Chapter 47 Wren #2
I glance down at myself, still not quite feeling like someone who ought to be wielding flames. But I nod. “All right. Let’s go.”
Zephyr detaches after a moment, leading us past the ring of old trees, past the silver-etched stones that mark the border of the sacred grove. Moira walks beside me, tapping her staff against the earth. The roots part for her whenever she approaches.
We reach the stream, its waters glittering with morning light, clear and cold as ever. The wind carries the scent of moss and wet bark. This place hasn’t changed. The whole Moonhollow hasn’t.
Nothing has changed except for me.
I take a deep breath.
Moira stops on the bank and turns to face me. “Do you remember what I told you about fire, Wren?”
I nod, barely. “That it isn’t cruel, only hungry.”
“And what else?”
“That it can be guided, but not owned.”
“Good. Then today, you’ll feed it, guide it, and maybe you’ll come to understand it.”
I take another breath. My palms sweat.
“Close your eyes,” she instructs. “Feel it in your blood.”
Feeling it in my blood has never been the problem. It’s stopping it from curdling. But I listen to her words. I focus on the world around me, the smell of the damp air, the sound of the water. I’m grounded, I’m safe.
The fire inside ripples under my skin.
“Now,” Moira says, “call it.”
I open the door inside me. The fire answers. Flames turn around my fingers, ribboning over my knuckles. The sight unnerves me. I’m back in my childhood home, watching it consume everything I love. My mother is burning—
The flames jump to my wrists.
“Steady,” says Moira. “You are the guide, not them. Show them what to do.”
I can’t stand the sight of them, so I close my eyes. That helps. The sensation fades back to my fingers and palms. I can still feel them—warm and soft—but not looking at them makes it easier, somehow.
“Good,” Moira says. Her voice is calm, even pleased, but she doesn’t praise me—not yet. “Now feed it. Let it grow.”
I grit my teeth.
There’s a part of me that wants to obey, to rise to the challenge and prove I can do this.
But there’s another part—louder, deeper—that recoils from the very idea.
Let it grow? That’s what it wants. It used to be what I wanted, too, before I knew what it could do, the destruction it could rain, the pain it could inflict—
I don’t want to hurt anyone else.
But I remind myself: this isn’t for the mission. This isn’t even for my grandmother.
This is for Cassiel.
For me.
“Are your eyes closed, child?” Moira asks.
“Yes.”
“Open them. See what you can do.”
I open my eyes.
The flames are still there, quiet now, licking at my palms. They don’t burn me. Even when I denied my power, it always protected me in that regard.
It feels a little less like mine when I talk about it that way—like the power is a separate being, a companion to my soul. I’m less frightened of the idea than I would have been a few months ago.
It is not so terrifying, letting something in.
Letting someone in.
I extend my hands. My fingers tremble, but I push the magic outward. A strand of fire stretches toward the stream, wavering like thread in the wind. The water doesn’t hiss—it just flows, impassive, unbothered by my struggle.
“Keep it steady,” Moira murmurs. “Do not fear it. Guide it.”
“I am guiding it,” I snap. “It just doesn’t want to listen.”
Zephyr shifts nearby, but says nothing. I know he’s watching, likely biting back an unhelpful remark.
“Try again,” Moira says. “Pull from your chest this time. Not your hands. That’s where your fear lives.”
I hesitate. “And what lives in my chest?”
“Your will,” she replies simply.
More than that lives in there, now. I know it. I wonder if it’s one of the things that Moira can sense, with her unseeing eyes. The shape of my heart has changed, perhaps irreparably.
I no longer fear it. For a moment, I no longer feel like I fear anything.
I close my eyes again, searching inward. Past the prickling heat in my fingers. Past the memories. Past the shame. Into the hollow space behind my ribs, where my breath lives and my bones know the truth.
I find it.
It’s not a roaring inferno, as I feared. It’s a candle. Small, flickering. Steady.
I breathe in, and when I breathe out, the fire unfurls from my chest, slow and careful. It winds around my arms, but this time, it obeys. It bends.
A tear slips down my cheek. Not from pain. Not even from grief. From relief.
“You’re doing it,” Zephyr says quietly.
The stream glows gold with the reflection of my fire. It feels almost beautiful. Almost right.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone again,” I whisper.
“Then don’t,” Moira says. “But stop hiding from yourself, Wren. The magic is part of you. The girl who ran from fire died the day she swallowed it.”
I nod slowly. I don’t trust my voice.
Moira steps forward, placing her hand on my shoulder. Her palm is light, but her grip is firm. “You will train again tomorrow. And the next day. Until your fear has no teeth.”
“Until I control it?” I ask.
Moira smiles. “Until you no longer feel the need to.”
The fire dies down at my fingertips. Not extinguished—just sleeping.
I look down at the stream. For the first time, I feel like I might not drown.
Zephyr whistles low. “Well. That was... a lot less dramatic than I was expecting. I thought that there might be some sort of explosion.”
I glare at him. “You wanted an explosion?”
“I didn’t want one,” he protests. “I just prepared for one.”
I roll my eyes, but the tension eases from my shoulders. Somehow, Zeph always knows how to make me breathe again.
“We’ll start with stream-work for a few more days,” Moira says. “Then the stone circles. After that... we’ll see.”
I nod, already feeling the ache of tomorrow in my bones. “Fine. As long as it’s fast. I need to get back.”
Moira’s brow lifts. “To the castle?”
“To the mission,” I clarify, grateful for my ability to lie. “I need to get back before the Prince has time to realise what happened.”
Moira purses her lips. Her expression is indiscernible. Moira may be blind, but I’ve often wondered if she can sense lies.
“What will you tell him?” she asks eventually. “When he asks what happened to you?”
“That the illness is a condition that runs in my family,” I tell her, repeating the story I’ve been working on. “That Zephyr is a healer that’s been searching for a cure for the ailment, but that his methods are unorthodox, and he didn’t want a witness—let alone a royal one.”
“Hmm,” says Moira. “The Stars smiled on you when they granted you the ability to lie, child.”
“Thank you?”
“What if he’s already sent someone to Thornvale to check on you?”
I freeze. I’d not considered that. “I don’t think he cares that much,” I reply swiftly.
“It might be convenient for us all if he does.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, child. Just a possible avenue we’re exploring. We’ll discuss everything soon, have no fear.”
Her promise is binding, but it doesn’t bring me much ease. Why would it be a good thing if Cassiel cares about me? What are they going to ask me to get him to do?
It doesn’t matter. Not right now. I have to learn how to control this.
Not for the mission. Not for my grandmother. Not even for the fey.
For him.
And maybe, also, for me.