She held still, burning. Slowly, the flames receded, curling off her like steam from hot stone. Her skin gleamed with sweat, not a single scorch mark in sight. Her red braid settled back into place as if the fire had never touched it at all. Only then did she look our way. Her gaze swept past my mother, landing on me like the fire had marked me too.
"So," she said, voice low and velvet-soft, "this is Emerald's boy. The one with black."
My mother stepped forward first. "Cinder," she greeted, warm and steady. "You look just as terrifying as ever."
Cinder grinned, slow and wide. "You look like you still don't sleep enough." She tilted her head, then looked at me again, eyes narrowing slightly. "He's smaller than I expected."
"I'm five," I muttered.
Cinder laughed. "Well. Five and already infamous."
My mother placed a gentle hand on my back. "This is Dreniel."
I nodded politely. My mouth was dry. Cinder crouched down in front of me. Not condescending, calm. Curious. "Show me," she said.
I hesitated. My mother gave a small nod. "It's all right."
Slowly, I rolled up my pant leg and tugged back the sleeve of my tunic, revealing the black marks etched along my calves and forearms. The ones that burned when I ran, when I fought, when I felt too much. Cinder's eyes widened. She reached out, not touching. Just hovering her hand above the markings. Her breath caught like the sight of them pulled the wind from her lungs. She whispered something under her breath. A foreign phrase. Rhythmic. Sharp. Beautiful. It sounded like magic.
My brows drew together. "What did she say?"
My mother leaned down, her voice low by my ear. "She's speaking the tongue of her people. She was born in the red districts, just north of the southern border. She called you a blessing. Then she called you…" she hesitated, then smiled faintly, "The Black Prince."
I blinked. "Why?"
"Because only Royal Families can produce black magic," my mother said gently. "People assume you're a royal bastard."
Cinder stood slowly. "He's more than a bastard. This is blood-born power. Not stolen. Not scarred. It lives in him." She said it like she was looking at a god she didn't believe in.
My mother nodded. "That's why we're here. He needs training. I want you to teach him."
Cinder raised a brow. "You're paying?"
"I am."
Cinder clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "No. It's not your responsibility. The boy's old enough. He knows how to fight. He can bargain."
My stomach clenched. "Bargain?"
Cinder turned to me, serious now. "I will train you," she said. "I'll teach you how to control red magic. How to feel it without drowning in it. How to burn without burning out." She stepped forward, close enough that the scent of smoke and cinnamon filled my nose. Her eyes bored into mine.
I swallowed. "What do you want?"
She held up two fingers. "Twenty drops of magic. Every session."
That caught me off guard. I forced a frown, like the price hurt. You never show a predator you've got more meat to give. A single drop of magic could cast a small spell. Light a candle, cool a drink, lift something heavy for a second or two. Ten drops filled a vial. That was about what the average person could make in a day, maybe less in our district. Twenty drops was two vials. Two full days of casting, gone in one lesson. For most people. Not me. I made seventy-five drops on a slow day. More if I pushed. That was something no one else knew. But from the way Cinder looked at my skin. The sheer amount of ink etched into my arms, legs, ribs, all hidden from the world. She already suspected. That's where my excess went. Into the marks. Into storage. I was practically leaking power, and she could see it.
"Deal," I said.
Cinder smiled, slow and sharp. "Good. Then it's made." She reached out her hand. "My fire for your fire," she said.
I placed my palm in hers. The heat between us pulsed, not painful, just alive. A thrum of connection. Somewhere behind me, my mother exhaled like she'd been holding her breath the whole time. Cinder released my hand and stepped back. "Good. We start tomorrow. Be here at ten o'clock sharp." I nodded. "If you're late," she added, her eyes narrowing just enough to make it a threat, "you miss your training and you still pay me."
I blinked. "Understood."
She gave a final nod, then turned back toward the center of the courtyard. As if the conversation was done. As if she could set me on fire tomorrow and still sleep just fine. My mother stayed a while longer, talking with her in low voices. Their tone shifted, more relaxed, more familiar. There were quiet laughs, a few memories traded. I heard my name once, twice, but they didn't call me over. I waited. Eventually, my mother said her goodbyes, and we stepped back out into the bright afternoon sun. We didn't talk at first. The walk home was quieter than the walk there. The streets slowly grew dirtier the farther we got from the Second District gates. More noise. More smell. More reality. Finally, when I couldn't hold it in any longer, I asked, "Why her?"
My mother glanced at me. Her expression didn't shift. "Because she knows how to use her magic," she said. "Without being angry."
We turned down a narrow alley that connected back toward the main market road. Her voice stayed even, thoughtful. "Most red casters around here would teach you how to cast from rage. They'd tell you to feed the fire inside you. Let it burn. Let it fuel your spells." She paused. "I don't want that for you."
I looked at her, confused. "But red is emotion. It is rage."
"Yes," she said. "But it doesn't have to control you. You have enough anger in you already, baby. You don't need someone teaching you how to drown in it."
I didn't know what to say to that. Because she wasn't wrong. The fire inside me wasn't quiet. It wanted to be fed. She kept walking, voice softer now. "Cinder will keep your secret. She'll teach you how to burn without burning everything down. She'll make you stronger without making you cruel."
I nodded slowly, eyes on the ground. That made sense. It still surprised me, though. "She's your friend?" I asked.
My mother smiled. "Yes. We met years ago. At another club. Before you were born. She danced fire. I served drinks."
"And you trust her?"
"With my life," she said. Then she glanced down at me. "And now, with yours." That shut me up. Because my mother didn't trust anyone. Not really. So if she trusted Cinder, then I would, too. At least enough to show up tomorrow. At ten o'clock sharp.
When we got back to the tavern, I waited until my mother was distracted. Chatting with Mira, probably, or sorting the meat delivery. Then I slipped upstairs to the far end of the hallway, climbed two steps at a time to the attic's side room, and knocked twice on the painted door with the lace curtain in the window. Cindy's room. She opened it fast, still braiding her damp hair. Her cheeks were flushed from washing, her long dark lashes damp. She always looked too polished to be here. That was part of the story she told. How she used to be part of a noble family once. How she'd fallen, or run, depending on the version she gave that day. "Hello, baby blues," she said with a teasing smile.
I scowled. "Don't call me that."
She chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "But you have the prettiest blue eyes. What else am I supposed to call you?"
I narrowed them at her.
"Fine, fine," she said, waving me inside. "Come in, Little Knife." That name I could tolerate.
I stepped into her room, careful not to drag mud across the rug. Her space smelled like jasmine and old paper. Books stacked against the walls, candles half-burnt on every flat surface. She collected things: pressed flowers, old rings, broken teacups, dried ink bottles. It was the kind of place where secrets lived. She sat down cross-legged on her bed and patted the spot beside her. I climbed up and sat close enough for our knees to bump. She was the youngest woman here, not much older than sixteen, and she treated me like some combination of kid brother and stray dog. Sometimes annoying. Sometimes hers.
I reached into my tunic and pulled out the folded letter. "I found this," I said quietly. "I know it has my name on it. But I don't know what all it says." I passed it to her with both hands. "I know it says money," I added. "But could you read it to me? Just in case there's anything I missed."
Cindy's brows furrowed as she took the paper. The moment her eyes scanned the first few lines, she stilled. Her grip tightened. "Where did you get this?"
"On a man," I said. "He tried to kill me." She stared at me. "So I killed him first," I added. "He had this and three silver pieces in his coat."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Finally, she whispered, "You're serious."
I nodded. She looked at me like she was seeing me clearly for the first time. Like something had clicked into place behind her eyes. Not fear. Not pity. Just… realization.
She unfolded the letter fully and began to read it aloud, slowly, her voice careful and precise.
"To Whom the Contract Concerns,
The child matches the description. Five years of age. Blue eyes. Black hair. Quick, unpredictable.
Mother's name: Emerald.
Payment: Three silver now. Three silver upon confirmation of the magic.
Do not leave traces. Make it look like a mugging if possible.
The buyer expects silence.
Repeat: the buyer expects silence."
Her voice trailed off at the end. Not because she was shocked, because she was studying it. Her eyes narrowed. Her fingers traced the slanted letters. Then her breath caught. "This script," she said quietly. "This calligraphy…"
I tilted my head. She looked at me, all the teasing gone from her face. "There aren't many people in our district who know how to write, Dreniel. Fewer who know how to write like this. This is formal. Precision lettering. This is trained."
"Trained how?"
"In contracts," she said. "In bounty slips. In blood-for-coin exchanges." She ran her thumb across the sharp tail of a capital letter. "This is a headhunter's hand."
The word tasted wrong. Heavy. I sat up straighter. "What's a headhunter?"
"Someone who kills for magic," she said. "Not just assassins. They steal it. Drain it from people like you, casters. Then they bottle it. Sell it. Pass it on to whoever's paying the most."
I felt cold, suddenly. Even with the attic so warm. "Who'd want to buy my magic?"
She didn't answer right away. Then: "Anyone who saw how much of it you have."
I looked down at my arms, the black marks swirling under my skin like ink in water. She whispered, "You're worth more than six silver pieces. That's just the down payment. Whoever was hired to kill you was probably going to sell you up the ladder."
"To who?"
She hesitated. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "There's one name I've heard whispered before. A man who doesn't live here, but sends people through. Quiet. Precise. Hires headhunters and feeds on stolen magic like it's nothing."
I swallowed. "What's his name?"
She met my eyes. "Mr. Kind."
I blinked. "That's a joke."
"No," she said. "That's the point. He signs every letter with it. And when people go missing, or end up drained of their magic. His name is always the last thing anyone finds. Written in perfect, pretty ink."
A chill ran through me. She folded the letter and passed it back carefully. "You keep that safe," she said. "And you keep yourself safer. You hear me?" I nodded, slow. "Because if Mr. Kind has your name…" she looked at me, voice grim, "he won't stop until he's got what he wants."