The first time I taught a child to light a flame, she was six years old and trembling so hard her teeth chattered. Her name was Lira—no relation to the healer, though the irony wasn’t lost on me—and she’d been found in the ruins of a Blood Pit outpost, curled beneath a collapsed beam, her wrists scarred with silver burns, her voice stolen by terror. She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just stared at the fire I carried in my palm like it was both salvation and damnation.
“It’s okay,” I said, kneeling. “It won’t hurt you. Not if you don’t want it to.”
She didn’t answer. Just reached out—slow, trembling—and touched the flame.
And it didn’t burn.
It answered.
A spark leapt from my fire to hers, spiraling up her arm like a ribbon of light, igniting the dormant magic in her blood. Her eyes—storm-gray, like mine—flew open, wide with shock, then wonder. And then—
She laughed.
Not a sound. Just the shape of it on her lips. But it was enough.
That was the moment I knew—
This wasn’t just a school.
It was a resurrection.
—
The Ember’s School stands in the heart of the Hollow Maw, where the old Council archives once held records of executions and lies. Now, the obsidian walls are cracked open, replaced with arched windows that let in the mountain light, the air humming with the low pulse of healing sigils etched into the stone. The scent of old parchment has been replaced with something warmer—baking bread from the kitchen, crushed pine needles from the training yard, the faint, ever-present tang of magic sparking to life.
It’s not grand. Not polished. But it’s alive.
I stand at the threshold this morning, my hand resting on the carved wooden doorframe, my storm-gray eyes scanning the courtyard. Children—hybrids all—move between the buildings, some in pairs, some alone, their forms shifting subtly: a girl with wolf ears twitching beneath her braid, a boy whose fingers flicker with flame when he’s nervous, a child with golden eyes who walks barefoot through the grass like the earth speaks to them.
And in the center—
A fire pit.
Not for burning.
For learning.
“You’re late,” Orin says, stepping beside me, his cane tapping against the stone. His voice is dry, but there’s warmth beneath it—something I’ve only seen since the old Council fell. “They’ve been waiting.”
“Let them wait,” I say, not taking my eyes off the children. “They’ll learn patience before they learn fire.”
He chuckles. “Still the warrior.”
“Still the teacher,” I counter. “And I learned from the best.”
He doesn’t answer, just leans on his cane, watching the courtyard with me. His presence is steady, grounding. He’s not here to lead. Not to command. But to witness. To make sure we don’t repeat the past.
“They’re afraid,” he says after a moment. “Not of the magic. Of themselves.”
“I know,” I say. “They’ve spent their lives being told they’re monsters. That their fire is a curse. That their fangs make them dangerous. And now?” I step forward, my boots echoing against the stone. “Now they have to unlearn that. And that’s harder than learning anything new.”
“And you?” he asks. “Are you afraid?”
I don’t answer right away.
Just press my palm to the doorframe, feeling the faint pulse of the runes beneath my skin. They’re not mine. Not Kaelen’s. Not even Orin’s.
They’re ours.
“I was,” I admit. “The first time I burned someone alive, I didn’t feel guilt. I felt power. And that scared me more than any enemy ever could.”
“But now?”
“Now I know the difference,” I say, stepping into the courtyard. “Between fire and fury. Between control and cruelty. Between power and purpose.”
—
The children gather in a loose circle around the fire pit, their eyes wide, their bodies tense. Some stand tall. Some crouch, ready to run. But all of them watch me—really watch—as I step into the center.
“My name is Zara Ember,” I say, my voice clear, strong. “Daughter of Lysara. Co-ruler of Veridian. And the last of the Emberborn.”
Gasps ripple through the circle.
“You’ve heard stories about me,” I continue. “That I burned the Council. That I marked the Alpha. That I killed Vexis with fire from my hands.” I pause. “They’re true.”
More gasps.
“But they’re not the whole truth.” I lift my hand, and fire spirals from my palm—red-gold, alive, mine. “This fire has killed. But it’s also healed. It’s destroyed. But it’s also protected. It’s taken lives. But it’s also saved them.” I lower my hand, the flame dancing over my skin. “The fire isn’t good or evil. It’s power. And power doesn’t judge. It only obeys.”
I look at each of them—really look.
“You’ve been told your magic makes you dangerous. That your blood is cursed. That you should hide. That you should be afraid.” I step forward. “I’m here to tell you that’s a lie.”
“You are not monsters.”
“You are not cursed.”
“You are not broken.”
“You are fire. And fire doesn’t apologize. It doesn’t hide. It burns.”
Silence.
Not empty. Not fragile.
Loaded.
Like the air before a storm breaks.
Then—
A boy in the back—no more than ten, his hair streaked with flame, his eyes storm-gray—raises his hand.
“What if I hurt someone?” he asks, his voice quiet, raw. “What if I can’t stop?”
I don’t hesitate.
Walk to him.
Kneel.
“I’ve asked myself that same question,” I say. “Every time I’ve raised my hand. Every time I’ve let the fire come. And the truth is—” I press my palm to his chest, over his heart. “—you’ll never know until you try. But you don’t have to do it alone. You have me. You have Orin. You have each other. And you have the runes.” I gesture to the sigils carved into the fire pit. “They’ll guide you. They’ll protect you. But only if you listen.”
He looks at me—really looks—and I see it.
Not fear.
Hope.
“Now,” I say, standing. “Who’s ready to learn?”
—
The first lesson is control.
Not power.
Not destruction.
Control.
I have them sit in a circle around the fire pit, their hands on their knees, their eyes closed. The runes hum beneath the stone, pulsing with a low, steady rhythm, syncing with their breathing, their heartbeats, their magic.
“Feel it,” I say, my voice low. “Not in your hands. Not in your fire. In your chest. That warmth. That pulse. That’s your magic. Not something outside you. Not something to fear. It’s you.”
I walk the circle, watching, guiding. Some tremble. Some sweat. Some cry.
And then—
A spark.
From a girl no more than eight, her hands clenched in her lap, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. A flicker of red-gold flame dances over her fingertips, then vanishes.
She gasps.
“Don’t pull back,” I say, kneeling beside her. “Don’t run. Just breathe.”
She does.
And the flame returns—small, unsteady, but hers.
“Good,” I say. “Now hold it. Not with your hands. With your will.”
She concentrates—her jaw tight, her fingers trembling—and the flame steadies, hovering over her palm like a living thing.
And then—
She smiles.
Not with her lips.
With her soul.
—
By midday, the courtyard is alive with fire.
Not wild. Not reckless.
Controlled.
Children move between stations—some practicing flame-shaping, weaving fire into sigils in the air; others learning to channel heat without burning, pressing their hands to stone and watching it glow without cracking; others working with Orin on breath-magic, drawing power from their lungs, their hearts, their blood.
And in the training yard—
Wolf forms.
Not full shifts. Not yet.
But claws. Fangs. Ears. Tails. Testing the edge of control, learning to shift without losing themselves.
I watch from the edge, my arms crossed, my storm-gray eyes scanning, assessing. Not as a ruler.
As a teacher.
“You’re good at this,” Kaelen says, stepping beside me, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke, him.
“I had a good mentor,” I say, not looking at him.
“Not Orin,” he says. “Your mother.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
“She taught me the same thing,” I say, my voice low. “That fire isn’t just for burning. That it can heal. That it can protect. That it can mend.” I turn, look at him. “She died for that truth.”
“And now you’re teaching it,” he says. “To her grandchildren.”
“Not grandchildren,” I say. “Heirs.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches the children—really watches. And I see it.
Not pride.
Regret.
“You think you failed them,” I say. “The hybrids. The ones before. The ones who were taken, who were tortured, who were erased.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just nods, slow, heavy. “I was supposed to protect them. And I didn’t.”
“No,” I say. “You were supposed to enforce the law. And you did. But now?” I step closer, my hand pressing to his chest, over his heart. “Now you’re not just the Alpha. You’re the guardian. And this—” I gesture to the courtyard. “—is how we protect them. Not with fangs. Not with fire. With truth.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me close, one arm wrapping around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
—
That night, I return to the school alone.
Not to teach.
To remember.
The courtyard is quiet, the fire pit banked, the runes pulsing with a soft, steady light. I walk to the center, my boots echoing against the stone, and press my palm to the ground.
And I feel it—
Not just the magic.
Not just the fire.
Her.
My mother.
Her voice, low and fierce: “You’re not just fire, Zara. You’re healing. Remember that.”
My breath hitches.
Because I do.
And now, so do they.
—
Later, I walk through the city.
Not with guards. Not with ceremony.
Just me.
The streets are alive—torchlight flickers in the alleys, hybrids stand tall in the open, wolves walk beside witches, humans trade with Fae. No more hiding. No more fear.
And then—
A child.
Not more than six. Half-wolf, half-witch, her eyes gold, her hair streaked with fire. She stops in front of me, her small hand clutching a carved wooden wolf.
“Are you really the Alpha?” she asks, her voice soft.
“No,” I say, kneeling. “But I protect him.”
“And you?” she asks, turning to me.
“I’m Zara,” I say. “And I’m here to make sure no one takes your wolf away.”
The girl smiles.
And hands me the toy.
I take it—slowly, carefully—and press it to my heart.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll keep it safe.”
And as I walk away, I feel it—
Not just the bond.
Not just the fire.
Home.
And for the first time, I believe it.
This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.
Of the truth.
Of the fire.
Of us.