“Okay.” Deep breath. “Okay. Definitely not normal.”
I pick up the journal more carefully this time. Find the section on Fire-Bringer abilities.
The fire answers to emotion,Grandma wrote.Fear. Anger. Passion. Joy. All of these can trigger the flame. Control comes with practice—and with acceptance. You must embrace what you are before you can master it.
Embrace what I am. Right. Just accept that I’m apparently some kind of fire witch and move on with my life.
I set the journal down. Look at the candles arranged on the coffee table. Three of them, all lit, all burning steadily.
Practice,the journal said. Time to practice.
I focus on the nearest candle. Will the flame to grow.
Nothing happens.
I squint harder. Picture the flame rising. Stretching. Reaching toward the ceiling.
Still nothing.
“Come on.” Frustration creeps in. “Work with me here. You were plenty eager to set things on fire when I wasn’t trying.”
The flame flickers. Just a little. Just enough to make my heart skip.
“That’s it.” I lean forward. “Come on. A little more.”
The flame stretches. Grows. Doubles in height, then triples, reaching toward me with eager fingers of light.
I jerk back. The flame dies instantly, leaving the candle unlit and smoking.
My hands clasp over my pounding heart. But underneath the fear, something else stirs. Something that feels dangerously close to excitement.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Okay. That was... something. Let’s try again.”
This time, I don’t focus on the candle. I focus on my finger. On the heat I can feel building in my core, spreading through my veins.
A tiny flame appears at my fingertip.
No matches. No lighter. Just fire, conjured from nothing, dancing on my skin.
It doesn’t burn. Doesn’t even feel hot—not to me, anyway. Just warm. Familiar. Like it’s always been there, waiting for me to notice.
I touch the flame to the dead candle’s wick. It catches instantly.
“Well.” I stare at my hand, at the small fire still flickering on my fingertip. “That’s not terrifying at all.”
I close my fist. The flame extinguishes.
I’m magical now. Actually, genuinely magical. Like something out of a fantasy novel. Like the grandmother I thought I knew, leading a secret life I never suspected.
This is terrifying. And kind of awesome. And completely insane.
I spend the next hour practicing. Small flames. Big flames. Making candles flare and then calm. By the time I’m done, I can light and extinguish fire with a thought, though controlling the size is still a work in progress.
Progress. Small, terrifying, exhilarating progress.
A scratching sound at the window shatters my concentration.
I grabthe sword from Grandma’s weapons collection before I even process what I’m doing.
