The force sent Mira stumbling back, her boots scraping against stone, so Rynna stood between her and the spilled blood, lungs heaving, heart pounding against her ribs.
“Don’t touch it.” The words hissed through her lips.
Mira's eyes flicked to the smear behind her, then back, confusion warping her features.
Rynna’s knuckles dug into her thighs as she bent slightly, grounding herself, forcing the panic back down. She didn’t know exactly how it worked, or how the blood infected. Only that if it got into someone, it took root fast.
Flames burst from the woman’s palms as she braced her arms to push off the ground, rising back to her feet in a blast of heat.
“How did you move that fast?” Her voice was clipped. “I sensed no Source power.”
Rynna exhaled past her aching ribs.
“I told you.” She gave a half-laugh, then grimaced. “Not entirely human.”
A beat.
Trust her.A small voice whispered in Rynna’s mind.
“And not entirely from here,” she added.
Mira didn’t respond. She stared, the fire in her palms casting her face in flickers of gold.
“I know you’re not of the Hearth,” she said finally.
“That’s not what I mean.” She looked straight up.
Silence again. Mira’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“You meant it,” she said slowly, “when you said you’d never heard of the Source.” Her flames flared higher. “But what are you, then?”
Before Rynna could answer, a flicker of movement caught her eye.
Something red and viscous glided across the stone, inching toward Mira’s foot.
Shit.
“Before we get into that…” Rynna nodded at the blood. “Do me a favor, will you?”
Mira blinked. “A favor?”
Rynna lowered the blood-soaked shirt from where she’d been holding it against her cheek and flung it down beside the smear. She knew the wound had closed by now.
“Burn it.” She didn’t look away. “Burn it all.”
She felt lighter.
Mira knew everything now. Or…everything Rynna could remember. And somehow—Gods knew why—the woman had believed her. Or maybe she’d just decided not to reduce her to ash on general principle.
Either way, Rynna had walked away with her skin intact and the promise of no immediate execution. Which, by Hearth standards, felt like a miracle.
She climbed the ladder slowly, one hand gripping the worn rope rung, the other steadying the sloshing bottle at her hip. Wind stirred around her, sweeping loose strands of hair across her cheeks as she crested the final platform.
It had been over four weeks since they’d arrived in the mountainous village.
Over four weeks without battle or war.
Not quiet, exactly—there were always chores, drills, obligations—but peace. A steadiness she couldn’t remember ever having. And certainly not deserving.
