The taste of ash in my throat drags me from a dead sleep. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth and my head swims as I struggle to open my eyes and look around, trying and failing to gather my bearings. Sunlight streams in through the folds of my tent, the thick leather straps that hold the opening together flapping gently in the breeze. 

The bright light makes my head pound even harder, so I nestle back into the warmth of the bed and squeeze my eyes shut. I pull the furs around my shoulders and take a deep breath to settle the nausea curdling my stomach. The furs smell of smoke and something refreshing that I can’t quite distinguish tickles my nose. The scent name escapes my tired brain and I snuggle in closer. Mint, perhaps? Whatever it is, it smells absolutely divine—

My eyes snap open and I push up onto my forearms, my stomach lurching in response to the movement. After a few breaths to settle the nausea, I turn my head and survey the tent around me. Immediately, I notice that this tent is easily twice the size of what mine should be. A small wooden table is pushed against the side opposite of the bed with a simple chair beside it. A  pile of parchment and an ink pot are arranged neatly on the table. A small lantern is perched on the edge, the wick inside burnt halfway. I swivel my head carefully and spot a stack of books at the foot of my bed next to a bucket that, judging from the smells emitting from it, is full of someone’s stomach contents. 

Gods, what happened last night? Did Archie slip something into my stew? I haven’t had a headache this painful since my late teenage years when Elyna and I used to trade a wine bottle back and forth until it was empty to then start on a second. I reach my hand up to wipe the remaining sleep from my eyes and catch a glimpse of black circling around my wrist, right underneath the cuff that is firmly clamped on. I stretch my arm out and see that it creeps up the length before disappearing under the sleeve of my tunic. 

The sleeve, which is singed off and hanging in tatters, scorched. 

Memory of what happened, of what I did, floods through me, followed closely by something that feels awfully close to shame. But what need is there to feel shameful? Certainly my flirt with what felt awfully close to death wasn’t that bad. 

I lie back down on the pile of furs that is definitely not mine with a groan, flopping my arm over my face to tamp down the rising heat in my cheeks. Obviously, since I had to be moved from my tent to what I’m assuming is the Captain’s quarters, the embarrassment I’m feeling is clearly warranted. 

Gods, I can’t believe how stupid I acted. I taste clean air for what, less than 72 hours and suddenly I’m invincible? No matter that was the strongest surge of power I have ever felt, I had no way of ensuring things wouldn’t go horribly wrong. 

What if I hurt someone?

What if I ruined my only chance at freedom?

Another surge of nausea that has nothing to do with my feeble state has me reaching for the bucket at my feet. I retch but only bile comes up. My teeth chatter as another round of retching begins and tears gather in the corner of my eyes.

The sound of footsteps outside the tent sends me scrambling away from the bucket. I hastily wipe away the string of saliva hanging from my lip as Callahan undoes the leather straps and pokes his head through the opening.

He’s fuming. 

“Are you awake for good this time?”

It takes a few tries before my voice works correctly, my single-word response clawing it’s way up my charred throat before coming out in a rasp.

“What?”

His face turns positively murderous at having to repeat himself. “I said, are you actually awake this time? Or do I need to empty this bucket for the seventh time while you fall back into your death sleep.”

My eyebrows lift. Seven times? Gods, how long have I been out?

Callahan reads the question I’m sure is written across my face and answers coldly before I can ask, “You’ve been out for three days.”

My eyes bug out of my head as his words clang around my skull, refusing to sink in. Three days? 

Gods, this is so much worse than I originally thought. 

I glance up at his face and spot purple bags staining the underside of his eyes. His hair sticks up a little on the sides like he’s kept his head propped up with one hand for the entirety of my self-induced coma. 

The shame I pushed away earlier resurfaces with a vengeance as I’m suddenly painfully aware that he’s been caring for me. I avert my eyes from the anger that’s muddling his usually mastered demeaner. 

“This is your tent, isn’t it?” My voice is weak still, barely above a whisper. He nods his head curtly, and I curl my hands into fists. The cuffs on my wrists chafe at the raw, scorched skin underneath. “Thank you.”

He snorts in response, and I feel the blood rush into my cheeks.

“Think you can manage a day of riding in your delicate state?” 

I flinch at the bite in his words but manage an answer back. “Maybe? My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed a vile of poison, but I could probably manage if we keep a steady pace.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks, and I swear I can see him mentally count to ten before he replies, “We are drastically behind schedule on our already outrageously long journey, thanks to the stunt you pulled. What makes you think we have the time or resources to take it easy?”

I fully understand that I’m completely at fault here, but his harsh tone sparks an attitude in my chest that has my mouth running before I can stop it. 

“I know I’m to blame for this situation, but a little compassion never hurt anyone.”

He clenches his jaw tighter, a deep red flush creeping up his neck and over the bridge of his nose. “Compassion? You’ve derailed our entire travel plan because of your selfish desire to regain your magic before your body has time to readjust, and you expect me to treat you with compassion?”

I’m sure my face is cherry red at this point. “How was I supposed to know that would happen? I have never experienced anything like—“

He steps fully into the tent, and I shrink away from the intensity of his glare. “I told you exactly what would happen if you took those cuffs off before you were properly acclimated to your power again, and yet you have the gall to sit there and play the victim card. This is not a fun road trip over the continent for your enjoyment. You were summoned by the King of Rokos, who is expecting our arrival in six days when we are still a full three, probably four, days away from crossing the mountains before we can even think about reaching Cissonia. Not to mention we still have yet to step foot into Emscroft Forest.”

Indignation takes root and it takes everything in my power to not laugh in his face. “You can’t possibly expect me to just lay down and accept that I’m crossing from one prison right into the jaws of another. This is my life being played with, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you hand me over to your King without a fight.”

“You don’t get it still,” says the Captain, shaking his head in disbelief. “King Osric himself gave a direct order to escort you to Cissonia. He is not a man to be trifled with and kept waiting. I find it hard to believe word of his reign escaped the rumor mill of whatever simpleton village you’re from.”

I scoff at the implication. “Of course I know of the King. Why else would I have tried to escape? I will apologize to your men for delaying our journey, but I refuse to be reprimanded like a child for trying to take back the freedom that was stolen from me.”

Callahan steps back and grabs the opening of the tent, flinging it wide open. The usual chatter and bustling noises of the camp are strangely quiet despite it being daylight. “You want to apologize to my crew? You should have woken up a day ago. Then maybe you could have given them a proper apology for dealing with your shit and putting them in danger.”

Now the gravity of the situation decides to settle in, and my attitude slips a little. “You sent them ahead? All of them?”

“After two days of nothing but sitting on their asses waiting for you to wake up from the dead, some doubling up or braving the elements entirely because their tents were unfortunately too close to yours, I had no choice but to send them forward to keep a riot from happening.”

My heart plummets into my stomach. I force air into my lungs and ignore the burn in my muscles as I push myself slowly to my knees, then to my feet, testing my legs before ensuring I can take a few steps without falling flat on my face. Callahan sidesteps out of the entrance as I shuffle slowly out of the tent and makes no move to steady me when I sway slightly.

The camp stands barren. Campfires that have long grown cold dot the ground, encircled by matted patches of grass that attest to how much sitting around happened during my recovery. The area where the horses were kept is empty, save for Yago and Callahan’s horse. Even Archie, it appears, was sent ahead with the crew, and it makes me wonder if Callahan knows how to cook.

I take small, tentative steps into the space, making my way toward where my tent should be. I’m met with a mound of burnt fabric and ash in its place. Streaks of charred earth jut out from the center, long black fingers that seize bits of crispy canvas from what’s left of the handful of tents that neighbored my own. 

Tears spring to my eyes, and I swallow around the lump forming in my throat as I take in the destruction. I look to the sky and blink back the tears. Guilt wraps around my stomach, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

I wrack my brain through my shredded memories and try to remember if I’ve ever lost control like this before. Besides momentarily losing control as a child on few occasions, I can’t think of an instance where my flames caused such destruction. Papa was always so diligent about instilling fail-proof techniques in case something like this ever happened. Even after he was gone, I kept up the practice to ensure the safety of Elyna and the other villagers. I lift my trembling hands up and inspect them, looking for an outward sign that my magic changed during my time underground. 

My magic spoke to me. There has never been an instance where it’s done that before. I’ve always been able to feel it, yes, an everpresent current writhing through my veins, but it’s never taken the form of a….well, what exactly would you call that? A sentient being? Another voice to join the chorus of others?

I feel Callahan approach behind me, and I drop my hands, turning to him. The fury and redness of his face have faded a little, leaving a slight flush behind.

“Did I…did any of your crew get hurt?”

He pauses for a beat, scanning the charred earth before replying, “No. They heard the commotion from your tent and came to check on you before coming to get me.”

I nod absentmindedly, a piece of my guilt falling away at knowing I didn’t unintentionally hurt any of his men. My pride, however, is still severely wounded at my plan failing miserably. The freedom I thought almost within reach snatched away.

I feel the door to the ornate cage that awaits me in Cissonia click shut with finality, any meager fight I had left sealed away with it. 

Callahan ignores me as he walks over to the horses, who are already strapped up and ready to go. He tugs a few times on the straps before turning back to me. 

“We’re getting a later start than I would have liked, so we’ll have to set a fast pace through the forest. You’re not in any shape to spend longer than a day in there. Let’s get going.”

I squint at the sun and realize it’s already high in the sky, midday sunshine in full swing. I turn my gaze to the forest ahead of us, and a full-body shudder runs through me. Gods, I am not prepared for this. 

I walk over to Yago, where Callahan is already situated on top of his horse, Tolino, and place one foot gingerly in the stirrups, taking a deep breath to settle the nausea in my stomach before swinging my leg up and over the saddle. My empty stomach protests the movement, sending out a loud growl. Cal side-eyes me before reaching into his pack and pulling out a stick of dried meat, passing it in my direction.

“Thanks,” I say, and try not to show how famished I am while gobbling down the meat.

He doesn’t answer, instead pressing his feet into the sides of his horse and setting off in front of me at a trot.

I reach down and pet the side of Yago’s neck before doing the same, murmuring under my breath, “What have I gotten us into, boy?”

Yago snorts and follows the Captain into the forest. It’s impossible to tell if the frantic beating noise is his heart or mine.

---

The darkness is suffocating. 

I say that as someone who spent two years of my life enshrouded in nothing but darkness, but this is something entirely different. Before, I could take solace that it was just me and the occasional mouse that escaped from the manor above. That unless the door at the top of the stairs opened and someone came shuffling through with a tray of slop, I could sit in a corner and not have to fear for my safety.

Here in the forest, the darkness wraps around Yago’s legs before reaching up and caressing my shins. Its frigid breath skates across the back of my neck, my flesh breaking out in goosebumps. 

Here, I feel eyes on us. 

I can’t discern what kind of eyes they are, and the conversation that I heard between the guards about changelings does nothing to help my growing anxiety. I try to fool my brain into thinking they’re just the eyes of an owl or another non-life-threatening creature, but the image of deformed and forgotten Fae is glued to the recess of my brain.

We’ve slowed from the initial fast trot we started at when we entered the forest, I’m sure in part to stifle the groans I was emitting from my aching muscles and throbbing headache. I know it’s not for my comfort because Callahan has yet to turn around and say a word to me since we left, but more so to keep from attracting too much attention to ourselves.

The deeper we go, the more we lose the sun. I can’t tell what time of day it is anymore, but we have to been in here for hours. When I turn my head to look behind us for the entrance, I’m met with a yawning stretch of murky gloom. I have no idea how Callahan knows where to go, and I have to bite my tongue to refrain from asking. I can just make out the tension that straps across his shoulders, so I’m mostly trusting that Yago can see well enough to pick out the trail being made in front of us.

Seeing Callahan tense increases my anxiety tenfold. If the man who’s already traveled through this forest gods knows how many times is nervous, my trepidation suddenly feels like it isn’t enough. I need to distract myself before I start to panic.

Reaching inwardly, I brush against the wall holding back my fire. It’s fully intact once again. Nothing amiss from my foolish escape attempt that I can tell as I test the entire perimeter. Part of me is thankful that it’s sealed shut until I can figure out what the hell is going on with my magic. The reasonable side of my brain says I should take Callahan up on his offer to help re-acclimate to the magic, but it’s shoved aside by the stubbornness that usually wins out. Maybe if he had shown a little bit of sensitivity toward my near-death experience, I’d be more willing to cooperate with him.

I expel a breath in a silent whoosh. Okay, fine, so he did nurse me back to health while I was knocked out for three days. And yes, okay, I did almost take out half the camp in a moment of weakness, the shame from that still eating away at me, but I can’t imagine anyone would hold out long in a pair mystical stone cuffs that suppress a vital part of their identity.

A drop of condensation from the leaves above falls onto my forehead, dribbling down my nose until I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

I can’t help but wonder what exactly makes Callahan think he can help me readjust to my magic again. Does being Captain of the Guard mean he’s well versed in all things magic as well as combat? I imagine he’s got extensive training under his belt, but not everyone has magic, and I’m sure if the King caught wind that someone in his guard had the ability to wield magic, he’d lock them in a cell just like he plans to do with me. 

I bite my lip. Why go through all the trouble of sending an entire fleet of soldiers across Rokos and back just to deposit me in the dungeons? The only reason that remotely makes sense is that it has something to do with my magic specifically. I’m no stranger to the fact that possessing magic in this day in age is rare in and of itself, not to mention that I’ve never heard of anyone else with the ability to wield silver fire.

Back in our small village, there was only one other woman who weakly possessed the touch of water magic. Her name escapes me, but I can faintly remember that whatever she could do wasn’t anything to write home about. Nothing useful like purifying salt water into clean, drinking water, something that would have desperately come in handy during the drought we suffered through a few years back. Just the ability to turn cold water into lukewarm water and shoot misbehaving children with a spray of water from her palms.

Papa strongly believed I was the only fire wielder, let alone silver fire wielder, in all of Aeris. After the Fae were banished some two hundred years ago, magic slowly fizzled out with each generation that passed. When the Gods were put to sleep, it vanished entirely, popping up in random births throughout each continent. Families without a drop of Fae in their blood got quite the surprise when their children started manifesting powers around their thirteenth year of life. The fortunate ones were raised by accepting parents who would seek out ancient healers and wise elders to control the magic before it got out of hand. Others, the less fortunate, would go missing, never to be heard from again, their families moving on as if one of their children never existed. 

Despite having a mother who showed little concern for her daughters, I feel grateful that my parents never abandoned me by the seaside cliffs when my fire abilities manifested at such a young age.

Another droplet of water rolls down my cheek until it dribbles off my chin and lands on the front of my tunic. I look up and squint against the night, searching for the rain clouds that are following us. Branches groan in the wind, swaying in time with the wind. I can barely make out the edges of an object suspended in the air when an onslaught of rain falls, blurring my already impaired vision. 

I speak my first words since we entered the forest. “Are we expecting rain?”

Tolino’s footsteps slow before Callahan replies, “Not that I’m aware of.”

I wipe the water from my face, scrubbing my eyes to relieve the stinging from the rain. “Did it rain earlier, then? I’m getting drenched back here.” 

I hear Callahan rustle around in his pack before pulling out a match and striking it against a piece of flint. Light flares, chasing away the darkness until I’m left blinking to adjust to the rough transition. My still burning eyes barely make out Callahan’s widened eyes and parted lips as he shifts in his saddle to look back at me, then shoots his head upward to look at the forest ceiling with a curse. 

I rub my eyes harder to rid them of the sensation to see what he’s spotted when Callahan calls out to me softly, “I need you, whatever you do, to remain quiet and, above all, calm.”

Lowering my hand, I crane my neck upwards. The dangling objects are bigger than I’d anticipated. They’re attached to the branches with thick cords of twine that creak with every movement. Long appendages hang from the middle of each object, outstretched to the earth beneath us. Distantly, a twig snaps.

I blink again, and the stinging recedes some. My vision clears marginally, and in the dim firelight, I see that the tips of each appendage are stained dark, wet with liquid that runs off in rivers. 

My breathing labors as I glance down at the hand hovering in front of my face, each finger covered in blood.