Her tone tells me she’s not here to argue. It’s the same tone she’s used my entire life, when deciding where we’d live, when I’d train, what powers were safe to develop. The sound of it sends a familiar chill across my skin, a conditioned response to years of obedience.
I’m suddenly, intensely tired of it.
“I’m not going,” I say. Power stirs within me, heat pooling in my palms. I clasp them behind my back, not trusting myself to control the fire simmering just beneath my skin.
My mother stops, turning to face me fully. “Excuse me?”
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m not a child who needs to be sent away.”
My mother’s eyes narrow, and I sense a sudden chill. I resist the urge to shiver, standing my ground as frost practically forms in the air between us.
“You watched a friend die. You were captured and tortured,” she says, each word precise. “You need time to—”
“I need to be treated like the adult I am.” The strength of my voice surprises me.
Her eyes flash; that dangerous gleam I’ve seen directed at others but rarely at me. The air around her shimmers slightly, the way it does when she’s keeping her power in check. “An adult would recognize when she needs help.”
“An adult gets to make her own decisions.” I cross my arms, refusing to back down.
My mother’s patience visibly thins. Her breath mists slightly when she speaks, though the room isn’t cold. “This isn’t a discussion. You’re going.”
“No. I’m not.”
Silence falls, ice meeting fire. Neither of us willing to yield. The tension between us is alive, pressing against my skin, making it hard to breathe. I can almost taste the ozone charge of magic: hers winter-sharp and clean, mine smoky and volatile.
With a sharp exhale, she turns to Hargen, her expression tightly controlled.
“Talk some sense into her.”
My father shifts uncomfortably, glancing between us. The scent of his discomfort hangs in the air. “My love, maybe we should give her some space to—”
“We’ll discuss this tomorrow when you’re thinking more clearly,” my mother cuts him off, addressing me with finality.
She leaves, the door closing behind her with controlled force. Not a slam—the Shadowhand would never be so undisciplined—but the message is clear. The sound reverberates through me like a closing cell door.
Hargen lingers, his expression sympathetic. The warm brown of his eyes softened with concern.
“She’s just worried,” he says quietly. “She nearly lost you.”
“I know.” I sigh, the fight draining from me, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My shoulders sag as the fire inside me dims. “But I can’t let her run my life anymore.”
“Choose your battles carefully, Ember,” he advises, gentle but firm. “She’s only trying to protect you.”
He leaves, too, and I’m alone again with my thoughts.
The rush from the confrontation still sings through my veins, making my fingertips tingle. I press my palms against the cool wall, watching as the paint bubbles slightly beneath my touch before I pull away. I just stood up to Vanya Arrowvane—the Shadowhand—and didn’t back down. For the first time in my life, I chose my own decision over my mother’s.
The realization washes away years of careful compliance.
I’m done letting other people decide what’s best for me.
Done hiding what I want because it makes them uncomfortable.
I want Luke. And I’m going to tell him.
The decision settles into my bones, warm and certain. It feels right in a way few things in my life ever have.
I check the time on the small clock beside my bed. Late, but not impossibly so. He might still be up, dealing with the aftermath of our mission.
