Archive of Our Own

Marella Redek had decided, fuck it, why not climb a tree?

It did not take her long to regret this decision.

Her palms throbbed, blood hot beneath her skin, and with every single goddamned movement a thread got caught on some scraggle of bark. Which meant later she’d have to patch these entirely avoidable holes and prick herself a million times in the process.

She glared at the trunk, hating how her shirt clung to the dampness of her skin.

Several branches loomed, mocking, above her, and she hoisted herself up a few more. Another snag caught near her ankle, and she yanked it free regardless of the tear she condemned herself to.

Maybe she’d just burn the pants. And the tree. And the whole world while she was at it.

Marella paused, pressing a hand to the ache in the slight left of her chest, breathing just long enough until she could push past it. She didn’t have time to indulge in…whatever bubbled and boiled beneath what she had to be.

Nevermind that her being out here in the first place was already indulging.

She could’ve stayed longer, done more, but there wasn’t enough in her to help with her mom’s constant flux of emotions today; she loved her mom, completely and entirely, but she was only human, and humans had limits.

She was just so powerless.

But giving in to that quagmire didn’t help, so she pushed it away. Cursed at the next branch. Scanned her progress.

Her shoes had turned to specs at the base of the tree, where she usually sat when she came out here--it was one of the few scattered through the meadow, and she liked the shade. Especially on such a blistering day, the sun so strong she could hardly bear to look towards the sky for more than a moment or two before everything started to blur white.

She looked down instead, across the grass stretching ad infinitum, speckled with reds and yellows and mismatched grasses, off into distant mountains and plateaus, even an extinct volcano if she really squinted--though even then it still blurred. The city’s river rushed a ways off to the side, languid and crystalline, and she had to blink through the light it reflected.

Turning back, the city sprawled just as infinitely, the other side farther than she could see from her position on the outskirts, the meadow beginning just beyond the last dotting of houses like hers. It was quieter at the edges, and her mom needed quiet. So did Marella.

But--over there, a little ways into the city, not too far from her own sector, not too far from the edges, the faintest plume of grey broke the picturesque horizon.

Marella leaned forward, tilting her head slightly, wondering if she needed glasses and resenting the idea.

The grey darkened, then blackened, and billowed wider.

Smoke.

Not like this. He’d tried to be so careful, deliberate, prepared.

Redefining the realm of the possible came with its risks, of course, but not like this.

Fire roared and crackled through the timber, eating its way through the curtains and bursting into the pantries. He was distantly aware of the groaning roof and just how dry the brush and grass outside was.

But he couldn’t concentrate on that through the pure heat crawling inside his heart, nestling into each blood vessel and riding his arteries like a crescendo. It burrowed deeper with every breath as he staggered, dazed, for the not-yet-burning door.

Dying was bad. He should try to not do that.

He couldn’t quite make it, and couldn’t panic over the burning inside him.

It built and built and built, and he wanted--no, needed--it out.

It was so unbelievably, undeniably beautiful; he couldn’t bring himself to regret the myriad of mistakes he’d made. He’d do it over again a thousand times for the taste.

Warmth and smoke and power and possibility.

It lingered on his tongue as he coughed, the sound lost amid the roar of flames as he shivered and writhed on the floor, seeking a way out of his too-small form, burning and building and--

Bursting.

Without warning the fire in his blood, his plasma, his DNA, pushing at every wall and barrier, exploded past its confines in a rush of cataclysmic relief, and he sagged with the feeling. Too much all at once became a burden shared. His mind followed the heat, the curdling, the spark as it fractured in his heart, part leaping and burrowing elsewhere.

Cool air rushed over his lips and his head thudded against stone, and--someone gasped.

Voices overlapped and he could make sense of none of them, not as a profound exhaustion dimmed the burns in his veins, and he let it wash him away in their embers, dreaming of claiming the sky.

Pavement swayed and danced beneath Marella as she staggered away, losing her footing. Her back slammed into some wall behind her as she sank to the ground, vision tunneling.

It ached.

She pressed a hand to her heart as if to squash the feeling, the heat, trying to focus.

There were voices overlapping, but she could make sense of none of them. Not as she coughed and choked on the feeling, muscles spasming minutely in a full-body tremble, sweat slicking down her neck and pooling in the bends of her knees.

“--lright? Kid?”

A hand on her arm and she jerked. Blinked. Shoved it all down.

“I’m fine.” She pulled away, breathing carefully so no one could tell just how deep.

“Are you sure? That was quite dangerous what you--”

“I’m sure.”

Marella pushed to her feet, clenching her fists through the head rush as she forced through the building crowd. The voices had built to a near cacophony, straining to be heard over the burning building’s roar.

That roar crawled through her ears, amplified by the stench of smoke lingering in her lungs.

Stupid. That was a better word for what she’d done.

Someone grunted as she pushed them out of her way, breaking past the line of people watching the smoke rise and house fall, too scared to get any closer.

Swirling ash clung to the sweat slicking her. She’d have to clean up before she went home or her mom would freak, but she couldn’t help another look at the building as she scanned the throng for a path out. Her shoes were still beneath the tree.

Flames pulsed a vivid orange, screaming through the wood, the dry grass beginning to smolder with fallen embers.

The crowd burst apart again a little ways from her, and she recognized the bright yellow patches over the breast--physicians.

They bee-lined for the figure prone on the ground, shooing spectators out of the way to kneel by his side.

He hadn’t moved from where Marella had dropped him, a burst of heat and dizziness sending her careening as he spasmed and sagged, clutching his chest. He’d been right inside the door, the fire still thankfully on the other side of the house, since she hadn’t been thinking straight.

The fabric of his shirt had nearly slipped through her fingers as she’d grabbed it, silky and light, but it’d held up as she’d dragged him, her breath still heavy from the dash she’d made, scrapes down her arm from a hasty descent and unforgiving branches.

Of course he had such fancy, expensive cloth.

Marella turned away as the physicians set to work, mouth firm as she set to push through the crowd. Most of their whispers were lost, but she could make out one name among them all.

It echoed through her head the same--Councillor Pyren.

What was he doing out near the edges?

He dreamed of heat.

Pulsing and rushing, drying his blood to ash and cracking the lining of his throat. Crashing through him and bursting out, dissipating into the sky. An all-consuming inferno.

Until--a break in the blaze.

He groaned, deep in his chest, light fluttering in the distance.

It crawled closer with each second until he opened his eyes fully, though he couldn’t discern the fuzzy shapes and colors. He could tell a window stood to his right, partly drawn, the light falling to the floor. There was something…something about light…

“Can you tell me your name?”

There was something next to him. Reaching over him. Touching something on him--he followed their fingers, the pressure on his forehead. A washcloth! Cool and wet and blissful.

“Are you with me? Can you tell me your name?”

He blinked, hard, trying to make out anything of their face. Dark skin, dark eyes, glints in twisted hair. “You know it,” he mumbled. Everybody did.

They nodded. “I do. I need to know if you know it. And where you are.”

Each moment brought with it more lucidity. “Fintan Pyren. I’m in my house.” He paused. “Why are you in my house?”

Their lips quirked, and they tapped the emblazoned yellow brand over their breast. Medical “You played with fire--and lost. I’m Livvy, and I’ve been--”

“I wasn’t playing,” he pushed to his elbows, fighting the headrush.

Livvy nodded, eyeing him. “Alright. More the serious type--that’s fine. Are you having any pain?”

His chest ached. “No.”

“Numbness? Shortness of breath? Dizziness?” Livvy ran through more of their questionnaire, frowned when they took his pulse, but relented as he insisted with increasing intensity that he was fine.

He’d been so close.

“Well, I can’t force anything on you,” Livvy sighed, tucked a twist behind their ear. They’d clearly dealt with stubborn patients before. “What I will do, though, is leave you with these.” They turned to riffle through their bag, pulling out a case of rattling pills. They counted and portioned some into a smaller vial, which they left atop his nightstand. “A general painkiller just in case the standard stuff doesn’t cut it--though don’t make any big decisions while on it. One every four to six hours as needed. Repeat that back to me.”

Fintan did, and smiled politely as Livvy made to leave, fists tight beneath the sheets to resist pressing them to his sternum.

They shook their head as they did, clearly wanting to do more. “You’re lucky, you know. If that girl hadn’t gotten you out…well, it’s a good thing she did.”

He started. “Pardon?”

Livvy paused, then explained as they secured their bag. “Some girl dragged you out--left you in the street and disappeared, rumors say. No one caught her name, but if you ever find her, you better thank her. You owe her.”

A wave of vertigo swept from the base of his skill, but he tilted his head and acquiesced. “I will be sure to. And I appreciate all you’ve done.”

Livvy took the hint, scanning him one last time, sweeping his room before closing the door behind them.

Fintan listened for her receding footsteps, the click of his front door closing. As soon as silence fell, he pushed himself back, leaning against the headboard and pressing the heel of his palm to the slight left of his chest, squeezing his eyes shut through deep breaths.

Under normal circumstances, it was unwise to shoo away medical personnel--but these were not, in any sense of the phrase, normal circumstances.

The heat had abated to a steady throb with each pulse of his heart, pooling in the crook of his elbows, the base of his skull, the very tips of his fingers.

He held them close, squinting as if he could see through his skin--and because his sight hadn’t completely cleared yet. He saw nothing to betray the fizzling underneath, but paused at the faintest…hum. A whisper no more than a breath, echoing wherever the heat pooled.

That sound--he’d heard it calling just before…well, just before he’d burned his burner house down.

A moment he’d been building to for years. The transcendence of the human race.

Had he truly done it?

Fintan snapped.

Sparks flashed between his fingers.

The elation lasted only a few moments before his heart throbbed violently, sending the room spinning and leaving him gasping. He groped blindly for the vial the medic had left, but his hand shook too badly to grasp it.

He let it fall, focusing on deep breaths until he could try again.

Oh so slowly, he lifted and opened the vial, retrieving a single blue pill, placing it on his tongue and swallowing dry.

Just this once, he promised himself.

Fintan laid back down, hand still on his chest, and waited for the feeling to ebb. The sun swept across the room as the sun followed its faithful path, reflecting off the bottles and glasses lining his windowsill, browning the leaves of that one plant he needed to find a less intense place for.

The heat settled back into his chest, the pulsing dulled as the pill set in--and it was a good thing, given the knock at his door.

He almost missed it the first time, tracing the shapes along the curved ceiling, but then it sounded again, stronger, and it broke through. Delicately, he pushed to sitting, then tested his weight on his feet; he wobbled for a few seconds, but the rush passed.

He pulled the door open just after the third round of knocking, as polite a smile as he could managed already plastered to his face.

“Fintan.”

“Bronte.”

They stood for a moment, sizing each other up before Fintan stepped back to let Bronte in. Bronte held his head high, mouth tight, and moved stiffly inside before whirling on him.

“What did you do?”

Fintan blinked, closing the door. “I don’t know what--”

“Don’t,” he breathed, “try to fool me. I know you better.”

Fintan clenched his teeth, cursing his still-sluggish brain. Bronte was always the hardest to flatter and sweet-talk, though he’d managed before--when he’d had time to prepare. Instead of answering, he crossed the room, sinking into the nearest chair to hide the sway of his stance.

Bronte continued, “We told you to drop it--you agreed. That it was ludicrous--”

“Clearly, I needed more evidence. And I got it.”

“You destroyed a building and could’ve set the entire city on fire!” Bronte began pacing. “You have a responsibility, Fintan, that you took on when you made your oath. To protect and care for our people.”

The base of his skull throbbed. “I am! I will herald in a new--”

“They’ve already voted.” Bronte stopped, turned and faced him.

Fintan blinked. “What?”

Bronte’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. “This was the last straw--you’ve become a liability. The official story will be your incident sparked some healthy self-reflection and you chose to step down--not to mention taking some time to recover.”

The throbbing built into a steady headache. “They’re deposing me? After everything I’ve done? The years I’ve put in--the responsibilities I’ve shouldered so the rest of you could sleep easy at night!”

“Yes! Have you lost your mind?” Bronte swept his arms wide. “What the fuck did you think would happen? You circumvented orders, told us you’d drop it and then deliberately went behind our backs! And nearly killed people in the process!”

“I didn’t--” he started, then stopped. Because he wasn’t sure, actually, if anyone had been hurt besides himself. That physician hadn’t mentioned. “If I could just explain--”

Bronte sneered. “Oh, what? What could you possibly say? It’s already done.”

“Bronte, listen--it worked--”

“I don’t want to hear it, Fin. The vote was unanimous.”

Fintan sat back, hands gripping his knees, suddenly very aware he was sitting and Bronte was not. That he was looking up. “Even you.”

“I hope it was worth it,” Bronte spat. His lip curled as he turned, giving Fintan one last look over. Then the door closed sharp in his wake, silence fallen like a hammer as heat throbbed in Fintan’s fingers, near burning as he clenched them.

Fools, all of them. He offered a lifeline, a transformation, possibility. And they cast him out as if he hadn’t stood on that council longer than the rest of them combined, watching them come and go but for Bronte.

Bronte, who’d voted against him, too.

Fine.

He didn’t need their support, their resources, their permission.

They’d understand with time, come crawling back begging forgiveness.

He’d make them.

Marella’s hair dripped down her shoulders and her clothes stuck to her wet underlayers, which might still raise questions when she got home, but not nearly as many as her arriving smelling like smoke would.

She was almost positive she’d gotten the smell out. The way it’d stuck in her nostrils made it hard to tell, but she’d rubbed at her skin until it was raw in the cool river.

Her feet were still damp, so she carried her sandals and walked with quick, light steps over the pavement, mitigating the worst of the stones’ burns.

Every face she passed had her flinching--what if they recognized her? What if they’d told her parents?

Stupid. Both her parents would freak if they got even a whiff of it, and she knew how people talked. Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone? Someone else would’ve gotten him.

Whatever. She couldn’t undo it, but no one else had to know.

The sky had begun to turn a vivid orange, pink streaking the clouds by the time she made it back to her house. Two story, red brick, leaning ever so slightly to the left. She paused on the doorstep, psyching herself up for a few breaths as she set down her shoes, dripping on the patio.

Then, she turned the handle completely before she pushed the door open, keeping it as quiet as possible.

Silence greeted her.

She stepped in, using the same trick to close the door.

No one on the first floor that she could see. Her mother must’ve been sleeping, her father in his room or out back--though he’d never go far in case something happened.

Still tip-toeing, she darted up the stairs, slipping into her room--the first on the left--without incident, exactly as she wanted.

Immediately, she swapped out her clothes for dry ones, then sank onto her mattress in the corner.

Her head still buzzed from the afternoon, pulsing in the base of her skill and down her spine, making her fingers tingle and shake. Warmth--the sun, the rush--lingered in a layer over the surface of her skin, too much for even the river to wash away.

Marella closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She reached for Splashy, the blue-green horse sitting in the corner propped against her pillows; her mother had crocheted it for her when she was too small to remember, before her injury, before her hands had started shaking too hard to hold the stitches, to grasp the yarn.

Its head fit perfectly in the hollow of her throat.

She exhaled. Again.

A voice sounded from downstairs, then a second, then the first rising in volume. She couldn’t make out the words--or rather, she deliberately let them slide in one ear and out the other, devolving into mindless noise.

Her mother’s rough day wasn’t over yet, and Marella could do nothing to make it any better.

All her attempts that morning, their usual approach, had only made it worse until her mother’d been practically screaming. And her dad had taken her into the hall and suggested she take a break. And she was so incredibly, unforgivably selfish, that she’d said yes.

She gripped Splashy tighter.

She’d been off climbing trees and running into burning buildings while her father managed everything. She should’ve been helping. She should’ve--

She breathed slow; this was exactly the kind of wallowing she didn’t have time for.

A physical ache pulsed in her chest as she shoved the feeling down, to be dealt with later (never). It’d just been a bad day, no one’s fault.

Her fingers flexed, tingling, as Marella tried anew to push everything from her mind; smoke lingered in her nostrils, on her tongue, ash on her skin, tickling--

Her eyes snapped open, air rushing from her lungs as she scrambled in a primal panic from the golden licks of flame crawling over Splashy’s well-loved coat. She dropped him on the bed, falling to the floor and shooting to her feet.

She couldn’t leave him on the bed--it was flammable!

Adrenaline buzzed and she pinched at one of his feet, where the flames hadn’t reached yet, flinging him onto the floor, wood, away from the rug.

Marella’s eyes darted around the room--smother it? Water? Did she have any water? The glass on the nightstand was empty--bathroom, the bathroom had running water.

But the bathroom was down the hall, and her parents were just downstairs. If she ran into her dad--or worse, her mother--she’d have to explain--what? What was she explaining?

Yarn shriveled and darkened with each second of indecision.

Stop burning, stop stop stop, she pleaded, deciding on a pillow--she’d throw away the cover, make up a stain or something.

She grabbed the top one, clenching it tight as she--

Marella froze.

The flames were gone.

She stared, breathing heavy.

Splashy sat, blackened, in the middle of her floor, ash around him as he stared with half a face. A mote of smoke curled up into the air, drawn towards the airflow out her cracked window.

Slowly, she dropped the pillow, crouching next to Splashy.

With a shaking finger, she prodded his body. Her finger tingled.

“What the fuck,” she whispered.

Fintan nudged at a bit of what used to be a wall, ash pluming and flaking off, settling in a light coating on his toes.

The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, staining the ruins a light pink in the chilled air. A portion of the front wall still stood, as did the front door frame, but peering beyond revealed--nothing. Burnt timber and crumbled linens, scraps of paper rendered useless. The fire hadn’t spread beyond the one building, given how spaced things tended to be the further from the city’s original center one got--which had been part of why he’d worked out here.

No one to interfere, no one to see him, ask what business a councillor had this far out.

Not that he had to worry about that anymore.

He hadn’t heard from any of the others but Bronte since he’d visited and broken the news, which didn’t surprise them. They wanted to ignore it and move on, consider him handled. Typical.

Fintan sighed, rubbing at his chest. He’d have to find somewhere else to work; he couldn’t use his house, but if he tried acquiring a new second space so soon he’d draw too much attention. He’d been the topic of interest the past few days, snippets of speculation thrown about in constant gossip.

Nothing correct, of course, but they’d learn with time.

He raised his gaze, looking around the scattered buildings of the edges. Were there any vacant he could station himself in? Likely yes, but then he ran the risk of discovery--he’d legally owned this now-charred bit of architecture, a place to work and keep all his off-record notes.

Fintan stopped, looked back at the husk.

Did he even need a building? It’d held his notes and theories and plans, all working towards--towards something he’d already achieved. He’d touched the sky, claimed a piece of it for himself, burned it into his DNA.

Now? All he needed was empty space.

The city central may have been crowded, and the edges sparser, but you didn’t get more open and secluded than the meadows beyond that. In the right spots, he’d even have access to the river--which would be crucial, while learning to take control.

Slowly, his lips spread in a smile. Yes, that would work quite nice.

Fintan turned from the debris of his first fire and didn’t look back.

He ignored the houses he passed, head held high as he marched out of the limits of his city and into the untouched land beyond; he knew exactly how to get there, though he’d only been once before, part of his effort to learn the surrounding area when he’d first bought his second house all those years ago.

It’d sat untouched for a few before he truly sat down and put his mind to the question no one else would ask.

Stone gave way to dirt gave way to grass, and without any fanfare or warning, the city was only a distant memory. Trees dotted the land sporadically, heavy with leaves. The plains stretched farther than he could see, shifting in a wind he couldn’t feel.

By the time he reached the riverside, he’d begun to pant, lungs heaving. A sour combination of both the ache in his chest and the pressure at the back of his skull. Likely something to do with the smoke inhalation from a few days prior; he still felt light-headed for a few moments whenever he stood.

But that didn’t matter, not when he trailed the bank of the river, finding a suitable expanse of sand and gravel. The grass behind that could still catch, of course, but this would do nicely.

Fintan lowered himself to the ground, pausing for a few breaths until his heart calmed, and contemplated how to begin.

There were no guidebooks; he’d have to write them.

A herald, enlightenment.

He focused on the heat in his fingers, the heat he’d turned to sparks a few days prior. He’d been too new, too weak then, to hold onto the feeling. But now?

He’d buried a piece of the sun inside his heart, let it smolder and sink into the cavern walls; irreversible, undeniable, powerful.

Sunlight shone softly on his skin now, a gentle warmth, and he focused on the feeling. Buttered and smooth, insistent yet calm. Inevitable. With a breath, he called to it, inviting it to pool in hands he cupped before him, as if shielding a spark in a strong wind.

It began trickling in response, and he could’ve sworn it whispered, too, as his heart pounded and pounded and the heat condensed, magnifying within his grasp.

Yes.

He furrowed his brow, breaths quicker, willing it to build and build and spark--

Pain exploded in his chest, ricocheting through every nerve and vein and crawling inside each bone. He cried out, but an echoing boom ate the sound whole, a wave of crude golden flames rippling from his hands and over him. The edges of his cuffs singed and it was like staring into the sun as his eyes ripped open, all-consuming.

The blaze vanished as quickly as it had sparked, leaving him heaving and dizzy on the riverside, arms shaking as he held himself up. He couldn’t even move to press one to his chest, the hot pressure writhing within it.

No.

No, no, no. He’d come so far--years, decades of work. Planning and speculation and testing and--he was so close, dammit. This couldn’t be--

“You.”

Fintan started, whipping around to find--a girl.

Disheveled and young, all sharp lines and scrapes, hair a blazing tangle somewhere between red and gold and filled with tiny braids. Her hands fisted at her sides and shook as she glared at him, mouth a tight line.

“Pardon?”

She stalked a step closer, face flaming. “What did you do to me?”

Now-ex-councillor Pyren’s chest heaved as he inclined his head ever so infinitesimally to the side. Eyes flickering over her.

He looked just as he had the last time she’d seen him, dragging him from that building: pathetic.

Dazed, disheveled, dreadful. Ash and burns edged the hems of his shirt, sand sticking in the many, many creases of his pants. His skin was so wan she could see the veins beneath his pallor, lips colorless.

She could see each knuckle in his hand as he sat forward, fingers flexing in the sand, and said, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

Marella scoffed. “Don’t play dumb.”

Fintan squinted, reached a hand to press to his chest. “Are you the girl who dragged me out?”

“Who cares! What did you do?! Why--what--” she let out a strangled scream, heart pounding in her ears, sunlight buzzing over her skin as she turned. She couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Deep breaths. Deep--deep--

She tore her hands through her hair, but quickly tore them back out when she felt the sparks. She spewed every curse she’d ever heard and then some, shaking out her hands and backing up, begging the heat to stay under control.

That’s all she’d done the past four days. Beg and beg and beg it’d stay inside, pushing it down, tip-toeing around anything that might set her off. And there was a lot.

Soon enough she would run out of room under her bed to hide everything she’d scorched.

It never hurt her. The flames licked around her skin, almost tickling, as whatever she held turned to ash if she didn’t stop it. It was only a matter of time before the house caught, too; she was one close call away from sleeping in the rock garden out back.

Marella whirled, ready to tear into Fintan anew and demand she didn’t even know what--but she stopped short. His entire demeanor had changed.

His eyes had widened as he looked over her much more thoroughly, mouth slightly agape as he leaned forward almost without realizing. He furrowed his brow, eyes going unfocused as--

Marella flinched. Something swept ghost fingers through her, and the heat that’d settled into her blood flared for a moment in response. With a shudder, she took a step back.

Fintan sat back, too, fingers flexing where they rested on his chest. “Incredible.”

“What?” she demanded.

“Does it hurt you?” he asked instead of answering, a hand on his chin. “Did it when it started--when did it start?”

She shook her head, rocking in the sand. “How do I stop it?”

He started to say something, but cut himself off. Tried again. “I can’t do anything if you won’t answer my questions. It’s not simple, you know.”

Marella balled her hands into fists, then uncurled them to grip the back of her neck, growling as she balled them again. She paced a few steps, whirling in the sand. Deep breaths. Deep--deep breaths.

Fintan said nothing as he watched, until finally she huffed and plopped onto the sand a ways from him. Her fingertips dug into her knees, and sand would get in her shorts, but she stared him down regardless. “Fine. What do you need to know?”

“How about your name--most people start there instead of with ‘you.’” He quirked a brow.

“What does it matter?” she countered. “Just tell me--”

Fintan waved a hand--the other hadn’t moved from his chest even once. “I told you, girl, it’s not simple. Anything you ask of me will take time. I must call you something.”

Heat flared in her palms. “Ella,” she lied. “How long?”

“And when did this start?”

“Four days ago. The day of the house fire, after I pulled you out. How long?”

Fintan hummed, squinted. “You’ve only made sparks, yes? Or have you made more?”

“Answer the question!” Her palms sparked against her legs, but for once she ignored it.

His contemplation turned to brief annoyance. “What did I just tell you? Whatever it is you want, there’s no guidelines. We are the first, girl, though you are certainly a surprise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means answer my questions and maybe I’ll have the context I need to answer yours.”

Marella glared, and Fintan glared right back. But what choice did she have? She backed down first, looking instead to the river, the rocks, the sand, the now-blue sky. Her hands, the ash beneath her nails she couldn’t get out and hoped she could pass off as dirt.

“More than sparks,” she told him. “But it’s always sparks first, then the--the flames come.”

She shifted, cheeks flushing. This was completely and utterly ridiculous. Summoning flames? If anyone heard her talking like this, they’d say she’d inherited crazy from her mother. And then they’d eat dirt for talking like that where she could hear them.

But she’d seen the flash of gold, sensed the heat by the riverside in a way she couldn’t explain. He’d done it, too. And was looking at her deadly serious, like he believed every word.

“And my first question,” he continued. “Does it hurt you?”

“The fire? No.”

Fintan went silent for several minutes, an inscrutable look on his face as he finally lowered his other hand from his chest. He eyed his palms, then turned to the sky, then to her.

“Is that enough?” She tugged at a strand of hair, looping it around a finger and cutting off her own circulation. “My turn yet?”

He sighed. “For now.”

“I want--how--how do I get rid of it? What did you do?”

“The process was long and complicated, and we both have better things to do. All you should know is that I have made us more than human. I have infinitely broadened the possibilities of what we can achieve, the heights we can reach. The world is ours for the taking, my dear.”

Was it possible for him to give a straight fucking answer for once? “Why? I didn’t ask for that!”

Fintan made a noise and dismissed her complaint with a wave. “You were unintentional. You touched me as I touched the sky, and through it your mind was enlightened, too.”

“Well, unenlighten me, then!”

“No.” His lips quirked slightly, and she was sure he was laughing at her. “Must I say it again? It’s. Not. That. Simple.”

Marella wasn’t known for being peaceful and polite, but she by and large was not a violent person.

Ex-Councillor Fintan Pyren seemed determined to change that.

“Explain it then, if I’m so dumb.”

“Dumb, I don’t know yet--we’ve only just met. Angry and brash? Yes.” He held up a hand before she could retort. “Keep interrupting me and we’ll never get anywhere. See that?” He pointed to the sun. “That’s in here, now.” He tapped at his chest. “For the both of us. It is pure energy that has been harnessed and altered to live inside us, now. It’s changed, so we can’t give it back.”

“So, what, I’m stuck like this?” He clearly hadn’t been done talking, but something sour coated her tongue.

Fintan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You mean accidentally torching things with the slightest provocation? The temper? No. It’s a matter of learning control. Harnessing the potential to achieve anything under the sun--and beyond it.”

“You’re insane.” And so was she, for even talking to him.

For some reason, he started to laugh, dry and loud. “Oh, most certainly. Innovators must be.” He stopped abruptly then, stared back towards the city. “They’ll call me mad, but we shall show them otherwise, girl. This is only the beginning.”

Marella rolled her eyes to hide the way her fingers trembled. She fervently, desperately wanted to run far, far away from this man--but he was the one who’d…enlightened her, or however he’d put it. The only answers she’d ever find were from his cracked lips.

“Of what?” she spat, furious. With him. Herself. The world. The sun, the bastard.

“A new era for humanity. Fire is only the first step. Imagine what else we might be capable of--the power we could harness, if only we set our minds to it. Water, earth, the very mind.”

Marella paused. “The mind?”

She’d tried to keep her tone consistent, disinterested, but Fintan turned to look at her with a curiosity that had her palms sparking. “Why not?”

“How would that even work?” she scoffed. Fintan didn’t buy it.

“Curious about the mind, girl?”

“No.”

His smile was near triumphant, and he took a moment before he spoke. “We could find out. I see a desire eating at you. You’re hiding it horribly. Whatever that is, whatever you’d like to do with the potential I placed in you--we are linked now, whether we like it or not. You will find no one else in the world who understands how the heat aches and begs, not yet.

“But I understand, Marella. It will take time, and practice, but by my side, we’ll uncover the mind however you’d like.”

His smile had turned soft, peaceful as he looked to the sky. And she knew, she knew the odds that she’d get herself into rotten trouble were astronomical.

But a little voice whispered in the back of her head, What if I could help my mom?

She’d spent so many years trying, and her nerves were nothing but ash after the last few days; that whisper…

“Where would we even start?”

The absence of the sun, its warmth, echoed in Fintan’s chest as he shut his door behind him quiet as he could. His body longed for his bed, but he could hardly rest yet.

The girl had stolen the sun from his heart.

Unintentionally on both their parts, but undeniably; he’d felt the simmering heat of it coursing through her as she’d glared on the riverside, seen the sparks fly from her palms as she screamed her inane worries and accusations.

It was meant to be his. He’d claimed it from the sky.

He’d half-considered tearing it from her and--he wasn’t sure what he’d have done with the girl herself afterwards, but it didn’t matter. It’d melded to her; he’d have more luck separating the salt from the sea by hand.

And he was left with the crumbs of all his efforts, aching with the loss of what he’d held for barely a moment.

Fine.

If he couldn’t light the way for the next age of humanity, he’d simply make her do it for him.

He’d already found a crack in that hot-headed facade of hers, and within their first conversation, too. She’d made it near too easy.

It’d been almost charming how she’d tried to feign disinterest, but someone really should tell her that immediately freezing and losing all prior emotion was more telling than explicitly asking. He wasn’t going to, though, not when he could still use it.

Whatever it was that’d had her freezing so, he didn’t particularly care, so long as she thought he could give it to her.

He couldn’t, of course, but she didn’t know that, and he wasn’t going to correct her.

Not until he understood how she let her palms spark without reeling, how that fistful of grass had smoldered into ash in her hand and she’d simply sat there, mouth thin and brows furrowed, as if the same thing wouldn’t have him gasping in the sand unable to spell his own name--and that wasn’t exaggeration. He’d tried after she’d left.

Now that he had something to compare himself to, it made it obvious, as he’d reached for the vial of pain relief and decided perhaps he should start taking them preemptively, what he was missing.

Each raw edge of the piece the girl had stolen from him became clearer, more defined; with each pulsing ache the fuzzed pain clarified into claw marks. By the time his pulse had settled he could trace the exact outline of what she’d taken.

Fintan settled into his couch, gazing up at the ceiling as he ran a finger over the lip of his glass. He raised it ever so slightly, studying his distorted reflection.

It was too recognizable. Too many years on the council, too many public speeches and announcements and appearances. It’d take more than a little effort to pass himself for another, but it could be done.

And he would, come morning.

He’d spent far too long working towards this to let a mishap like that girl stop him; he wasn’t going to leave his fate, humanity’s fate, to her whims and wishes.

He needed to know her better than she knew herself.

“Are you alright?” Her dad’s voice broke through her daze as she stared out the window, seeing nothing. “You’ve been--”

“I’m fine,” she said, blinking back into herself. “Just tired.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie--she kept worrying she’d have a nightmare and wake up to her room burning down. She’d already woken to sparks on her hands twice. Stupid Fintan and his stupid whatever this was.

Her dad sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. “You’ve been so tense the past few days. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Marella crossed her arms and wouldn’t look at him. “I know. I told you--I’m fine.”

He pressed on. “Was it…the fire? I’ve overheard”--Marella tensed. Had he heard about her being there? No. He couldn’t have. She’d left practically as soon as she arrived--”that it was pretty close. And I know how you feel about fire.”

“I got over that when I was seven, Dad.” Mostly.

“If you say so, Mare.”

“And be careful--what if Mom heard you?” The barest mention of a flame and it’d guarantee they’d all have a bad day.

“I know.” Silence fell for a moment. “Did you hear apparently a Councillor was there? Wonder why they were all the way out here.”

She shrugged. “I dunno.”

Her dad didn’t get the hint about how much she didn’t want to be having this conversation, or he was ignoring it. “I ran into an old friend yesterday--they’re saying he even stepped down because of it. Needs time to rest and recover.”

Marella paused. “Councillor Fintan stepped down?”

“So you have heard.” He shook his head. “There’s going to be an election soon, I hear. At least it was only Pyren.”

“Huh?”

Her dad gave her a small smile. “You don’t keep up with politics, huh? Pyren’s been…weird, for the past few years. Tension with the others, missing public meetings, making odd calls. I’m not sad to see him go--though the fire is unfortunate. Anyway,” he looked away, “that’s not important.”

He seemed about to say more, but then--“Durand? I can’t find my blanket.”

They both stopped, and Marella felt her cheeks flush.

Her mother had snuck up on them, now poking her head around the corner. The morning had been calm enough, and her eyes looked lucid. Her gaze held steady, calmly sweeping over the room. “Have you seen it?”

Her dad shook his head. “No, love. We must’ve misplaced it, remember--but we’ll find it.”

Marella looked away. She knew exactly where it was--under her bed, with everything else she’d ruined.

“I need it, Durand.” Her fingers flexed where they gripped the wall when Marella glanced back. “I can’t find it.”

Her dad crossed the room, laying a gentle hand on her arm. “Alright, let’s go look.”

“It’s not there,” her mom repeated, being led back. She caught Marella’s eye. “Mare. Someone must’ve took it. Did you see?”

“No one took it, love, we’ve just misplaced it,” her dad said, calm, and entirely incorrect.

Her mother insisted, looking between the two of them.

“Dad’s right,” Marella lied, tasting ash. “We’ll find it.”

Her mother frowned, breath stuttering, and Marella turned to go.

“Be careful, Mare,” her dad called after her, like he always did, but she couldn’t respond as the door swung shut behind her. What was wrong with her? Lying straight to her mother’s face was nothing short of cruel, and yet. And yet. She wasn’t going to fix it. How could she?

What was she supposed to do, give her the blackened, crisped thing? That’d just make her panic more. She hated fire--no candles anywhere she could see them, fireplace always empty, nothing.

And now Marella--

She shut the thought down, recognizing the warning tingle in her palms as she bee-lined through the empty streets. There was nowhere to go, not yet; Fintan had decided they’d start tonight, at sunset. He’d had a reason, but she hadn’t bothered to remember, only worrying about whether her parents could afford her absence, whether her dad would notice.

But he’d already watched her leave, and he knew it could be anywhere from an hour to a day before she came back.

Which left her with an afternoon to kill and a buzz building from the sun on her neck to ignore. She’d been to the meadow too often the past few days, and now it held little appeal--especially now that its riverside was where she’d be meeting Fintan; he tainted the place.

So she simply wandered for a while, aimless, only making sure to head away from the path to the meadow, until--

Marella stopped at the edge of the street. She hadn’t meant to come this way.

The cobbled pavement lay deserted, though she would’ve expected at least a few nosey stragglers to still be poking around; perhaps there was some order to stay away she hadn’t heard yet, or perhaps she’d happened to miss them.

Whatever it was, there was no one around but the birds, so Marella found herself moving forward.

As she got closer ash streaked the stone where it’d been doused, ran, and dried in the sun. Powdered grey coated the grass and would kill it if a flush of rain didn’t wash it clean, but she only noted that in the back of her mind.

The doorframe still stood.

Smooth wood met her fingertips as she inched closer, needing to touch it. Not even a week ago, she’d done the dumbest thing of her life and rushed through this doorframe, dragging Fintan back out and--and supremely fucking up the rest of her life unless she could fix it, if he could fix her. Maybe make her better than before.

Water, earth, the very mind.

Beyond the frame, the ash piled higher, layered atop crashed support beams that’d shattered glass across the floor. This must’ve been the main room, the metal skeletons of a few chairs artfully arranged, except for one knocked over.

She picked it up, set it right.

To her right had held a large table not quite destroyed, patches in the walls giving way to the landscaping and scattered florals dotting grasses.

Between the two spaces, a hall extended where they met. She pushed on.

Ash plumed beneath her feet and stuck in her throat, and what she found was near entirely demolished, nubs of wood and fabric not nearly enough to give her any idea what might’ve been there. The fire must’ve started back here, crawling towards the front like Fintan, except he’d faltered and the fire hadn’t. It’d continued, and would’ve eaten him whole if she hadn’t--

Marella stopped. Looked to her hands. Entirely unmarred, at least not by flame.

Fintan wouldn’t have burned.

A choked laugh bubbled up, more hysteria than anything. She’d gone after him, fucked herself, for nothing.

Her palms skipped the sparking this time, and she fisted them as golden flames burst from her fingers. At least she didn’t have to worry about burning anything here.

God, she wanted to burn something. Him. Everything.

The flames coated her fists now, crept up her bare arms, and she couldn’t make out the shape of the grounds beyond the open wall, eyes darting from the crumbling charcoal ex-walls to the crisped bits of paper on the ground to the blackened floor to the--

Her fist slammed into the last standing wall behind her as she whirled, and her throat ached with the shriek that tore from it. Chest heaving, she stared at the burn mark she’d left, the colors pouring from her fingers. She could’ve sworn one tinged pink.

She punched the wall again, harder, then kicked it, then kicked at the piles of dust and ash on the floor. She screamed again, pumping her fists up and down as she stomped, cursing the unfairness of it all.

Heat burst from her in dizzying waves, but she didn’t care. Let it all go up in smoke. Again.

Fire and sparks and energy poured out so quickly she stumbled, light-hearted, and her chest ached with a pounding ferocity.

Marella was so tired.

And like that, her fists flickered out. She heaved, swallowing, in the aftermath, and just wanted to go home.

But her mom’s blanket was under her bed, alongside the blue-green horse she’d made for Marella all those years ago.

So she took a deep breath. And tucked it all back inside.

All the exhaustion, the rage, the guilt, the shame, it sunk like a weight into the cavity of her heart, and she told herself it was fine. That as long as she kept it there and didn’t let it out, it would stay fine.

She was lying and she knew it, but that’d never stopped her before.

Marella scrubbed at her face, let out a deep breath, and raised her head.

She still had a few hours to kill, and--

In the echoing emptiness in her chest after her outburst, something tickled her awareness. Everything in the room had a fresh coating of heat to it, thanks to her, but there--tucked away under a beam, it breathed.

Still, she stood there for a moment, before sighing and crawling over to see what it was, because dammit it itched. She had to get down on her knees, and the warm ash immediately clung to her sticky skin, but she’d already committed.

She squinted, but didn’t need to--the bright red cover stood out clear as day.

Scraps of fabric fell away as she pulled it from the wreckage, reminiscent of some wrap or covering--likely the only reason it’d survived half as well as it had, though there were still several missing and brittle pages, if a glance at the side was anything to go off of.

Burning continued to gnaw at the edges, heat without a visible flame that quieted when she told it too.

It fell open easily, though not to any specific page; Fintan had used this frequently and thoroughly. What she could make out of the remaining pages overflowed with cramped, hasty writing. Riddled with smudges, smears, and bleeding, she wondered if he’d ever heard of a pencil.

Notes were shoved into every spare bit of margin, all nonsense. Equations with symbols she’d never seen, diagrams and half-burnt charts she couldn’t make out, a random doodle of someone’s face for some reason.

She was about to throw it back where she’d found it when a page somewhere near the middle caught her attention. The outer half was missing, blackened along its new edges, but she could still parse through the bits on the inner half.

A column of names ran down it, each with a few additional notes, like Fintan had been working his way through the list.

That wasn’t what interested her, though.

What’d caught her attention was the name a few lines from the bottom, undeniable even with his shit handwriting.

Caprise Redek.

Bits of stain lingered under Fintan’s nails, coloring his cuticles a rusty brown to mirror the flakes he hadn’t quite been able to wash from his roots. After the third lather, he’d decided it a waste of soap.

A faint headache pulsed in the base of his skull from the day’s exertion, walking and walking the city wearing clothes that weren’t his and a carefully painted face, mingling in crowds and using a voice that wasn’t his. It’d been worth it in the end, though, when he’d nudged the conversation towards the fire--it was still the talk of the town and those at the market had leapt upon it.

All he’d had to do was whisper that he’d heard a rumor--that there’d been a girl at the scene, that she’d pulled that dastardly councillor free and saved his life, a red-headed spark of a thing from the edges, Ella-something.

Ella? Wait--Marella? they’d whispered. The Redek girl? No way--where’d you hear that?

He’d shrugged and said around, and they’d brushed him off, but he had what he’d needed.

Marella Redek.

He’d expected to need time, once he’d uncovered that much, to learn more of who she was. Where she lived, her education and performance, her family situation, her interests and social circle, etc. All pieces of a puzzle he could then warp and move as he willed.

But he already knew that name--or that family name, at least.

What a perfect coincidence.

And how convenient for him, that he already knew everything he needed to as her footsteps sounded in the grass behind him, approaching and turning into shifting sand as he turned and looked her over in the fading sunset light.

Bags shadowed her eyes ever so faintly, and there were streaks of grey--ash?--on her knees that looked as though she’d failed to fully wipe them away. Had she torched something on accident again? She held her arms behind her, as though clasped in the back, as she stared him down with a furious set to her mouth.

“Hello again, my dear,” he said, glancing down to smooth his collar.

She ignored his greeting. “What’s this?”

He looked up and stilled.

In one hand she held a journal, charred, but still entirely recognizable; he’d poured himself into it.

“Snooping, were you?” he asked, shaking himself slightly to cover for his momentary lapse.

“All these--these charts. These names--what do they mean?” she demanded, shaking the journal at him, fingertips white with the strength of her grip. For a flash of a second, he worried she’d spark and burn the thing, before he remembered he no longer needed it.

Or…did he? Was there something in there that could fix whatever it was this girl had done to him? Could he start the process from scratch, reclaim what she’d stolen?

Then he wouldn’t need the girl, then the fruits of his labor would truly be his.

Fintan hooked his thumbs into his pockets, turning to look over the field, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not easy to do what I did, you know. Those are my notes.”

Marella made a noise. “But the names, what do they all have to do with it?”

“Noticed your mother’s name, didn’t you?”

She flinched. “What? No--how--”

“I told you, Redek, you’re horrible at hiding things.”

“Where did you learn that name?”

Oh, this was fun. He inclined his head, looking back at her over his shoulder. Sparks indeed sputtered beneath her grip, and her burnt pallor had blanched. How long could he draw it out?

He hid a smile. “Were you trying to hide it?”

She drew herself up, shuttering as she lifted her chin. “Fine. Whatever. Why is my mom’s name on your stupid list?”

“Hmm,” he tapped his chin. “Afraid I can’t recall. Perhaps if you do well, it’ll…spark…my memory.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

Her expression was entirely worth it, and he grinned openly. “I’m making sure you’re properly motivated, girl--you’re welcome. Give it here.” He held out a hand, though he didn’t look at her.

Still, he could hear her draw in a breath, scoff it out. “No.”

“No? You’ve no clue what any of it means--if you want to master the mind, I’ll need to be the one with the references.” Give it.

Marella raised her chin. “No. I think I’ll keep it--to make sure you’re properly motivated.”

Damn clever thing. He pressed his lips together, and gritted out, “Fine. Now, feel the lingering light? Maintain your flame at a two-inch height--do not let it exceed that. You lack control, girl, and you’ll kill someone if you can’t reign yourself in.”

She still held the book accusatorily towards him, mouth dropped open and brows furious. She reeled back, at a loss for words, looking him over again like she’d find something new. Fintan simply waited.

“You--I--AGH!” She threw the book to the sand, trapping her fists beneath her arms and exhaling heavily. He glanced at its position, wishing he could make a grab for it, but she’d reach it far sooner than him. He could be patient; he’d get it back. So he simply waited.

After a pause, she glared at him, but sat down and held her hands forward.

Her eyes fell partly closed, and he sensed the heat building in her, traveling from where it’d pooled in her skull, beneath her lungs, to gather in the seat of her palms.

Then, she snapped.

He couldn’t help draw a breath he hoped she didn’t hear at the fire that sprung between her hands, her fingers steady as she furrowed her brow.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his own palms aching, but he remembered his last headache all too vividly. “Do you love your mother?”

Marella flinched, eyes snapping to him, flames shooting to double their height and crawling over her fingers. “What? How dare you--”

“Ah, ah, girl, I said no more than two inches. Try again.”

She snapped her mouth shut, glaring at him as she took a deep breath to snuff out the flame. “She’s off-limits,” Marella snarled, sparking a new flame, the proper height again.

Again, his palms throbbed with the want of it--that should’ve been him.

But he said, “Do well, and perhaps she will be.”

Marella’s flame shivered again, lengthening, but she gritted her teeth and it crawled back down to an acceptable height.

“Good girl. Again.”

In a little over two weeks of practice, Marella could maintain her flames’ height no matter what Fintan said to her. And it wasn’t because he held back--the opposite.

She had no clue where or when he’d learned so much about her, why her family had to move when she was eight, the names of every friend she’d ever shoved away, Splashy’s color.

When she’d demanded he tell her, all he’d said was, “I knew exactly who you were the moment I saw you.”

She’d threatened to burn his stupid book, which she’d stashed under her bed like everything else--though she brought it with her every time they met, just in case she could use it against him. But he said if she did, he’d never tell her why he’d written her mother’s name on that list, or what the now-illegible notes about her said.

It wasn’t fair--he knew so much about her, and for what! She was just some girl, so why did an ex-councillor know she’d been kicked out of her second elementary school for starting a fight? How’d he know she wasn’t actually the one at fault, even though all the records said otherwise?

All she knew of him were rumors and libel--she’d known enough of each councillor to recognize their face and list maybe one stupid decision they’d made before the night of the fire, nothing more.

She’d have to do something about that.

So, after their final sunset-session--Fintan wanted to move their trainings earlier, so the energy she drew from the sun would be more intense--she’d put on her brightest colors, her cheeriest, most engaging face, and went out.

It wasn’t hard to find people willing to talk--with the upcoming campaigning and election for the recently-vacated council seat, everything council-related was going to be in the public conscious for a while.

She played nice, and mothers at the park doted on her as she spewed some story about how worried her parents were--they wouldn’t tell her anything, but she wanted to stay informed, so she’d grow up to be a responsible adult.

Then, she leaned in close, conspiratorial, over-exaggerated on purpose, though they didn’t know that. I heard Pyren was awful, but no one wanted to admit it, she said.

One of them shuddered, looking away. He used to be alright, she’d said, but something happened a while back. I don’t know what. But you don’t have to worry--he’s gone now.

Marella’d brushed past that. You know the fire? I heard he started it.

Another one? Are you sure?

Marella had excused herself, sensing she was pushing it. But she’d already gotten something out of them, and she put that to good use with the next person she met.

The ex-councillor? she’d said, because they’d already been talking about him while waiting in line. Passionately. Didn’t he start some fires a while back--I never heard the specifics, though. I was too young.

They’d been more than happy to fill her in.

Three buildings!

He never got in trouble for it--the council covered it up.

I heard there was someone inside one of them.

I heard he did it on purpose.

Be glad he’s gone, girl.

She waved sweetly as they collected their drinks and left, then sipped on her own spiced lemonade as she started back home. So he was a chronic arsonist, huh? She couldn’t verify everything she’d heard, but she’d already anticipated some of what they’d said had warped--rumors tended to shift as time went on, but that didn’t make them useless.

Perhaps she’d make another round another day, see what else she could dig up.

For now though, she took a breath as she made her way down her street, running a hand through her hair. Her nail snagged on one of the braids, and she pulled it loose as she’d toed off her sandals outside, listening for a moment.

Quiet. Good. She entered.

Her father sat towards the back at the kitchen table, working through some papers, but she barely registered him.

“Mare,” her mother said from the couch, a book in her hands. “You’re alright.”

“Of course I am,” she said, heading to sit next to her.

The couch squeaked a little as she sank down, and her mother set aside her book to run a hand over her hair, smoothing down whatever frizz Marella’d given it outside. “Where were you?”

“I got a drink,” she said, shaking the cup so the ice rattled. “Lemonade. How are you?”

Her mother ignored the question. “Be careful out there, Mare. People are talking.”

“People always talk, Mom.” Tentatively, she reached for her hand, and her mother laced their fingers together.

“They’re talking more now, all because of that bastard--good riddance. You’re so warm, Mare,” she said, looking where their hands met, raising her other to press against her forehead. She frowned as Marella pulled back a little.

“It’s hot out--I’ll cool down now that I’m out of the sun,” she lied. She ran hot now.

For now, she told herself.

Right now all she could make was fire, but one day--soon--she’d make that potential, as Fintan called it, manifest another way. It was just energy. Fire was the lowest tier, he said, the easiest to create at first, since the sun itself was made of it.

But with time, and control, maybe…maybe she could help her mother manage everything. Calm her down, walk her through it, anything.

She reminded herself of that goal every time Fintan snipped at her, or called her girl, and she nearly walked away mid training.

Her mother’s face screwed up like she didn’t believe her, like she was about to start fretting.

Marella tightened her grip, and--she couldn’t help trying.

She visualized that energy that pooled in her palms spreading from hers to her mother’s, willed it to cool down, to calm. Both itself and her mother. She imagined it crawling silently up her arm, reaching her heart, and setting a soft weight over everything. Turning her mother’s dial down from eleven to something gentler, and--

Her mom flinched, shivering, eyes wide and frantic. Marella dropped her hand.

Idiot. What did she think was gonna happen?

“Bastard,” her mother murmured, hugging her arms close, and Marella had to look away. Two and some weeks wasn’t nearly enough time. Or was she just not good enough? “If you ever meet that bastard, run.” She started fanning herself, shaking her head.

“What’s wrong, love,” her father asked, turning to get up. Marella stood, too, but to leave.

She sucked on her lemonade and ducked her head as she made for the stairs, taking them two at a time so her father wouldn’t hear how ragged her breathing had become.

But she still heard her mother whisper, “Mare.”

Sweat trickled down Fintan’s temples, and his shirt clung in uncomfortable ways, but a mote of discomfort was a small price to pay.

He squinted up into the sky. The sun sat at its zenith, prickling his skin and burning his corneas. All that heat, that rage, that power. A mere speck of it burned in him, and he longed for more. For his notes. If only he could triple-check, document, plot it all out. If he could just look through what was left, perhaps he’d find something he’d overlooked before--perhaps he’d find where he’d gone wrong, aside from the girl.

The shape of the medic’s pill ghosted at the back of his throat, swallowed dry.

The river flowed before him, near silent, humidity hanging in the air and drawing bugs from the meadow beyond. A few landed on his skin, but he ignored them. He ignored the chirping birds, the sand beneath his bare feet, the growl in his stomach.

Everything but the weight of that heat on his skin, his face, his palms as he held them forward.

The girl could spark on her own in the dead of night, but she’d stolen too much for him to do even that.

But the sun…it burned endless.

If he dared, if he asked, perhaps it could fill the hole she’d carved in him.

With each breath, he grasped at the tingling warmth, pulling it into his palms, hoarding it in his heart. A man-made reserve, if he couldn’t have a natural one.

An ache built in the joints of his knuckles as the sun’s heat passed through them, compounding the one in his chest. Fintan gritted his teeth, breathing quick and hard.

Hold, he told himself. Don’t let go.

When he could stand the shaking in his arms no longer, he ripped his eyes open, stumbling back a few steps. He managed to stay on his feet, if only barely, the world swimming before him and his pulse in his ears as if he’d shoved his head underwater.

Gulping for air, he forced himself to slow. Until he could see straight and feel the sand beneath him. Energy thrummed in his head, pounding against the lining of his skull and straining for release.

So far, so good.

The girl always snapped like flint, but he eyed his fingers with a critical disdain. They still trembled, slipping against each other when they pressed together. He considered for a moment.

Instead, he clapped.

Reds, oranges, and golds burst with the sound, and he gasped.

Heat rushed like a broken dam and spilled into and out of his palms, feeding and fueling, smoke curling into the sky as he held its core suspended between his hands. More and more and more it took, a brilliant, building blaze, and--

Fintan couldn’t breathe.

His knees crashed to the sand and he began tilting, hands falling limp to his sides--but the fire kept pulling, more and more and everything he’d stored. More. It carved into each nerve and cavity, ripping whatever it could as it exploded out in a beautiful, intoxicating final display as it escaped his confines.

And then he was left in the aftermath, wheezing, eyes rolling back in his head as numbness began crawling up the ends of his fingers. Sand pressed against his cheek, his eyelid, but he couldn’t raise a hand to do a thing about it.

Seconds, minutes passed in a blur, and perhaps he even drifted in and out of consciousness. The shadows had started to grow on the ground by the time he could take a breath without his head spinning, pushing to his elbow.

Fintan slammed a weak fist into the sand. “Dammit.”

He pressed it to his chest, the ache so much more hollow than it’d been. Not only had it taken everything he’d pooled from the sun, but it’d eaten away at the little he’d had to start with.

It’d been beautiful--but uncontrolled.

How the fuck did the girl do it?

He watched her, every time they met, studied her face and her movements and the pattern of her breaths. She snapped to spark the flame, the deeper she breathed the steadier it burned, his taunts bothered her less when her jaw was set. She squared her shoulders to make herself feel stronger, she snapped her teeth when she yelled. All so he could replicate it, know what worked, what didn’t.

And yet the moment it’d sparked, he’d already lost.

Damned girl.

She didn’t even want it. She’d barged into his life demanding he undo it--undo it! Years of work and she reaped everything he’d achieved for himself. How he held his tongue when they spoke, he didn’t know. When she snipped about how ridiculous it all was, when she stormed off for a few minutes before she came sulking back, fists clenched and jaw set.

Oh, how he longed to rip it from her chest, show her what could truly be done with the sun in one’s heart.

Nevermind that even he didn’t know. He’d discover, just to spite her.

Fintan pushed his hair back from where it’d slicked to his forehead, skin both hot and clammy. If only he had his damned notes. He’d never prepared for the possibility of another--at least not nearly so soon. He was meant to be the torch leading the way, a master to teach the masses.

And yet, some desperate part of him thought if only he could read them, something he’d written would fix this. Explain it.

She’d touched him, and the sun had leapt from him to her--but why?

He’d sneered when she’d asked, but he didn’t know.

Without prompting, without effort, it’d disappeared and settled into her.

It wasn’t supposed to work like that. And yet…

He fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, mulling it over as he waited. The girl would show up soon enough, their sessions now mid-afternoon, and he could observe her again--though he wasn’t sure his temper would stay in check. But she’d manage.

By the time Marella joined him on the riverside, the hollow ache had faded to background noise, his pulse steady. His mind focused.

She stayed silent as she lowered herself to sitting, his notebook in hand like always, but he ignored it. Mouth set, she’d pulled her hair back, and looked at him with--intent?

“What next?” she asked, getting right to it.

He didn’t respond for a moment--to make her antsy, and because he hadn’t decided. It wasn’t as though he had any actual idea how to control or guide her, as she was the first of their kind. “Temperature,” he decided. “You’ve worked with the same heat when practicing size, but fire is beyond its height.”

“Okay, what first?”

Fintan raised his brows. No gripes or complaints? “Make it hotter--to a yellow.”

Marella set his notes behind her, then turned back and held a single hand before her. With a snap, red flame burst to life in her palm, and he had to fight back the twist to his lips. She furrowed her brow, the tips of her fingers flexing as she exhaled sharply.

It built to an orange, then rapidly shot through the rest of the spectrum to white--too hot--and cooled rapidly back to a reddish-orange--too cold.

But she simply gritted her teeth, took a breath, and tried again. She brought her other hand forward to help, cupping it in both palms. The only sound was their breath and the flames’ crackle as she fought with its color.

Her fingers shook and sweat dripped from her brow for several taut minutes, the color fluctuating before it finally settled on a bright, solid yellow.

“Good. Hold,” he instructed, savoring the heat. Even in the hottest part of the day, a lingering chill plagued him.

Marella simply pressed her lips tighter, and might’ve been holding her breath as she stared furiously at her fire. She held an impressive three minutes, only inhaling shallowly, before she clasped her hands together to extinguish the blaze with a gasp.

She leaned back on a hand, rubbing a hand over her face as she caught her breath.

“Again, but white,” he told her, not waiting.

But she didn’t argue, or even make a face. She sat forward, took one final deep breath, and snapped again.

Her flame edged into blue, then dropped to a pale yellow, but she stared it down and--in nearly half the time--had stabilized it at a blinding white. She held it without his asking, and he looked away from the flame to study her.

“Can you maintain two at once?” he prompted, more to push her than out of genuine curiosity or interest in her doing well. “Red.”

She snuffed out the white, separated her hands, and snapped in tandem.

She couldn’t watch both at once, and their uneven heights shifted sporadically, but she did it. Her cheeks had flushed a matching red from the effort, face glistening faster than the heat could dry it, and her lips had begun to crack from the way she bit them.

Fintan pushed further. Where’d her fury gone? “Two at different heats--one yellow, one blue.”

Marella took a minute to react, looking almost dizzy, but then she shook herself off and held both hands before her again.

The flames fluctuated wildly in color, seeking each other--the yellow kept edging towards blue, until she fought it back, but then the blue began dropping into a yellow. Until with another gasp, she shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t concentrate on two at once--how do you do it?”

“How do I do it?”

“Is there a trick to it, or do I just need more practice?”

He had to sate his curiosity. “So intent. Where has all this motivation come from?”

She shrugged. “Answer my question.”

“Alright,” he relented, more because he knew he’d have to get it out of her another way than actually leaving it be. “Practice. With practice, you’ll find tricks that work for you personally--it’ll be different for each person.” He assumed it would be at least.

She nodded almost absently, as if she’d already expected that. “And how long does it stay fire?”

“Pardon?”

“How long until I can do more than make fire? You said--you said this was just the most basic,” she reminded him.

Ah. “That, my dear, depends entirely on you,” he lied.

That’s what it was--whatever else she wanted, whatever had made her perk up when he’d thrown out that drivel about further mastery to entice her to stay, if only so he could study her, had become more urgent. Good. He wondered if it had anything to do with her mother.

She nodded again, peering down at her hands, as though she could see through them to the heat within. Perhaps she could. Perhaps that was a gift she’d stolen as well.

“Okay,” Marella said, straightening. She held her hands at the ready, jaw set, and met his eyes. “What next?”

The next few weeks passed in a blur, Marella so busy between helping around the house, escaping the house, training with Fintan, training on her own holed up in her room or beneath the tree or wherever she could steal a bit of privacy, and staring at Fintan’s little book with her mother’s name as if it’d grow a mouth and tell her what she wanted to know that she collapsed into bed each night so exhausted she moved barely an inch by the time she rose to do it all over again.

But she was making progress.

Just the day before she’d managed to maintain two flames at differing heights and temperatures while holding--at least partially--a conversation.

Never before had she split her brain into so many pieces, but the deeper she delved, the more she found there was more of her to go around.

She noticed more--not just the heat of her skin, but that of those around her. The potential in the sun-baked stones, in the lanterns lit after the sun went down, all of it waiting to be drawn on if she asked. She didn’t even have to consciously pay attention--it simply lit up on her radar, a tingling presence.

Except for Fintan.

For some reason, there was nothing in him to draw on--not even enough for her to make the smallest spark. He was a sinkhole, drawing in all the heat around him he could yet never satisfied. After noticing, she couldn’t help paying attention to how hungry he looked when she practiced, how he leaned in closer like he couldn’t help it, tongue flicking over his cracked lips. His hair had grown more wild in the past weeks, longer, and she was struck once more by how little she knew about him.

She’d tried twice more to go out gossiping, and while she’d picked up something truly juicy about whoever the Endals were, she hadn’t gotten further on Fintan.

So, she decided to go to the source.

Not directly, of course, because he loved to mix in the most ridiculous shit when he talked, but under the radar.

The tallest grasses bent and tried to stick themselves into her sandals and soles as she tramped away from their most recent training, sun beating down overhead. To her, it registered as nothing but a pleasant tingle; the heat absorbed straight through her skin, pooling for later.

Marella always left first, since she had other responsibilities, while Fintan…did whatever he did when he wasn’t coaxing and goading her--though he’d eased up on it the past few weeks. Less taunts and more actual instruction, since she’d stopped responding to them.

But this time, instead of going home or out to kill time, when she reached the start of the city’s edges she veered off the path and tucked away. Brush and an empty building hid her completely from sight--and completely blocked hers, but she didn’t need to see.

It took longer than she would’ve liked--what had he been doing back there?--but after a while, that hungry feeling registered at the edge of her senses.

He moved slow, and she had to resist the urge to peek around the corner and risk giving herself away. She pictured the layout, the length of the road, imagining where on it he was.

After a few minutes, she slipped out from her hiding spot and began trailing him at a distance. She made sure, especially near the edges, to rely on her new sense instead of her sight, since he’d be able to see her back. But she didn’t think he could feel her the way she felt him.

For a moment, she thought she must’ve been following something else, though she didn’t know what it could possibly be. Because this was the route she took after their sessions, hurrying so her parents wouldn’t ask too many questions she couldn’t answer.

Her heart pounded with each turn, until--she couldn’t help it, and had to look.

Fintan stood a little ways from her house, out of sight of the windows. His head angled up, and he rubbed the fingers of one hand together absently, the other pressed to his chest.

Heat thrummed in her palms as he kept standing, doing nothing, until she was tempted to run out and demand what he was doing there. How he knew where she lived, how often he’d come by without her knowing, if he’d ever come by while she’d been asleep. Her mother would lose it if she knew.

But then he simply turned away, and she ducked back again, letting him get a bit of a head start before she started following again. And tried to look inconspicuous to the few other people she passed on the street, fanning themselves and cursing the heat.

After a few more minutes of trailing, she realized she knew this route, too, if not nearly as well.

Fintan’s old…house? Summer home? She wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter given how utterly it’d been destroyed. What mattered was that there was nowhere to hide, so she could only hang back and wonder what business he had here, more than a month after the fire. Did he have other notebooks he was searching for? A souvenir he missed? And why now?

All she could do was speculate as, after long enough she started to get antsy, he moved on again--this time, heading more towards the city proper.

Marella moved closer and faster as they turned onto busier streets, fighting to keep track of his blond head, which he held down. He probably didn’t want anyone to notice him, given the way his name still floated through the public conscious, but with the circles beneath his eyes and the increasingly haggard look, she doubted she’d have recognized him as the former councillor if she hadn’t watched the transition herself.

She vaguely recognized a few landmarks, a few buildings, but Fintan could’ve been wandering aimlessly for all she knew.

But they turned away from populated areas, shifting into housing again, and--

Marella had to hang back, since this street was deserted. Well manicured, neat, the buildings stood straight and firm--the kind of place that’d chase people out with dirty looks for disturbing them.

She peered out from her hiding place just long enough to see what he’d do.

Fintan climbed the front steps of a house similar to all the others but for the unkempt florals--those twisting black vines might’ve been the ugliest things she’d ever seen--and pulled a key from his pocket.

Was that his house?

He pushed the door open a crack, but paused. He called out, “Would you like to come in, girl?”

She froze.

“Don’t be shy,” he added. “Clever of you--you nearly got away with it.” When she didn’t move, he added. “You wanted to snoop, didn’t you? When will you get a better chance?”

Her pulse roared in her ears, tingled in her fingertips. Silently, she slipped from her place and Fintan looked up--directly at her, as if he’d known where she was.

“You can wear your shoes inside--what do I care?” he said, conversationally, pushing the door open as she climbed his porch steps. She paused, frowning at him.

This was an unbelievably bad idea.

She’d wanted to wear them inside to spite him--get under his skin. But that didn’t work if he didn’t care--or did he care? Was he just saying that to fuck with her?

Marella kept her shoes on, eyeing the doorway as if she’d find something suspicious before she--ignoring every warning bell peeling in her head--pushed past him.

Immediately to the left was a sitting space, with perfectly arranged chairs--or at least they’d once been. Now, they sat every so slightly crooked from one another, as if he couldn’t be bothered.

And one was occupied.

Fintan stopped dead behind her, and she felt, with something she couldn’t explain, him jerk back. And then recover. “Bronte.”

Councillor Bronte?

He wore a deep scowl for Fintan, but looked at Marella in confusion. “Am I interrupting something?”

“You’ve broken into my house--what do you think?”

“I think,” he said, “that we need to have a word. In private.”

Fintan’s voice burned with ice. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

Marella watched them stare at each other, well aware getting involved in council--or in Fintan’s case, ex-council--business could quickly go south for her. But this…this was exactly what she wanted. If only she could get Councillor Bronte to explain…to loosen up…

Her fingers flexed, and she wondered--did she have to make contact?

“You can’t--” Bronte started, then huffed. “If I must, I will exert my authority as a councillor. You cannot say no then.”

Tentative, Marella imagined the heat in her fingers, her palms, extending like tendrils, like strings. Searching and reaching, aimed towards the short and short-tempered councillor.

She could’ve sworn he shifted when her heat made contact, and she bit her lip, furrowing her brow. Imagined it turning loose, cozy, inviting. Relaxing. He wanted to relax, talk more…

“Is that how it’ll be?” Fintan asked, crossing his arms. “Waving about your crown like a hammer? I can’t believe I stayed as long as I did.”

Marella held still best she could, focused on turning her potential into something useful--she’d gotten so good at the fire lately, surely she could do more now. She had to be close.

Councillor Bronte opened his mouth, but then his gaze slid to her. “Who is this?”

“A stray I found on the streets,” Fintan said. “I’ve done a lot of self-reflection since I stepped down and found a passion for charity.”

Marella glared at him. She’d been so close!

Councillor Bronte turned to her, leaning in. “Whoever you are, whyever you’re here--leave. You’ll be better off. Don’t trust a word he says.”

“I’m not stupid,” she said, crossing her arms. “And why should I trust you either?”

“You shouldn’t,” Fintan said, and Councillor Bronte glared at him.

“I mean it, girl,” he said. “You have no idea what your former councillor is mixed up in. Not even he understands the danger he places himself in.”

Did…did Councillor Bronte know? She had to fight from taking a step back, so she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I told you--I’m not stupid.”

Fintan moved then, brushing past the Councillor to the kitchen beyond, effectively dismissing him. “You and your theories, Bronte. I thought we weren’t supposed to be corrupting the youth.”

“If anyone is corrupting it’s--” Councillor Bronte straightened, cut himself off. He looked over Marella with what might’ve been pity, and her palms ached with the thought. “We aren’t through with this, Fintan. I will call upon the others if I think you’ve set as much as a toe out of line--you’re lucky I haven’t already.”

“Threatening? In front of the children?” Fintan filled a glass with water, leaning against the counter as he sipped from it.

“What’s your name?” Councillor Bronte asked her, ignoring him.

Marella shifted her weight. “Why?”

“You are my responsibility. Answer the question, girl.”

“Ella,” she said, and Fintan’s lips twitched towards a smile. Bronte squinted like he didn’t believe her. But he didn’t argue, and instead strode for the door.

“You’re out of chances, Fintan.” He closed the door behind him.

Silence fell for a moment, and Marella realized just how hard her heart pounded in her ears. A few sparks flashed inside her fist, but she crossed her arms harder so Fintan wouldn’t see.

“What was that?” she demanded.

Fintan took another drink. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Answer the question!”

He sighed, setting down his glass, and she noted his countertops were quite nice. “My former council members are…shortsighted. They’re afraid of what I’ve achieved--and now you, too, though they don’t know you yet.”

“Why?” Then, “They know?”

For some reason, Fintan indulged her. “Answer me this--what do you now hold?”

“Heat. Potential,” she said, making a face as she mimicked his tone. He’d said it a million times over.

He crossed his arms, raising a brow. “Power. And it is a power they cannot control, so they fear it. They fear everything they can’t whip into whatever shape they think best.”

“Two months ago you were one of them,” she pointed out.

“I was,” he conceded. “And they cast me out without a second thought when I tried to show them better. But they’ll see,” he said, eye dark. “We’ll show them all how foolish they are.”

Marella didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe she did. “Why are you telling me this?”

He smiled, wry. “I reward the behavior I like to see, Marella. And I do love when Bronte gets his just desserts.”

“That wasn’t for you.”

“I enjoyed it anyway.”

Silence fell for a moment, and she shifted, turning to squint at the place. Aside from the disarrayed living room and kitchen beyond, she could see a hall leading off to the right, and a glimpse of another room--a second living room?--beyond.

Fintan noticed, and made a sweeping gesture. “Snoop as you’d like--I’ve nothing to hide. Not from you.”

Marella glanced over at him, frowning. Seriously, what had gotten into him?

Her fingers flexed, and--she stopped.

It hadn’t worked on Bronte, but had it worked on Fintan?

Had her aim been off?

She could fix that with time, but--had she done it? Had she influenced his emotions?

“Well go on,” he said, reaching for another drink. It was no longer water. “Do you plan to stand and gawk? I thought you needed to get home before your mother threw a fit?”

How effective was it? How long did it last?

“How do you know my mother, again?” she asked. She’d stared at that page in his notebook longer than she’d ever admit, and was no closer to making any sense of it than the day she’d found it.

Fintan squinted at his glass. “I don’t.”

“Then why--”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He wagged a finger at her, and she huffed. “I won’t spill that so easily. Try harder next time. Or wait for me to finish this.” He held up his drink.

Damnit. So close.

What was she missing? Was there a trick to it? He’d never tell her--but she had to know. She had to get it out of him, one way or another.

She spun away, coming to face a bit of artwork on the wall she didn’t understand. Star charts artfully arranged, lines drawn between dots. Boring. Uninspired. So typical of him.

He’d said she could snoop--not that his disapproval would’ve stopped her--so she marched down the hall and opened the first door she found.

A small, simple study, so neat she wondered if he ever used it.

Then, a closet. After that, a bathroom.

At the end of the hall, she pushed open the door into a bedroom, the space almost entirely occupied by a raised bed. Hip-height shelving and drawers lined either side of the room, and he had more of those atrocious plants in a few pots on the left, beside a lone pot of something clearly dying. The walls stood bare, a simple rug beneath her feet, and Marella was half convinced the house was a front from the lack of personality. Or perhaps the nothingness was his personality.

She turned to stomp back out when a vial on the nightstand caught her eye. Snatching it up, she turned it this way and that. Oblong pills rattled inside, a two-toned blue.

“What’s with the painkillers?” she asked back in the living room.

Fintan looked up from where he’d settled into the couch, staring off into nothing. “You recognized them? Nevermind, of course you did.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I get…headaches,” he smiled, almost to himself. Like he was having fun. “Surely you’re familiar.”

Marella crossed her arms, gauging how much she believed him.

The answer: not one bit.

Could she use whatever was behind those pills? Get him to tell her about her mom? Or to explain how all this energy could manifest as something other than fire? She was so close, she could feel it, but something was missing. He must’ve kept one final component secret to laud over her.

She needed it. If she didn’t--

“I see,” she drawled. “Of course--how inconsiderate of me.”

He snorted. “Never change, girl.”

Heat flared for a moment behind her eyes, but she pushed it back automatically, as she’d taught herself to do. Fintan’s eyes flicked up as she did, sensing it, and his lips curled in a way she couldn’t parse--frustration? Concern? She hoped not.

The silence lasted a minute longer, and she decided it was all she could take. Without preamble, she turned for the door, straightening her shoulders and holding her chin high.

“Be careful, Marella,” Fintan called after her. “I hear there’s all manner of corrupting people on the streets.”

She slammed the door behind her.

Fintan would treasure the look on Bronte’s face when Marella had bit back for an eternity. It’d made the Councillor’s unannounced visit almost worth it.

Almost.

Bronte’s threat hung over his head the next several days, and he found himself suspicious of the shadows around each corner, paranoid he was being followed.

Marella had done so--and nearly gotten away with it. He’d had no clue she was there until a few blocks from home, when she’d gotten closer and he’d picked up on the burning heat of her. An inferno, an explosion, the sun just walking about.

Each day it grew in intensity, and each time they were near he fed off it--she didn’t seem to notice what he took to keep himself warm, to stave off the empty feeling, not with the way she shed heat like the sun its light.

Even now, across from him on the riverside, midday sun pounding at his skin, she burned warmer. And sat entirely oblivious.

She threw a ball of pink flames between her hands, brow furrowed as she let it weave between her fingers. The control was nothing short of remarkable. The relentless determination with which she threw herself into his haphazard lessons had done wonders, and he wondered how long he could string her along with her mother’s name in his book before she’d take that control and leverage it against him.

He’d be powerless to stop her, and as such, couldn’t let her know.

But the girl was perceptive--far more than he would’ve chosen, if he’d been able to choose a prodigy. He’d need a contingency.

Again and again, his mind strayed as he studied her, his notebook discarded in the sand behind her. The heat of her beckoned, thrumming in the cavity of her chest stronger than a drum.

He leeched off it, body constantly aware of and craving that warmth; he felt, with a sense beyond human, every movement she made with it. He could trace how she flicked her fingers by memory, mimic the twist of her wrist in his sleep, trace the path the heat drew from her heart to her palms with unfaltering accuracy without question.

And yet, in his own body, there was only want.

The blaze in Marella’s hand flared higher, and she shaped it--into one of his flowers, he thought. An accompanying surge of power swept through her, feeding it, radiating into the air, and he grasped at it. Sucked it into himself and hoarded it tight. It would fade, faster each time it felt, but for now--

Fintan mirrored the ebb and flow near unconsciously as Marella extinguished and relit her flame, and instead of the heat sinking into his chest, a sliver inched into his palms.

He blinked. Peered down at them.

Right there, beneath the skin, was everything he’d worked for. So close.

So. Close.

He couldn’t help himself. He snapped.

He braced for the pain, the hollow consumption, the world inverting, already cursing himself a stupid fool--the girl was right there, and yet--

Hand still poised in the finale of his snap, a small sphere of yellow hovered above his thumb. Burning steady, without smoke, tendrils flickering up into the sky.

Marella glanced up at him and paused, like she did when waiting for instruction. He had none to give.

He twisted his hand, tilting his head to look at the blaze from multiple angles. Ensuring it wasn’t a trick--of the light, of his mind. But no, it burned, and he was still lucid and standing.

Marella’s heat, her inferno, was that his key?

Fintan stared at it a moment longer, to the point Marella went back to her practice, and he feared to let go. But he had to test it--was it a fluke?

He released his hold, then reached his sense back towards her. Heat continue to spill from her near carelessly, and he gathered it up, drawing it towards him--it wanted to, he thought, eager to fill the cold cavern he’d become.

But he pushed it away from his chest, sending it to his palms, his fingers, his wrists.

And he snapped again.

He’d taken more, pooled more in his hands. The flame burned blue this time, hotter and larger--large enough he cupped it between both palms.

All this time, he’d been pulling from himself, from the sun, and nearly drowning in the attempts. Brought to his knees by a spark, inverted by no more than a candle’s blaze on his finger.

Had it been this simple the entire time?

Marella had taken what he’d earned for himself, leaving embers.

But it’d been his first, no matter how brief, and it still knew him.

Fintan closed his hands together, extinguishing the flame as he felt the bit of heat he’d reclaimed start to wane. He didn’t want it to start drawing on him when it ran out.

His head reeled, not from dizziness, but possibility. The world had reopened itself before him, and--

“Why do you look like that?” Marella eyed him, stalling her own fire-play.

He blinked for a moment. Her. Everything relied on her. He needed to keep her close.

“Experimenting, my dear,” he answered.

“Did you figure something out?”

He quirked his head to the side. He needed her to need him. “Why yes, I believe I did.”

Marella tilted her head, too, and said. “How to make more than fire? Water, earth--all that?” He noticed she deliberately left off his other inclusion, as if he’d somehow forget it’d caught her interest and made her stay all those weeks ago.

He raised his brows and asked, genuinely, “You haven’t figured it out?”

She straightened, extinguishing her flame. “Why do you sound so surprised? Should I have? What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s not worth anything,” he shook his head, “if you can’t figure it out on your own.” And if she hadn’t figured out by now that what she wanted was impossible, he wasn’t going to break it to her.

As long as she thought he knew something she needed, she’d stay.

Marella rolled her eyes and huffed, glaring at him--but not the way she had when they’d first met. Back then, she glared as if every moment she spent at his side was a struggle not to strangle him right then and there--and perhaps it had been. Her very body and mind had been reworked and still adapting. A temper was only reasonable, though he suspected some part of her was simply like that.

Now, she glared with mere annoyance, but he had no worries, not now, that she’d lash out with anything more than a quip. And even those were less and less, not worth the distraction to her practice.

Fintan fabricated practices and challenges for the rest of the hour, for his sake and not hers.

He paid even closer attention to the movement of the heat in her body with each blaze, each display, committing it to memory in a way he hadn’t before. Now, it was more than to study how she worked, but to imitate it later.

Needing her nearby would present its challenges, but he refused to let that come in his way, not when he’d finally made progress.

They parted ways as they always did, Marella grabbing his notebook from the sand--but he hardly spared it a glance now. What did he need it for? He had her.

She looked him over, uneasy at the smile he couldn’t keep from curling the ends of his lips, the wild look undoubtedly in his eyes--a reprimand from Bronte had always followed, something about how suspicious and irrational it made him seem, to get control of himself.

If only Bronte knew.

Marella left first, off to her parents, and a pang echoed in his chest. Everything he needed, walking away. What if she never came back?

No, ridiculous. He’d more than ensured she would--he held her need for information about both her mother and the power she wielded over her head.

And yet he couldn’t help calling after her, just to be sure, “Next time, my dear.”

“Next time what?” she returned over her shoulder, cocking her head.

“We’ll conquer the mind.”

She looked at him a moment, deciding whether or not to believe him. What she settled on, he didn’t know, and she turned silently and continued on her way.

Fintan waited a bit after her, then began his return journey, head lost in the clouds, mind at sea.

He reviewed the motions he’d observed, traced the path through his veins with a finger on his skin. Perhaps his notebook would’ve been useful after all, if only to write it all down, but any old notebook would do for that. And he wanted to internalize it more than he wanted to reference his notes about it.

Streets passed in a blur, and he rubbed his fingers together, aching to snap.

Oh, the rush.

He’d have to thank Marella, truly. She’d done the hard work for him, aside from the years he’d spent to get them here.

Fintan replayed the moment again and again as he climbed the steps to his house, lost in himself as he placed his hand on the doorknob and--

It was already unlocked.

He blinked, coming back to himself, key unused in his pocket.

Yet when he pushed, it swung open, squeaking slightly.

Fintan stepped inside, face a careful mask, and his eyes immediately met those sitting in his living room. Again.

“Former Councillor Fintan Pyren,” Bronte said, using his deepest, coldest tone. He was flanked by two others in uniform, faces stern and professional. “For public endangerment and direct disobeyal of the Council, you’re under arrest.”

Marella didn’t go home immediately, her head too disarrayed to put on a good enough face just yet. There was something she hadn’t figured out, Fintan said. Something he thought she would’ve by now.

About making more than fire.

She ran her fingertips over each other, feeling the heat, but stopping it before it sparked--she was in public, after all.

And then that look on his face, whatever he’d discovered.

It wasn’t until then she realized she’d never seen him spark anything before, not since that first day she’d seen the flash of gold from afar and accosted him. Instead he told her what to do, inventing challenges and practices, watching her form for…something.

He’d stared into that flame like it held the answer to every question he’d ever asked.

Then he’d drilled her harder than he had in weeks, reviewing everything she’d ever learned and then some. Watching every motion like a hawk, circling her with hungry eyes.

And his parting remark…

Next time.

All of that work, everything she’d done, would come to fruition. Every hour under the sun, every night she’d stayed up late and locked herself in the bathroom to practice, every modicum of restraint and precision she’d hammered into herself.

Marella had mastered fire, and now Fintan would help her turn it into something more.

Then, she could help her mom--guide her through the worst of it, ease her distress.

It was all she’d ever wanted.

Next time.

Marella paused her wandering, taking out his notebook from beneath her crossed arms--people tended to stare if they got a good look at it and realized how crispy the pages were. She knew where the page with her mother’s name was by heart, and flipped to it in seconds, running her fingers over the paper.

Caprise Redek, it read, though she couldn’t make out anything else--she wasn’t even sure it was in a language she knew.

First, she’d learn to make more than fire, then, she’d make him tell her what this meant. Why her name was in his book, why he’d known so much about her without her saying anything, everything she wanted to know.

She was so close.

Marella hugged the book close again, the cover starting to warp to the shape of her arms, and turned towards home. She’d let nothing get in her way, not now, not after all the subterfuge and sneaking and practice and everything she’d thrown at this.

No doctor or specialist or medic had ever been able to help--though not all of them had really tried.

Marella had the chance. Marella had access to more than they could possibly imagine.

She’d become more than human, a herald of a new age.

If only they knew, if only they could see--she’d make them see. She’d make them all see.

Her first indication something was wrong was the screaming. It echoed all the way down the street, thought she couldn’t make out the words. She knew the voice, though.

Her mother.

Marella took a breath, made sure her face was in order. This happened sometimes, and had been a significant motivator in moving out to the edges, though it’d been a couple weeks since the last time. It used to be every few months, but they’d started increasing in frequency lately, and they always left everyone exhausted and overstimulated.

She wondered what had set her off this time.

Marella entered the yard, pausing one more moment to prepare herself, and--

There were too many people in the living room.

She froze, one hand on her raised foot to unstrap her sandal.

Someone, her father most likely, had opened the front curtains, and inside were--she couldn’t get a good look at anyone inside, but there were more than two, and she didn’t recognize the shape of any of them. Even if she had, they almost never had people over--and certainly not without significant preparation and warning.

Marella’s senses fanned out, feeling the body heat inside--five? Surely not. Why would they ever--

She didn’t bother to take her sandals off, one only half-secured as she climbed the steps and shoved the door open.

Conversation fizzled to nothing, and her mothers raw voice cut off as she surged forward, grabbing Marella and dragging her back with her. “What did he do?” she demanded, holding her by the face and turning her every which way, eyes frantically searching every inch of her.

“Mom, what--” she disentangled herself, but her mom held tight to her shoulders and repeated herself, panicked. “I don’t understand.”

Marella could move her head, and met her Dad’s worried eyes as he strode up next to her.

She turned away, eyeing the three other people in her house. “Who are you?”

The one in the center raised his pale eyebrows, surprised. “Fallon,” he said, giving a professional smile. It did nothing to comfort her. “Councillor Fallon. You’re Marella Redek, aren’t you? You have nothing to worry about, child.”

Councillors? Again?

“Why are you here?” she demanded, ignoring her mother’s whispered worries and questions. What did he do to you where have you been are you alright what did that bastard that bastard that bastard--

Fallon maintained his sympathetic smile. “We have a few questions for you. I promise you we mean you no harm or distress”--his eyes flickered to her mother. “It’s in regards to Former Councillor Pyren.”

Fuck.

Her mother’s fingers tightened on her shoulders, and Marella reached a hand up to rest on her wrist, wincing. Fintan had promised her next time, but--

She imagined the heat in her palms gentle and soothing, transforming, becoming more than energy and more than fire, washing through the both of them and--

Her mother jerked away, hands to her chest. “Durand,” she said, turning, and he was at her side.

“Mare,” he started, hands on her mother’s shoulders, “what’s this about?”

She shook her head, turning to the councillor, holding her chin high. “What does Fi--Councillor Fintan have to do with anything?”

“You are the one who pulled him from that burning building over a month ago, yes?”

She tensed. “I don’t know--”

“Reports describe a young girl, hair between red and gold, tangled and mid-length full of braids. Pale skin, but tanned. Clothes wrinkled. Recklessly ran inside the building, and mouthed off to other witnesses before fleeing the scene.”

“And you think that’s me?” She could barely see over the pounding in her ears.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” her mom whispered, shaking, then spoke something she couldn’t hear into her father’s ear. He frowned.

“Additionally,” he continued, smoothing the fabric at his shoulder, “Councillor Bronte reported finding a girl of the same description at Former Councillor Fintan’s residence a few days ago--she identified herself as ‘Ella.’”

Her father shook his head. “What? Marella, sweetheart--”

“Why?” her mother interrupted. “What did he do to you, what did he do to--”

Councillor Fallon glanced up at her parents. “We’ll need to speak with you in private, Miss Redek. This matter is incredibly sensitive.”

“You can’t--” her father started.

Councillor Fallon held up a head. “I’m sorry, but we can, and we must. You have my word she’ll be in the best of hands.”

The two who’d silently flanked him stepped forward, and Marella stepped back; she raised her hand in reflex, barely stopping herself from snapping. Not in front of Mom.

Or Dad. Or anyone from the Council.

They couldn’t know. Right?

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, and Marella swallowed.

No, not like this.

A hand landed on her shoulder, one of the people in uniform, and Marella’s mind jumped--she sent heat spiraling spiraling into them. Let go, let go, let go, she told it to whisper. Leave, leave, leave.

Their fingers spasmed on her shoulder and they inhaled--then dug in tighter. “C’mon, kid.”

No! Damn Fintan and whatever he hadn’t told her. Why couldn’t she do it? She was so close!

“Be careful,” her father said, mouth grim, as she was led from the house in Councillor Fallon’s wake.

Too late, she thought.

“Have you any shame?” Bronte demanded, pacing the other side of the room.

Fintan said nothing, picking at the manacles locked around his wrist; how many times had he ordered someone else put in them with no regard to the way they chafed?

“Well? Nothing to say for yourself?”

He looked up. “You’re saying plenty for the both of us, Councillor.”

Bronte’s nostrils flared, and he leaned on the table, palms flat. “A child--a child, Fintan. It is one thing to endanger yourself and entirely another to bring a child into it.”

“You endanger everyone by keeping them in the dark.”

“In the dark?” he repeated incredulously. “Our people are safe and cared for--is that darkness to you?”

“The people are ignorant and complacent and you keep it that way.” Oh, how he’d do everything different if he could go back. Get rid of all the fools he’d worked with and show the world how blind they’d been.

“The people are safe,” Bronte argued.

“Are they?”

Taking a step back, his old friend sighed, then straightened with resolve. “If you cannot see the error of your ways, there’s nothing that can save you. For what it’s worth”--he paused as he turned--”I do wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

“Locking me away accomplishes nothing,” he said, settling back. “I may have been the first, but I will not be the last. The people will learn, no matter what you do, they will seek more. You’ve already lost.”

Fintan flexed his fingers, still ringing with the imprint of the morning’s flames. So close.

Bronte shook his head. “You’ve lost your mind, Fin! Do you even hear yourself?”

“Do you?”

Bronte look at him, but said nothing as he swept from the room, door thudding with a finality behind him.

Fintan sat alone, but he knew it would only last moments. He looked down at the binds on his wrists, about the room.

He’d come too far to let this be the end of him.

“I don’t know anything,” Marella insisted for what had to be the dozenth time.

Councillor Fallon only sighed for what had to be the dozenth time, and she crossed her arms tighter, chin raised. He sat across from her, flipping through notes angled so she couldn’t read them, rubbing at his temples like he had a headache.

“Once again,” he said, “you were seen by Councillor Bronte in Former Councillor Fintan’s home. I do not believe you.”

“Not my fault you don’t,” she said.

He made a face somewhere between exasperation and annoyance.

“What’s your deal with him, anyway?” she asked before he could get another question in.

“He’s engaged in illegal activities,” Councillor Fallon said simply, “and must be removed from the public. We’re trying to gauge just how severe the infraction.”

Marella paused. “You’re locking him up?”

“You care?”

“No,” she lied, heart pounding.

He looked up and scanned her. “I assure you, it’s better for us all that he is.”

Not for her. She’d tried again and again to make more than flames on her own, and again and again she’d failed.

Fintan knew something he hadn’t told her--about how to do it, about her mom.

“Sure, whatever,” she said. “When can I go?” She needed him.

“When you’ve answered my questions to my satisfaction.”

Marella growled a sigh, clenching her hands on her arms, trying to keep her panic at bay. Heat built in her palms, responding to the pounding in her ears. “I told you--”

“Tell me, Miss Redek, what were you doing by the river with him?”

She froze. “What?”

The councillor tapped his notes. “After seeing you in his home, the council decided it prudent to investigate further. Keep an eye out. Reports indicate the two of you were seen at the riverside together, though they couldn’t tell why--so I ask you: why?”

Fuck. “You have spies?”

“Informants,” he corrected. “Answer the question.”

“I…” she started, mind scrambling. What had they seen--what did they already know?

If they’d locked up Fintan, was she next? She didn’t know where they’d taken her, had never seen the building before. Was it a trick? Were they ever going to let her go?

There was only one door, and no windows.

She needed the sun. She needed its warmth, its comfort, the reassurance burning on her skin.

She needed to get out of here.

She needed to find Fintan.

Perhaps Councillor Fallon sensed something coming, for he drew himself up, brow furrowing, and started to say something.

Marella never heard what.

She snapped, and she ran.

Fintan held his tongue as he was prodded forward, concentrating on reaching deep into his chest; it fled him like water from a leaking dam, but he’d been with Marella a mere hour before. He hadn’t used everything he’d borrowed, and it hadn’t all drained yet.

He willed it into his palms, waiting for his chance.

Only a flicker remained, and he’d need to be careful not to use it up and let the flame start drawing on his own heat, or he’d be on the floor before he could take even a step.

But he only needed to buy himself a few moments, and his escorts certainly wouldn’t be expecting any pyrotechnics. He doubted Bronte had appraised them to the true nature of the situation--he doubted Bronte understood it himself, though he certainly thought he did.

All Fintan needed was an opportunity, and he’d vanish in a blaze.

There were no holding cells in this building, those were a little further back--and you had to leave the building to get to them.

The doors approached, but he held back, so he wouldn’t seem too eager.

Another prod, a shove, and they were at the doors, out them, and--

An inferno of potential washed over him.

Marella sprinted for her life, leaving shouts in her wake as she cast her senses out.

She had no clue where she was, all the streets fancy and old and entirely foreign, but she didn’t need to know.

She just needed to find Fintan.

Sunlight caressed her skin as she turned corners, searching searching searching--wider, and wider, flickering through the body signatures of what felt like every single goddamned person in the city until--there.

A void. Not just cold, but hungry.

Marella adjusted course, chest heaving. It felt close--a few blocks away at most. She locked in on the feeling, letting the world around her blur.

Footsteps pounded in pursuit, and she sent another part of her mind to lock onto those.

People in professional outfits and smarmy faces startled as she rocketed past, unsure which way to turn but just knowing he was that way.

The bodies behind her grew closer and she spun, reaching out her hands, reaching for the sun, letting it blast in a burst of orange and reds that had them pulling up short and screaming--shock, fear, maybe pain. It didn’t matter.

She was so close.

He’d promised--he’d promised.

Next time.

Marella skidded to a stop as she nearly turned into a dead end, cursing all the convoluted old architecture--they must’ve been closer to where the city had begun.

No time to panic, she backtracked and tried again, air burning her throat and adrenaline sending her pulse skyrocketing. Ringing deafened her, and she cherished the heat at her back as she put on all the speed she had in her.

He was close--so close.

He had to be--there.

A nondescript building of old wood and glass, and a hunger so familiar, so strong, she didn’t care that the guards trailing her had started to catch up again.

So close.

She just had to--

The doors opened, and there he was, two escorts on either side of him.

No.

She needed him--she needed the bastard to tell her how--

His eyes widened.

Fintan’s escorts tightened their hold, rearing back in surprise as Marella skidded to a stop, staring at him.

Her eyes darted between him, his escorts, the--

She was being chased, and turned her back to him, backing up slowly as they caught up.

How had she even gotten here? Had she run?

“Calm down,” one of her pursuers said, holding out placating hands as the ones on his own shoulders tightened, starting to pull him back.

No.

Marella was here now--he no longer had to bide his time.

Fintan snapped, gold licking up his fingers and arm, and his escorts scrambled away with a yelp.

“We must leave,” he told her, but she didn’t seem to hear.

“Marella,” he tried again.

Her chest moved frantic, and she raised her hands.

One of her pursuers lunged.

“Girl--”

She couldn’t think, pulse roaring in her ears louder than the sun, everything shaking so hard she couldn’t even see.

They had Fintan and she needed him.

She was so close if only she could just--

They lunged for her, and all she knew was that she’d come too far to let it end here.

It was instinct.

Instinct, to suck the heat on her skin into her body, to let it combust and curdle in an instantaneous inferno in her heart, to reach to the sky for more.

She didn’t even need to snap.

It poured from her, a firestorm in neon yellow, a heat so pure and strong it flushed everything from her veins.

She screamed.

An explosion of pure heat threw Fintan to the ground, his head hitting the stone as everything in him tensed.

He had to--he had to…

The ground swayed violently beneath him as he pushed to his hands, and the searing light burned his eyes, stole every bit of moisture from his skin.

No. It was too much--too much.

Even he, perpetually cold and hungry, shied from its intensity.

“Mare…” he started, but a dizziness overwhelmed him.

Neon fire lapped at the old wood, one of the oldest buildings in the city, and distantly, he knew they needed to run. He couldn’t recall why.

Hands landed on his shoulders.

Marella understood, for the first time, Fintan.

She’d cursed the man more times than she could count, insulted everything from his intelligence to the way he wore his hair.

Why had he ever reached for the sky? Why bother? All it’d done was completely upend both of their lives.

But, oh, it was beautiful.

Clean, crisp, a heat so intense it cooled.

Channeled through her, unending, it scoured her to the core and them some. Unrelenting and infinite, she was nothing but an ember and it burned and burned through her, and distantly she recognized it was too much. More than she could hold, but she couldn’t stop it. It ripped shreds from her heart, bleached her bones, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t--

Something slammed into her, and the connection shut off all at once and it ached, it ached in a way she’d never recover from.

No…no. Cold washed over her, and she shivered, the world crashing back around her, drowning her.

Marella opened her eyes, but saw nothing, her head underwater.

Fintan could do nothing but watch as the fire caught, so much stronger than anything he’d ever felt from her, as his escort threw himself upon her and the flow sputtered to nothing.

Screams echoed as people ran--from burning buildings, burning clothes.

More security piled atop the girl, pinning her to the ground.

Her eyes opened, dazed and unseeing, rolling back in her head as the sun in her heart sputtered weakly, dying. No…no, he needed--he needed…

He could do nothing but watch as they took her away.

As they bade him follow, dragging him like dead weight from the spreading blaze.

Except curse and spit.

They’d been so close.

Too close, even.