Ash burned her skin.
Or maybe it was the memory.
Ember stood barefoot in the forge chamber, surrounded by broken anvils and charred stone. The heat here was ancient—it clung to the walls, whispered from the floor, and stirred her blood like an old chant.
Kael stood across from her, arms folded, watching with sharp patience.
"Again," he said.
Her fingers trembled. Her breath came ragged. The heat inside her was coiling, wild.
She thrust her hand forward, calling it—begging it—to come.
A spark flickered at her palm. Then a thread of flame.
It danced, then died.
Ember staggered, frustration flaring hotter than her magic.
"This is useless."
"No," Kael said calmly. "It's just difficult."
"You make it look easy."
"I've been training for years. You've had two nights and a panic attack."
Ember shot him a glare. "Encouraging."
Kael smirked. "You're still standing. That's something."
They trained in bursts—short, intense, exhausting.
Kael made her channel focus through breath, through anger, through memory.
"Fire feeds on emotion," he explained. "But it's not rage alone that fuels it—it's intent."
"What does that mean?"
"It means wanting something badly enough to burn for it."
She didn't say it aloud—but she did want something.
Freedom. Answers. Vengeance.
Peace.
By the third hour, her fingertips glowed faint orange, and the ash on the floor danced around her like static.
Kael raised his hand. "That's it. Hold it."
She grit her teeth. Sweat beaded down her temple. The flame hovered like a restless creature.
Kael stepped closer, voice low. "Now shape it. Don't just summon—command."
Something shifted in her chest.
She thought of the night the guards came. The screams. The flames that obeyed her fear.
And then—
A sudden surge. The flame burst upward from her palm, wild and brilliant.
It wrapped around her wrist in a spiral, flickering gold and red.
She stared, stunned.
Kael's voice softened. "There she is."
They broke for the night hours later, exhausted. Ember sat at the edge of the forge pool, dipping her feet into the warm, mineral-laced water that steamed faintly in the dark.
Kael joined her with two metal cups of bitter tea.
"Your hands stopped shaking," he said, offering her one.
She sipped. "They're just too tired now."
A quiet chuckle. "You did better than most firebloods in their first week."
"You mean I didn't accidentally light myself on fire?"
"Not permanently, at least."
A pause stretched between them. The forge light cast shadows on the walls—long and soft.
Ember looked sideways at him. "Why did you really help me? Back in the alley. You didn't know I'd trust you."
"I didn't," he admitted.
"Then why risk it?"
Kael swirled his tea. "Because six years ago, I watched my father die for a cause he couldn't finish. Because I've seen what the King does to people like you. People like me. Because I didn't want to keep surviving in the ash."
He looked up at her then. "And because when I saw you… I didn't see a thief. I saw someone who still had fire left."
The words surprised her.
Ember felt something shift inside her—a crack in the walls she'd built. She looked away, blinking into the steam.
"Don't make me like you," she murmured.
Kael leaned back, gaze unreadable. "I'm not asking you to."
Silence again. Not awkward—just… warm.
Dangerously warm.
Later that night, Ember lay in her bedroll, staring at the ceiling as the forge embers flickered.
Her body ached. Her mind raced.
But for the first time in a long while, she wasn't cold.
And she wasn't alone.
Elsewhere – The Citadel of Embers
Flame King Tharos stood before a basin of molten scryglass, his hand hovering above it.
The liquid shifted, images blurring—embers on wind, a girl's burning hand, a boy with rebel eyes.
He clenched his fist, and the glass hissed.
"Kael Dareth," he said, voice like gravel on flame. "So the traitor's whelp survived after all."
He turned to the figure waiting in the shadows.
"Find them. The girl is not yet forged. And the boy… he's the hammer that will break her."
The figure bowed low, eyes gleaming gold.
"Yes, my king."