I slipped Cindy one of the silver coins before I left. She tried to give it back. Pressed it into my hand, scolded me softly. "I didn't do anything for this."
But I pushed it right back. "You did," I said. "You do."
She didn't argue after that. Just held the coin like it was heavier than it looked. She smiled. Not her usual teasing grin, but something smaller. Sadder. "Thanks, baby blues," she said, too soft for me to correct her.
I slipped out and made my way toward the kitchen. It was late. Past the hour we were allowed in the front of the tavern. The girls were getting ready. The men were arriving. Some of them were loud already, voices slurred, laughter sharp. Others were quiet, the dangerous kind. The ones who looked too long. Said too little. We weren't allowed in the main room after dark. That was the rule. The brothers, Cedric, Erik, Maverick, enforced it like gospel. Not because they didn't care. Because they did. They were big and loud and rough around the edges, but they would never let a man lay a finger on one of us. Not a child. Not one of the women either. I'd seen Cedric throw a man through a table once because he grabbed someone too hard. Erik dragged another into the alley and came back alone. No one asked questions. No one needed to.
We had our own staircase to the attic. Our own courtyard out back. The kitchen was our territory after dark. That was the unspoken deal. Dinner was served in pots too big for one person to lift. Sausage, greens, bread thick enough to stop a blade. If it was warm out, like tonight, we ate outside. I took my bowl and found a spot against the wall. A few other kids joined me. Older ones helping the little ones. Jora sat beside me, snatching the crust off my bread before I could even stop her. Tovi and Malen chased each other barefoot across the courtyard, barely avoiding the fire barrel. Mira's youngest grandkid waddled by with a chunk of turnip in one hand and a rusty spoon in the other, declaring war on a line of ants. Upstairs, I knew the babies would be fussing. But the older kids had them. They always did. If one cried, two more would rock them. Keep them quiet. Keep them fed. The mothers would come upstairs when they could. Sometimes feeding them all at once. Didn't matter who the mom was. The mom would feed them side by side before returning to their painted lips and glassy smiles. We didn't talk about it. We just… lived it.
It was strange, how normal it had become. All of it.The rules. The routines. The safety, because it wasn't worse. Because there were worse places. Places where children didn't eat after dark. Where babies weren't fed. Where no one would care if a girl bled. Where boys disappeared and no one asked why. This wasn't a good place. But it was better. That meant something. I looked down at my food. The greens were overcooked. The sausage was dry. The bread was already stolen. But I was safe. At least for tonight.
After dinner, we all helped clean. That was the rule. You eat, you scrub. Even the little ones got handed rags, wiping down steps or splashing water in circles like they were helping. I scrubbed bowls alongside Tovi while Jora chased Malen with a spoon still caked in grease. Carter, the fat one, maybe a year old and already a beast, was trying to crawl into the dish bin again. By the time we finished, the courtyard was clean, the babies had been rounded up, and we all climbed the back stairwell to the attic. I carried Carter. He grunted the whole way, sticky fingers curled in my shirt, snot on his cheek, stomach warm against my ribs. I swear he weighed half as much as I did, and he drooled like it was his part-time job. But he didn't cry. He just looked at me with big, drowsy eyes and burbled something that might've been "Dah."
"You're lucky you're cute," I muttered, adjusting his weight with a grunt. By the time I got to the top of the stairs, my arms were trembling. I passed him off to one of the older girls, flopped down onto my cot, and finally let myself breathe.
Night had settled deep now. The attic was a tangle of blankets, bunks, quiet whispers, and the soft sighs of babies nursing while their mothers leaned half-asleep against the wall. It wasn't silence, but it was peace. I pulled my stone cup from beneath my cot. Simple. Rough. It had a chip in the rim and a crack down one side, but it held. I sat cross-legged, cupped it between both hands, and closed my eyes. Then I focused. Not on the world.Not on the attic. Not on the fight. Just on the feeling. Magic stirred beneath my skin. Slow at first, like waking up. Then faster, sharper, warmer. I guided it up and out, breath steady.
Drop by drop, it fell. Into the cup. Each drop landed with a faint ripple, barely a sound. Just soft weight and stillness. No color. No scent. No shimmer. Blank. Magic without intent. Most people could only make a few drops a day. Ten if they were lucky. Enough to light a candle, freeze a cup of water, maybe mend a crack in a plate. This? This was twenty. Two vials' worth. The going rate for clean, unstained, untyped magic was high. Alchemists paid silver for it. Witches paid more. It could be turned into anything. Pure potential, shaped by someone else's will.
I stared down at it. Clear and quiet. A piece of me. It shimmered faintly in the light of the attic lanterns, just enough to remind me it was real. Just enough to remind me what it cost. I capped it and tucked it into the pouch under my cot. Payment ready to be made. Tomorrow, I would burn. But tonight? Tonight, I was just another kid curled up in the attic.
I woke up before anyone else. The attic was still full of soft breathing and the occasional baby snore. Moonlight leaked through the warped windowpanes. No one stirred when I pulled on my boots, tied the laces fast, and slipped the capped stone cup of magic into my pouch. The kitchen smelled like sausage. But none of it was for me. Only thing left on the counter was porridge. Lumpy and gray, probably from the night before. I didn't complain. Just grabbed a bowl and forced down as much as I could while it was still warm.
Then I left. The Ember House was on the other side of the district. Farther than I'd ever gone alone. But I walked fast. Streets were mostly quiet this early. A few vendors setting up. A few hungover workers stumbling home. A pickpocket or two watching from the shadows. I moved like I belonged. By the time I reached the courtyard, I was fifteen minutes early. Cinder was already there. She was barefoot again, black training wraps around her wrists and ankles. Her red braid swung as she stretched. Her arms overhead, back arched, leg pulled behind her in a dancer's balance. The air around her shimmered with residual heat. Without a word, I reached into my pouch and pulled out the two vials. Twenty drops of clear, blank magic. She took them carefully, uncapped them both, and held them in one hand. Then, with deliberate motion, she poured the contents over her arms. The liquid slid down her skin like oil, no color, no shine. Until it touched her flesh.
Then it changed. Red swirls bloomed across her arms like ink soaking into cloth. They curled over her shoulders, coiling between the tattoos already there. She sighed like the warmth went straight to her bones. A few more spirals joined what she already had. "Good," she said, flexing her fingers. "You cast clean."
I nodded. "Stretch," she said. So I did.
We spent the first ten minutes in silence. Stretching. Moving through the motions she demonstrated. Wrist rolls, toe flexes, spine bends. Nothing flashy. Just control. Then she motioned for me to sit. "Cross your legs. Back straight. Hands open." I did, fidgeting almost instantly. "Now," she said, lowering herself across from me, "breathe."
"I am breathing."
"Breathe on purpose." She showed me. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. And again. Long and slow, like trying to catch the rhythm of the wind. I tried. For about ten seconds. Then I noticed a cart rolling by on the street outside. And someone shouting in the distance. A stray cat hopping the wall. My back itched. My knee ached. My eyes wouldn't stay shut.
Cinder didn't scold me. She just said, "You don't know how to turn it off, do you?"
I blinked. "Turn what off?"
"The voice in your head that's constantly watching. Calculating. Waiting for something to go wrong." I stared at her. "You're in survival mode. You always are."
I looked down. "Yeah. And?"
"And that'll kill your fire before it ever lights."
I didn't say anything. She leaned forward. "Blue magic is instinctual," she said softly. "It comes from the world around you, water, air, calm. That's why it's easy for so many people. It responds."
"But red?" she tapped her chest. "Red comes from within. From the soul. The heart. The spirit. All of it has to burn together." She closed her eyes. "The easiest way to summon it is through rage. Through loss. Through heat and hurt." Her hands curled slightly. "But fire summoned in anger can't be controlled in anger. You'll burn yourself up with it. You'll burn everything."
I thought about the pile I'd lit up in the alley. "I didn't feel like I was controlling it," I muttered.
"Exactly." She opened her eyes. "You lit the match. But it danced where it wanted."
"So what do I do?"
"You learn how to light the fire with rage, but feed it with focus." I didn't fully understand. But I nodded anyway. She leaned back, stretching again. "Today, you're going to learn to feel warmth without fury. You're going to sit here, in the sun, and breathe until your body learns the difference between being alive and being ready to fight."
I groaned. "That sounds awful."
She grinned. "That's because you're awful at it." I rolled my eyes and sat straighter. Cinder closed her eyes and said, "Feel the sun. Just the warmth. Not the world. Not the street. Just that."
I tried. For half a second, it worked. We sat there in the sun. Not talking. Not moving. Just breathing. The stone courtyard had warmed beneath me, sun baking into my spine, my arms, the tops of my feet. For once, it wasn't uncomfortable. Just… still.
I focused. Focused on that flicker inside me. The flame. It wasn't rage. Not yet. But it wanted to be. Always there, coiled under my ribs like a living thing. Ready to burst. Ready to burn.
"Vash tenn var!" she snapped. "Breathe slower, boy, before I light your eyebrows." Cinder reached out and took my hands in hers. Her skin was warm, dry, steady. "Don't cast," she said. "Just feel."
I closed my eyes. After a moment, I felt her. Her magic moved like a pulse. Soft at first, like a heartbeat. Then steadier. Stronger. Her power touched mine like wind nudging a spark. It didn't force. It didn't grab. It invited. Mine answered. It rose to meet hers, slow and cautious, like a flame meeting its reflection. They danced. I could feel it. Our magics twining, spinning, folding over one another like silk in the wind. No pressure. No fight. Just motion.
She smiled. "You feel that?" I nodded, too breathless to speak. "That's the rhythm," she said softly. "Fire is a dance. Not a scream." She opened her eyes, watching me. "It's a dance of survival. It has to be precise. Controlled. Balanced." She let go of my hands. "Because if it isn't?" Her voice dropped. "It'll consume you." She looked away, just for a second. "I've known casters who summoned fire in rage and never walked away from the first flame. Burned their lungs out from the inside. Set their homes, their lovers, themselves alight. Fire doesn't discriminate. It doesn't forgive."
I swallowed hard. "Now," she said, leaning back, "I want you to make it dance."
Alone. I nodded and sat up straighter. Focused again. Reached inside. The flame answered. It rose. Hotter now. Hungrier. It wanted to burst free. I could feel it licking the inside of my veins, pressing at my fingertips. But it didn't move. Not like hers. Not like a dancer. Mine pulsed. Flaring hotter. Brighter. I pushed harder. Still, it didn't move. It just burned. I gritted my teeth.
"Stop," she said. I froze. "You're stoking it," she said gently. "Not guiding it. You're throwing fuel on it. That's not the same thing."
"I'm trying."
"I know," she said. "That's the problem."
We tried again. And again. And again. I could make the fire grow. I could feel it blaze hotter every time I touched it. But I couldn't make it move. Couldn't make it curl, or flick, or spin like hers had. Every time I reached for finesse, it just roared. Every time I tried to dance, it tried to break. The sun climbed higher. Sweat pooled at my collarbone. My breath came shallow and fast. Still no motion. Just heat. Just pressure. Just frustration. Cinder watched me with patient eyes. Not disappointed. Not pitying. Just waiting. Because she knew something I didn't. I wasn't ready yet.