The fire outside crackled one last time, then hissed out. My hands still smelled like ash. Every breath tasted like smoke and guilt. My palms still tingled like they had held a coal too long. My mother flipped the eggs like nothing happened. That scared me more than if she'd screamed. "You want to talk about it?" she asked after a minute. I didn't answer. She passed me a plate to hold, quiet. Calm. That kind of calm that makes you nervous. "The fire," she said. "That was red magic."
"I didn't mean to," I muttered. "It just… happened."
"I know."
I looked down at my hands. "I didn't even know I had it."
Her silence stretched like thread pulled tight. Then she turned the flame down and finally looked at me. "You've always had it, Dren. Red magic comes from emotion. Anger. Passion. Pain. The deeper you feel it, the hotter it burns. But blue's always been your default. You cast instinctively, without thinking. That's blue. Most people only have one or two colors." She paused, her voice softening. "You have black."
I froze. She never said it out loud. Nobody did. Everyone here just knew. Or at least suspected. "The marks on your legs," she went on. "The ones that glow when you move fast? That's not just air magic. That's something else. Something deeper."
I clenched my jaw. "Is that bad?"
"It's rare." She set the pan aside. "And dangerous." She leaned against the counter, folding her arms. "Blue is instinct. Water, air, motion. It moves without effort. Red is emotion," she said. "It takes from your feelings. If you're not careful, it controls you. Yellow… her voice dropped, like someone might be listening. "Yellow is quiet. Secretive. Healing. Nobody really understands it. Even healers can't explain how it works. It's not just mending bones. It's making life. Creation in its purest form. Some say it listens more than it casts."
"And black?" I asked.
She looked at me for a long time. "Black means you don't just hold magic, Drenriel. You are magic. Black means you have all of it. The power to cast from every color. The power to pull from places no one else can reach. The gods didn't make that kind of magic for regular humans. Only the royals who lead us. Black magic is backwards, it didn't wait for you to grow into it. It grew you instead." That's why I feel too big for my skin. Different from other kids. Like the magic keeps getting older, and I'm the part it's trying to shed.
"Which is why…" she hesitated, then pressed her palm gently to my chest, "you have to hide it."
"I do," I said. "I try."
"You don't just try." Her voice sharpened. "You must. You will. I don't care how angry you get. I don't care if Jack breaks every bone in your body. You do not reveal what you are to the wrong people."
I swallowed. "But everyone here already knows."
She nodded. "They won't tell. Not just because they care about you. Because they love you. They are family. Drenriel…" She leaned in, her hand on my cheek. "I love you. I made you. But even I don't know what you'll become. You are something the world hasn't seen in a long time."
She kissed my forehead, like she always did, then whispered, "Please… just don't let it become something they want to kill."
The words sat heavy on my shoulders, heavier than anything I'd carried before. I was five years old. I already knew too much about hiding.
"Drenriel," my mother said, once the eggs were done and the sausages had stopped sizzling. "There's someone I want you to meet after breakfast." That was all she gave me. No hint. No smirk. Just dropped it like an afterthought and handed me a plate.
The tavern was loud this morning. All the kids were in the common room now. Shoving each other, laughing, still half-covered in crumbs from whatever they'd snuck before the food was actually served. The smell of fried meat and sweetroot filled the air. Half the women were still in nightgowns and braids, the other half already dressed for work, makeup half-finished, a few of them swatting kids with wooden spoons to get them out from underfoot. Even Mira, the woman who owned the place, was eating with us today. That didn't happen often. She was perched at the head of the biggest table, long gray braid down her back, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in a bowl of something she claimed was porridge but looked like wet glue. She had a crooked grin and a laugh that shook the walls.
Her three sons sat nearby, looking like they belonged in a war camp, not a breakfast table. Cedric, the oldest, was built like a stone wall and had permanent scowl lines that made the little kids afraid to ask him for anything. But he was the one who rocked babies to sleep when their moms were too tired. He was married to Miss Kella, one of the pink ladies, and they had four kids between them. Two of them didn't look anything like him. No one ever said a word. He treated them like they were his blood. Erik, the middle brother, was quiet, kept his head down, and never dated. People whispered, but Mira just said, "He's married to the tavern," and everyone let it go. Maverick, the youngest, was the loud one. The fun one. He was also openly gay. Flirted with the guards, the bards, the bakers, anyone who smiled at him twice. He made the best stew in the building and threatened to beat you with his ladle if you called it "soupy." Together, the three of them were the tavern's security. Big. Loud. Safe. No one messed with Mira's house. Not once. Not ever.
I slid into my seat with my food, still rubbing the sore spot on my jaw. My magic had cooled off. But I hadn't. Jack showed up a few minutes later. His lip was swollen now too. He had a bruised eye and bedhead and looked like he still thought he won something. He plopped down across from me, grabbed a roll off the nearest plate like it was his, and kicked his feet up on the bench. I didn't say anything. I just kicked his chair. Hard. He yelped and scrambled to keep his food from spilling.
"Oops," I said, taking a bite of sausage like nothing happened.
"Child," Mira drawled from across the room without even looking up, "if you knock my furniture over, you're scrubbing floors with vinegar for a week."
Jack muttered something under his breath. I heard it. So did Maverick. Maverick leaned in from the next table over, grinning. "Careful, little boy. We've got vinegar, lye, and soap, and I'm in a mood this morning."
That shut Jack up. One of Kella's kids crawled into Cedric's lap with sticky fingers and a piece of bread. He just chuckled and handed the kid half his eggs. Another child climbed under the table like a gremlin and bit Erik's boot. Erik didn't blink. I shoved the last bite of sausage into my mouth and glanced at my mother.
She raised one brow. "Ready?"
I nodded. "Always."
Because even in the middle of breakfast, with noise and laughter and chairs being kicked, I hadn't forgotten what she said: There's someone I want you to meet. After the fire, after the fight, after the black magic she still refused to fear… I had a feeling this was the beginning of something big.
When breakfast was eaten, my mother told me to come with her. I didn't ask where. I just followed. We walked farther than I expected. Past the markets, past the slum lines, toward the edge of the Second District. It was the first time I'd ever gotten this close. I'd heard about it, dreamed about it, even drawn the gates in the dirt behind the tavern, pretending I was someone important. But seeing them up close?
They were massive. Black iron, etched with gold veins that shimmered in the sun. They arched like cathedral doors, guarded by two soldiers in polished armor and deep blue cloaks. Behind them, through the bars, I saw clean stone roads, carriages without rust, flowerbeds blooming in neat rows, and buildings that touched the sky. The air even smelled better. No rot. No piss. Just flowers, spice, and money. The building we stopped at wasn't inside the gates, but it was close. Nestled just outside the Second District wall, it looked like it belonged on the other side. Smooth red brick. Tinted windows. Copper lanterns that flickered even in daylight. There was a carved obsidian sign above the door, shaped like a flame with a dancer's silhouette inside. The Ember House.
I followed my mother through the front entrance, and my jaw nearly hit the floor. Inside, everything was velvet, gold, and dim light. Not like the tavern. Not like anything I'd ever seen. This place glowed. Every table was polished. Every cushion was embroidered. Even the air felt soft.
A woman near the bar looked up and smiled when she saw my mother. "Emerald," she greeted, with obvious warmth. "You still won't take the stage?"
My mother smiled. "Not enough perks. I like being home when my son eats dinner."
That made the woman laugh, a light, smoky sound. They talked briefly, soft words, low tones, before my mother leaned in and said, "We're looking for Cinder."
The woman nodded toward a side hallway. "Courtyard. She's warming up."
We walked past thick red curtains and soft candlelight into a back corridor. Everything was too quiet. Too clean. I walked like I didn't belong. Because I didn't. We stepped outside. The courtyard was stone-lined and shaded by high walls. A few torch sconces lined the perimeter, but they weren't lit. It didn't matter. Because the flames were already dancing.
She stood at the center, tall, long-legged, and barefoot. Her red hair braided back and laced with thin cords of gold that shimmered every time she moved. She wore a black cropped top and a crimson sash that wrapped around her hips, trailing behind her like fire's tail. In each hand, she held a baton. The ends were wrapped in cloth soaked in oil and both ends were lit. Watching her, I felt my veins hum. The same pulse I'd felt when I burned the trash. Like the magic in me recognized her before I did.
The fire cast shadows across her face as she spun. I'd never seen anything like it. She danced like fire was part of her. Not something she used, not something she feared, something she was. The batons twirled in perfect arcs, one spinning low near her knees, the other above her head, forming a blazing circle that pulsed with every step. She dropped into a crouch, twisted, then leapt into the air, her body forming lines that sang with movement. The flames never touched her. They worshipped her. As she moved, sparks followed, tiny flickers trailing her fingertips. Her bare feet slapped the stone rhythmically, her breath steady, controlled. The sashes on her hips caught the wind and looked like flickering tongues of flame. Her body flowed like smoke, turned sharp like embers, then spun into something wild. She tossed one baton high into the air and caught it behind her back without looking. The crowd wasn't even here and I still wanted to clap.
Then came the finale. She paused, centered, shoulders rising with a breath, and spun one last time, arms out, head tilted back. Her whole body ignited. Not just the batons. Her. The flames burst from her skin like she'd been holding them in the whole time. They swept down her arms, up her legs, across her chest and back. Her hair turned to a crown of living fire. I gasped, taking a step back. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Glorious. Her eyes found mine through the flame. She smiled. Like she'd been waiting for me.