Ashvale's town square reeked of burnt apples, damp smoke, and the vague, regretful scent of magical misjudgment.
The fire had been put out hours ago—thanks to a water mage with a hangover and a dwarven bucket brigade that didn't believe in pacing themselves—but the ash clung stubbornly to everything. The cobblestones were still blackened. The fountain's edge, once bright limestone, was now soot-smeared and singed. Even the sky looked annoyed, its gray clouds puffed like an old man grumbling about the good ol' days of unburnt bakeries.
Elias sat heavily on the fountain's edge, cloak damp and reeking. His boots squelched when he moved, which didn't seem fair. Fire and wet socks? Pick a side.
Rhea sat beside him, legs too short to touch the ground, feet swinging slowly. Her soot-smeared dress hung like a flag of surrender, her hair a mess of singed curls. She looked like a child dragged backward through a fireplace.
She also looked far too calm for someone who had nearly died.
Silence clung to them both, like the ash in the air. Then—
"I smell like toast," Rhea whispered.
Elias blinked. "You do, yeah."
"And not the good kind. Not warm with honey. The kind that's black on both sides because someone forgets it in the firebox."
He gave her a sideways look. "Guilty as charged."
A pause.
"You're not mad?" she asked, voice smaller now, brittle like thin glass.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I'm not mad, Rhea. I'm… terrified."
She blinked up at him. "Of me?"
"No. For you."
That landed like a pebble dropped into still water. Her shoulders, which had been bunched tight as armor, loosened—only to tense again at the sound of boots approaching with the subtlety of an angry god.
Captain Milla stomped toward them, her expression sharp enough to cut stone. Her armor gleamed, untouched by ash—because of course it did. Her helmet was tucked under one arm. Her glare, however, required no accessories.
"Elias Thorne!"
Elias straightened reflexively. "Captain Milla. Lovely evening for smoldering ruins, wouldn't you say?"
"Save it," she barked. She jabbed a gauntleted finger toward Rhea. "That girl just threw herself into a burning house. No permission. No support. No formal training. Do you understand how many violations that involves?"
"She saved a child," Elias said carefully.
"She could've died," Milla snapped, voice rising. "She's six."
"Technically immortal," Elias muttered.
"Still six!" Milla threw her hands in the air. "And you—you're her guardian, aren't you? You were supposed to be watching her!"
"I was," Elias said weakly. "I just wasn't expecting her to explode into a fireball and vanish through a window."
"She could've taken half the street with her!"
"But she didn't," Rhea said softly.
It was the first time she'd spoken to Milla directly. Her voice trembled, but she sat up straighter.
"There wasn't time. He was crying. I heard him." She looked down at her hands. "I felt him."
Captain Milla opened her mouth to continue shouting.
Then closed it.
Because the child—Milo—had been pulled from the flames with blistered arms and smoke-blackened hair. He hadn't let go of Rhea's hand once, not even when the healers took him away. His parents—especially his father, Magistrate Nolan—had looked at Rhea like she'd stepped down from a divine tapestry.
Elias saw the flicker in Milla's glare. The hesitation. The unspoken: She saved him.
It lasted a second.
Then she scowled harder.
"I'm reporting this to the Guildmaster. And the magistrate."
Elias nodded. "Understood."
"Good. Because next time you let a magical fire hazard sprint into a collapsing house, I'll throw you in after her."
As she stomped off, Rhea exhaled in a long, shaky puff.
"She's scary," she mumbled.
"She says that about her own reflection," Elias said. "Once challenged a mirror to a duel."
Rhea snorted, but it was tired. Her laugh sounded like it had gotten lost somewhere in the smoke.
It still counted.
The next morning, Elias found himself standing in front of Guildmaster Tyrin's desk, locked in the ancient human tradition of awaiting professional doom.
Tyrin didn't look up. He was polishing a monocle, even though he hadn't worn one in forty years. He said it helped him think.
"Let me get this straight," the elf said slowly, dabbing at a spotless lens. "She ran into a burning building, alone, used raw fire magic, again, disrupted the Watch's perimeter, ignored evacuation orders, nearly collapsed the eastern wall—and you are here to tell me this was heroic?"
Elias didn't flinch. "She acted on instinct. Someone was in danger."
"She is the danger."
"She's also six."
"Not my fault she was born in a volcanic mood."
Elias exhaled. "She's not a hazard. She's a kid. With scary powers, yes, but a kid. She saved someone, Guildmaster. That matters."
Tyrin finally looked up. His eyes were pale green, age-softened but razor-sharp.
"You trust her that much?"
Elias didn't hesitate. "With my life."
The elf stared at him. Long and quiet. Then sighed and set the monocle down like it had personally disappointed him.
"You already trust her with your life. She's feeding off your mana."
"Exactly. And I'm still here."
"Barely."
"I had coffee."
"From the cleric who accidentally uses salt instead of sugar?"
Elias grimaced. "...Mostly here."
Tyrin leaned back. His ancient chair creaked under his long frame. "Elias. You're an idiot."
"I get that a lot."
"But you're the kind of idiot the world occasionally needs." He steepled his fingers. "Unfortunately."
Elias blinked. "So… we're not getting kicked out?"
"I should. I really should. But that boy she saved—"
"Let me guess. He's the mayor's nephew?"
"The magistrate's only child."
Elias blinked. "You're serious."
"As a lich's tax auditor."
Tyrin gave him a flat look. "You are, for better or worse, now something of a local legend."
Elias rubbed his temples. "So we're safe?"
"You're popular. There's a difference. We can't punish the girl who saved the magistrate's heir. You'd have pitchforks at the gates and protest songs by breakfast."
"I… suppose that's good."
Tyrin smiled grimly. "However."
"Uh-oh."
"I'm docking your pay for three months."
"Wait, what?!"
"For endangerment, negligence, and giving me a headache. Also, you're on toilet scroll duty."
"You monster."
Outside the guildhall, Rhea sat on a bench, poking a beetle with a stick. It was the slow, thoughtful kind of poking. Existential poking.
The beetle was unimpressed.
So was she.
Elias sat beside her. She didn't look up.
"Did they say I'm evil?" she asked quietly.
"No."
"Liar."
He sighed. "They said you were reckless. Impulsive. A hazard to property and at least three bylaws."
She blinked. "But not evil?"
"Not even a little."
She was quiet.
Then, barely above a whisper: "Elias… if I broke… would you still keep me?"
He blinked. "Broke how?"
"Like… if my mind snapped. If I turned into fire. If I… stopped being Rhea."
He stared at her. She looked so small, shoes scuffed, dress torn, cheeks smudged with ash. But her eyes—those gold-flecked, storm-stained eyes—held galaxies of fear and ancient sorrow.
He reached over and ruffled her hair.
"I'd superglue you back together."
"You don't know how to use glue."
"Fine. I'd stitch you with love and baked goods."
She snorted.
"Even if I melt the house?"
"I'll build a fireproof one."
"Even if I bite the mayor?"
"I'll bake him cookies. Bite-sized ones."
She giggled—this time stronger.
It echoed off the cobblestones.
That evening, the town watched them.
But not like before.
They didn't stare with suspicion. No one whispered with malice.
A baker handed Rhea a roll, warm and sweet. A guardsman gave Elias a nod. A mother leaned down to her child and whispered, eyes wide with wonder:
"That's the fire girl. She saved a life."
"She's so small."
"But she's strong."
"She's not so scary after all."
Later that night, Elias sat on the bed, feet bare, rubbing at his contract mark. It pulsed with the same rhythm as always—his heartbeat, slowed.
Rhea lay tucked under the quilt, arms around a worn plush bear she'd named "General Fluff."
Her voice was soft.
"They didn't hate me today."
"No," Elias said. "They didn't."
"They smiled."
"You deserve that."
A pause.
"I don't want to burn anymore."
"You won't."
"What if I do?"
He looked at her.
"Then I'll be here."
She blinked. "To stop me?"
"To catch you."
She stared at him a long time.
Then smiled.
Not the careful, polite kind she wore in crowds.
But a real one.
Mouth. Eyes. Heart.
It was full of ash and aching.
But also of light.
She was still the girl who'd once ruled in flame and fear.
But now?
Now, she was just Rhea.
Small. Loud. Chaotic.
And full of fire.
But maybe—just maybe—enough light to change the world.
To be continued…