Maybe both.
A knock at my door. Light. Hesitant.
“It’s Selene. I have something for you. Not tea this time.”
I cross the room and open the door.
Selene stands in the corridor, a worn leather journal clutched to her chest. Behind her, the fortress is quiet—that strange hush that falls over ancient halls after dark.
“Can I come in? There’s something I want to show you.”
I step back to let her in.
She settles on the edge of my bed, turning the worn leather book over in her hands. Whatever she’s working up to say, it’s costing her something. I recognize the careful breathing, the way she’s organizing words before releasing them.
“My whole life,” she says finally, “I performed. For my parents. For boyfriends. For everyone.”
Not what I expected. I lower myself into the desk chair and wait.
“My parents had this picture of who I should be. Successful. Settled. Following the plan they’d mapped out.” Selene’s thumb traces the journal’s spine. “And I tried. God, I tried. Built a career. Dated sensible men. Made sensible choices. Convinced myself I was happy because being unhappy would mean admitting I’d wasted years trying to be someone else’s version of me.”
“That’s...” I search for the right word. “Exhausting. Maintaining that.”
“It was.” She looks up, meeting my gaze. “And meanwhile, my grandmother was keeping this massive secret. That I had fire in my blood. That I was something more than ordinary. She died, and I inherited a cabin full of weapons and journals about dragons, and my entire understanding of myself just—“ She makes an explosive gesture with her hands.
The words land somewhere uncomfortable in my chest. Too familiar.
“Then I came here. Got captured. Lost everything I’d built.” Her mouth twists. “And I realized all that performing I’d done was just armor. Really well-constructed armor that kept me functional but also kept me from ever figuring out who I actually was.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I recognize the look.” Selene sets the book aside and leans forward. “The way you catalog everything. Turn trauma into data points. Keep everyone at arm’s length with efficiency and lists. I did the same thing with achievement and plans for twenty years, and it worked great right up until it didn’t.”
I don’t have a response for that. The accuracy stings.
“I’m not saying you need to fall apart.” Her voice softens. “Or trust anyone you’re not ready to trust. I’m saying... the walls you’re building? They’ll protect you. But they’ll also trap you. And somewhere down the line, you’ll have to decide which matters more.”
She stands, leaving the book on my bed.
“That belonged to my grandmother. Her observations about Fire-Bringer abilities, control techniques, things she learned the hard way. Thought it might help with your research.” A small smile. “I know you’d rather read than talk. That’s fine. Justremember that reading about people isn’t the same as letting them in.”
She pauses at the door.
“Rurik’s a lot. I know. But he stayed back today when you needed space. That’s not nothing, coming from him.”
She leaves before I can respond.
I sit alone in my sparse chamber, the unfinished page cooling on the desk, her words settling into my bones. Outside my narrow window, stars appear one by one in the darkening sky.
The worn leather volume sits on my bed. Evidence that someone saw through my armor and offered something useful anyway.
I pick it up. Flip to the first page.
Fire must respond to intention,the cramped handwriting reads.Not emotion—intention. Learn the difference, and you’ll learn control.
Tomorrow, I’ll start reversing three weeks of damage to my body and my fire. I’ll begin building something new from the wreckage of what I was.
But tonight, I return to my own writing. Add one more line beneath the messy confessions I’ve already made.
