelain mask, and her white gloves shimmered as they moved, gesturing with grace that didn't belong in a place of rubble.
She was called the Marionette.
No one knew her real name. No one asked. But she told stories without words. Each movement, each turn of her wrist, carried sorrow more vivid than any poet's lament.
He found himself returning each night they stayed in that broken city. He never applauded. Never smiled. He stood in the dark, silent, watching her twirl beneath the lanterns. And somehow, her silence made him feel less alone.
He was always the weapon. But in those moments, he was just a boy staring at a girl who hadn’t yet fallen.
And then the orders came. The army moved. The stage burned.
He forgot her.
Or tried to.
[Perspective: Marionette]
She remembered the flame.
Before the curse, before the strings twisted around her soul, there had been a life. She wasn't always called "Marionette." Once, she'd had a name — a soft one, spoken only by those who loved her. A name wiped away by royal envy and noble wrath.
Her family owned a theater in the eastern cities, known for its haunting performances and elegant dances. She was their star. Audiences wept for her tragedy, cheered her grace. But none watched as often as the silent soldier who always stood in the back.
He never clapped. He never smiled. But he always came.
She didn't know why, only that his presence became her rhythm. She danced for him, even if he didn’t know. Especially because he didn’t know.
And then he stopped coming.
Then the fire came.
Now, she was shadow wrapped in elegance, a ghost who killed with grace. Her strings were not visible, but they bound her still. And yet…
When she saw him again—the towering figure with blue flames licking at his skull and a decayed hand gripping a spear—something stirred.
He didn't remember her.
Until she said his name.
[Now - Present Day]
The battlefield had gone silent.
Lover from Hell stood at the edge of the clearing, unreadable. Jack of No Trade leaned lazily against a tree, whistling a melody that didn’t exist.
But Hidden Warrior stood still, locked in place by a name.
His name.
He turned slowly.
Marionette stood opposite him, her mask cracked just slightly, her white gloves trembling. A voice like bells in a snowstorm had whispered it. Not a threat. Not a call to arms. A memory.
The blue fire dimmed. His decayed hand twitched.
She stepped forward.
"You used to stand at the back," she said. "Never smiled. Never clapped. But you were always there."
He stared.
Then:
"I thought you were a dream."
She shook her head. "You were the only real thing in my world."
Jack blinked and said, "Awww, this is either romantic or horrifying. Maybe both."
No one laughed.
Hidden Warrior dropped to one knee, spear pointed to the ground.
Marionette approached him slowly, each step measured. Her strings twitched like nerves remembering how to feel.
"Do you remember my last dance?" she asked.
"No," he whispered. "But I remember watching. And wishing... I could protect it."
Silence again. This time not heavy, but whole.
She lifted her hand.
He took it.
For a moment, flame met porcelain.
War met grace.
And the past trembled.