Chapter 19 Selene
NINETEEN
SELENE
Iset the training field on fire.
Not on purpose. Not even a little bit on purpose.
One second, I’m standing in the middle of the Brotherhood’s practice grounds, concentrating on forming a controlled flame sphere like Drayke showed me yesterday.
The next second, I’m surrounded by a wall of fire that’s consuming the wooden training dummies, the weapon racks, and approximately half an acre of carefully maintained grass.
“Shit!” I stumble backward, hands raised, trying to pull the flames back. They don’t listen. They’re too big now, too hungry, feeding on my frustration and turning it into an inferno. “Shit, shit, shit—”
Drayke appears beside me, calm as a glacier while chaos rages around us. He doesn’t panic. Doesn’t yell. Just places one large hand on my shoulder, and the contact grounds me enough that I can finally breathe.
“Pull it back,” he says, voice steady. “Don’t fight the fire. Guide it.”
“I’m trying!” The flames roar higher, licking at the stone walls surrounding the courtyard. “It’s not listening!”
“It’s not supposed to listen. It’s supposed to follow.” His hand slides down my arm, fingers wrapping around my wrist. Heat pulses where our skin meets—his fire calling to mine. “Stop commanding. Start leading.”
I don’t understand what he means. But I close my eyes, force myself to stop screaming at the flames to obey, and instead... invite them home. Back to me. Back to the source.
The fire hesitates. Flickers. Then, slowly, it begins to recede—pulling back from the walls, releasing the charred remains of the training dummies, shrinking toward the center of the field. Toward me.
I absorb it. All of it. The flames pour back into my chest, settling beneath my sternum in a ball of warmth that pulses with my heartbeat. When I open my eyes, the fire is gone. Only smoke and destruction remain.
“Well.” I stare at the scorched earth, the smoking weapon racks, the pile of ash that used to be six perfectly good training dummies. “That went well.”
Drayke’s mouth twitches. “Could have been worse.”
“How? How could that possibly have been worse?”
“You could have hit the armory.” He nods toward the stone building at the edge of the courtyard. “Rurik stores his explosives there.”
“Rurik has explosives?”
“Rurik has many things he shouldn’t.”
I laugh—a slightly hysterical sound that echoes off the smoke-stained walls. “I’m dangerous, Drayke. This isn’t working. I’ve been at this for three days, and I’ve destroyed more property than a rogue attack.”
“You’re powerful.” He turns me to face him, hands bracketing my shoulders. “Learn the difference.”
“What if I hurt someone?” The question comes out smaller than I intend. Weaker. “What if I lose control when it actually matters, and someone dies because I can’t keep my shit together?”
His grip tightens. His eyes burn into mine—amber and gold and ancient patience. “Then you learn control. That’s why we train. That’s why we practice. You didn’t master walking in a day. You won’t master fire in a week.”
“Walking doesn’t burn down buildings when I trip.”
“No.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “But the principle remains. Again.”
“Again? I just torched your training field.”
“It’s survived worse.” He releases me, steps back, gestures at the charred ground. “Flame sphere. Small. Controlled. Don’t think about the power—think about the shape you want it to take.”
I glare at him. He raises an eyebrow. Neither of us moves.
“Your stubbornness is one of my favorite things about you,” he says mildly. “But it won’t help you here. Again.”
I mutter several words that would make my grandmother roll over in her grave, but I lift my hand and try again.
This time, the flame sphere holds—small, controlled, hovering above my palm without trying to consume everything in sight. Drayke steps closer, his chest pressing against my back, chin resting on top of my head.
“Better.” His arms wrap around my waist, and the warmth of him seeps into my bones. “See? You can do this.”
“I’m literally standing in a field I just destroyed.”
“Progress isn’t always pretty.” He presses a kiss to my temple, and the flame sphere flickers brighter for a moment before steadying. “But it’s still progress.”
Training becomes my life.
Every morning starts with meditation—sitting cross-legged in a stone chamber while Auren’s cold voice guides me through breathing exercises designed to separate emotion from power.
It’s boring as hell, but it works. Sort of.
I still flare when I get frustrated, but now the flares are smaller.
More contained. Progress, if you squint.
“Emotion feeds fire,” Auren explains during our third session, circling me with the detached interest of a scientist studying a particularly stubborn specimen. “Fire-Bringers channel raw feeling into flame. The stronger the emotion, the stronger the fire. You must learn to feel without burning.”
“That’s like telling someone to breathe without using oxygen.”
“Difficult,” he agrees. “Not impossible. You felt strong emotion during the Relic battle—rage, fear, love. You channeled all of it into focused power rather than random destruction. You’ve done it once. You can do it again.”
“I was dying. That tends to focus the mind.”
“Then we simulate dying conditions.”
I stare at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Auren doesn’t joke. Auren doesn’t even smile. He just studies me with those calculating gold eyes and says, “Combat training begins this afternoon.”
Combat training turns out to be exactly as awful as it sounds.
Drayke comes at me with practice swords, not holding back, forcing me to channel flame while simultaneously dodging strikes that would break bones if they landed. Every time I lose focus—every time the fire wavers or flares wrong—he’s there with a blade at my throat or a boot behind my knee.
“Dead,” he says flatly, helping me up from the ground for the fifteenth time. “Again.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.” He doesn’t sound sorry. “Again.”
By the end of the first week, I’m covered in bruises, my fire control has improved by approximately ten percent, and I’ve developed a burning hatred for the phrase “again” that rivals my hatred for ancient artifacts.
Drayke finds me in our chambers that night, soaking in a massive stone tub filled with steaming water. He doesn’t ask permission—just strips off his shirt and climbs in behind me, pulling my back against his chest.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Says the man who knocked me down fifteen times today.”
“Seventeen.” His hands find the knots in my shoulders, working them loose with practiced pressure. “You stopped counting after fifteen.”
“My ego couldn’t handle the full number.” I let my head fall back against his shoulder, eyes closing as his fingers dig into aching muscles. “You’re surprisingly good at this for someone with claws.”
“Four hundred years of practice.” His lips brush my ear, sending heat down my spine that has nothing to do with the water. “I’ve gotten good at being gentle when I need to be.”
“And brutal the rest of the time?”
“That depends entirely on what you’re asking for.”
I turn in his arms, water sloshing against the stone edges, and kiss him slow and deep. His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer until there’s no space between us.
“I’m asking,” I whisper against his mouth.
He shows me both.
By the end of the second week, I can hold a flame sphere while Drayke attacks, maintain concentration through pain, and only accidentally set things on fire twice a day instead of twelve times.
Progress.
Target practice comes next—Rurik’s contribution to my education. He sets up a row of stone pillars at varying distances and hands me a flask of something that smells like dragon piss and regret.
“Drink,” he orders. “It’ll help.”
“Help with what? Dying faster?”
“Help with aiming.” His grin is sharp and slightly unhinged. “Trust me.”
I don’t trust him even a little, but I drink anyway. The liquid burns going down—not like alcohol, but like actual fire, searing a path from throat to stomach. When I open my mouth to curse at him, a small flame hiccups out.
“What the hell was that?”
“Dragon’s breath concentrate.” Rurik looks delighted by my horror. “Heightens Fire-Bringer abilities for short bursts. Also makes your burps explosive, so watch where you aim those.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“After target practice.” He points at the pillars. “Hit the far one. Don’t miss.”
I don’t miss. Whatever was in that flask has turned my fire from a campfire to a blowtorch—concentrated, precise, and impossibly fast. The flame bolt leaves my palm and strikes the distant pillar before I’ve finished aiming, punching a hole clean through the stone.
“Holy shit.”
“Told you it would help.” Rurik claps me on the shoulder. “Again. All of them. Fast as you can.”
I destroy seven stone pillars in under a minute. When the effects of the concentrate wear off, I collapse on the ground and stare at the sky, wondering when my life became this strange.
“Good instincts,” Rurik says, standing over me with that wild grin. “You’re terrifying, Fire-Bringer. In a good way.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is one.”
The fight with Drayke happens on day ten.
I’m sparring with Zyphon—shadows versus fire, his darkness trying to smother my flames while I try to burn through his defenses—when I hear them. Drayke and Auren, standing at the edge of the training yard, voices low but not low enough.
“She’s not ready for field operations,” Auren says.
“Agreed.” Drayke’s voice is flat. Final. “She stays at the fortress when we track Veylor.”
The fire I’m channeling flares—a burst of heat that makes Zyphon pull back, shadows recoiling from sudden brightness.
“Selene.” Zyphon’s warning comes too late.