“I know.” Nasyra’s voice is flat. “You don’t need to list the ways I could have killed someone.”
“Then you understand why we need to address this.”
“I understand that my fire isn’t right anymore. That it responds to things I can’t control.” She lifts her chin, defiant even in exhaustion. “What I don’t understand is what you expect me to do about it.”
“Train.” Drayke’s gaze shifts to me. “With the only person who understands what’s happening to you.”
Nasyra goes rigid. “No.”
“Your shadow-flame and Zyphon’s darkness share an origin. The same ritual, the same magic. He’s the only one who can help you control it without triggering whatever failsafes Lakhu built into your resurrection.”
“I don’t care. Find another way.”
“There isn’t one.” Drayke’s voice holds no room for argument. “Fire-Bringer training won’t work—your power isn’t pure fire anymore. Dragon training won’t work—you’re not a dragon. But Zyphon has spent three centuries learning to control something that shouldn’t be controllable. If anyone can teach you, it’s him.”
Nasyra’s hands clench in her lap. The borrowed robe does nothing to hide the tension in her shoulders, the way her whole body has gone tight with resistance.
“I’ll do it.”
Everyone looks at me. I keep my attention on Nasyra, watching the battle play out in her expression—pride warring with practicality, hatred warring with need.
“I’m not asking for your forgiveness,” I continue. “Not asking for your trust. But I can help you control this. And if you burn down the fortress in your sleep, you’ll kill people who don’t deserve to die.”
It’s a low blow. Calculated. The one argument I know she won’t be able to dismiss.
Her jaw tightens. “Fine. But if you try anything?—“
“You’ll kill me. I remember.” I allow myself the ghost of a smile. “Training starts at dawn. Get some sleep.”
“My bed is on ash.”
“There are other rooms.”
She stalks out without another word, Selene following. I watch her go, cataloging the rigid set of her spine, the faint tremor in her hands she’s trying to hide.
She’s terrified. Not of me—or not only of me. She’s terrified of herself. Of what she’s becoming. Of the power that’s slipping beyond her grasp.
“That went well,” Drayke says dryly.
“It went as expected.”
“Can you actually help her?”
I consider the question. The shadows inside me stir, reaching toward the place where her fire burned moments ago. Recognition. Hunger. Something that wants to be whole.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’m the only option she has.”
She arrivesat the training yard exactly at dawn, dressed in borrowed clothes that fit better than the ones she wore yesterday. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a severe braid. Her expression could cut glass.
“Let’s get this over with.”
“Good morning to you too.”
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just crosses her arms and waits, radiating hostility so intense, I’m surprised the air doesn’t crackle with it.
I circle her slowly, studying the way she holds herself. Tense. Defensive. Ready to fight or flee at the slightest provocation. She tracks my movement with wary attention, turning to keep me in sight.
“Your fire isn’t fire anymore,” I begin. “Not entirely. The ritual that resurrected you changed it—gave it properties it shouldn’t have. It responds to emotion now. Fear. Anger. Grief. Anything strong enough to crack your control.”
