“This.” I gesture to the air, the color. “It feels familiar. Like… I’ve done this before. Like my heart knows something my mind doesn’t.”
Her expression softens. “Then maybe you’re finally listening.”
That night, back in the apartment, I can still feel it. The pulse of energy under my ribs, alive and patient. When I close my eyes, I can still see the rainbow, faint but waiting.
Flint’s voice drifts in from the kitchen. “How did training go?”
I smile. “Betsy didn’t explode and the clearing is still intact so… progress?”
He chuckles. “You look… different.”
“Do I? Bad different?”
He leans in the doorway, eyes tracing me like he’s memorized me and is looking for the differences. “Lighter,” he says, finally. “Like you let something go.”
“Maybe I did.” Maybe. Maybe I’m finally learning how to work with my powers, instead of against them. “I’m learning.”
And as the light flickers over my skin, light, warm and gentle, I realize that for the first time, it doesn’t scare me anymore.
It feels like mine.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Betsy
The clearing is quiet once Ash and Calida make their way home.
The air is alive where the light once shimmered — faint threads of magick woven into the grass, clinging to the leaves like dew. I stand still for a long while, my arms crossed as I watch the last traces of Ash’s power fade.
I can still see her. The way her skin glowed from the inside out, the golden warmth that wasn’t just light, butrecognition.The kind that comes from touching something ancient and familiar.
For the first time in three years, I let myself whisper the name I’m never supposed to say out-loud.
“Ember.”
The word makes my throat ache.
I remember the child that name once belonged to. All fierce eyes and scraped knees, running through the castle gardens barefoot. Her hair, a storm in the firelight.Always laughing, always feeling. The embodiment of empathy.
Ember had been a child who wore her heart outside of her body, too bright and too brave for a world that would come to war. She’d cling to her sister’s hand, comforting her in the moments she needed it, and could make flowers bloom, even when the land was dying. The child who used to sit on my lap, all warmth and questions and impossible tenderness and say “I can feel the world hurting. Should I? How can I make it feel better?”
And me, the foolish idiot I am, I’d said “yes”.
I still wake some nights thinking of that last battle. Of Ember’s eyes and the look in them as the Wound tore open — as she reached for every hurt, every grief and turned it into power. The light had been unbearable.
And when it cleared, the girl, that daughter of my soul, was gone.
I had done what I had to do. I’d written a story, crafted myself a new name, and followed Ember into a world where she would be safe. A world without magick. A world where her heart and mind could, ideally, heal quietly.
But watching her today, watching her remember the language of her power, I feel that familiar, dangerous ache. Hope.
“She’s coming back,” I state, half to the shadows and half to myself. “Piece by piece.”
‘You sound worried. Hopeful, but worried.’
“I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t worried,” I bite. “When Ember feels, the world listens, and sometimes, the world has a nasty way of answering.”
‘She’s stronger than before. Calmer.’
