Chapter 50

Since Emerin is goneand Jasce is in the War Room, I settle in the Grand Library with the book Aleksander gave me. As I thumb through the pages, I try to not think about Emerin and how much I already miss her.

Each page reveals intricate sketches and cryptic notes about crimson magic. I pause when my gaze lands on a sketch of a Phoenix. The artist captured every feather with painstaking detail.

The image pulses, as if the heart of the bird beats within the parchment. Instinctively, I brush my fingers against the sketch. The lines thrum beneath my fingertips. I wrinkle my brow, lift my hand, then touch the Phoenix again. It flutters, as if alive.

"Impossible," I whisper as a chill races down my spine.

Suddenly, the room dims, as if all the light has been snuffed out by an invisible hand. Time stretches, fading in and out like a candle struggling to stay lit. I blink rapidly, trying to cling to consciousness, but the room keeps wavering, slipping in and out of focus.

The walls ripple and drop away, as if they were merely an illusion all along. Beneath my feet, the stone floor groans open. I gasp and try to fight against the irresistible force pulling me into the void.

A jagged cliff rears up, catching me. I stagger back, losing my footing on the uneven ground. My shoulder slams painfully into a large boulder jutting out from the cliff. I throw my arms around it, clinging to the rough stone with all my strength.

Terrified screams pierce the smoky air. I blink, trying to clear my watering eyes as acrid smoke fills my lungs with each panicked breath. Coughing and gasping, I inch along the cliff face, fingers scraping raw against the stone until I reach the jagged edge. I peer over cautiously through the swirling haze, struggling to see what fresh horror awaits.

A battle rages in the valley below, where crimson flames devour everything, leaving nothing but ash and embers.

I open my mouth to scream, but only silence escapes my lips.

Through the smoke, two historic figures emerge to meet in the center of the battlefield. One is Tarrik, from House of Silver, the chieftain of the Hematites. The other is the insurgent from House of Crimson, who led this savage attack.

The chieftain extends his hand in a gesture of parley and peace. The insurgent summons up flames, then releases them in a torrent that engulfs the chieftain.

Horror impales me as I gasp and bring a hand to my mouth. Grandfather's version of this fateful day floods through my mind. How he said our house had once ruled these lands until the crimson betrayal stole it away.

Above the carnage, the Phoenix lets out a mournful cry, its wings quivering as its flames dim and gutter.

Sadness blinds me as I turn away, not able to look any longer. Not able to face so much suffering.

Thousands of men died that day—all so the crimson insurgent could become chieftain. Ever since, the houses have been locked in a bitter feud.

The Phoenix cries out again, its wail piercing my heart. The cliff and carnage below fade as time swirls and twists around me.

The invisible force tugs me away from the gruesome scene as the world blurs into a wash of color and light. The force settles me in front of a humble cottage nestled against the base of a towering mountain. The thatched roof and weathered wood exude a simple charm. A curl of smoke rises lazily from the stone chimney, dissolving into the crisp mountain air.

The door opens, and Mazaline, Jasce's mother, steps out. "Hello, Annora."

I open my mouth, but I find no words.

She gestures for me to come inside. "Step inside. I have been wanting to speak to you."

"H-how?" I lick my lower lip, hating that I'm stammering like a frightened child.

My hands tremble as I stare at Mazaline's smiling face. This is impossible. She's been dead for over a summer. How can she be here?

"The Phoenix brought you to me."

"But y-your dead." I choke out.

She smiles. "Yes. Now come inside. We have a lot to talk about."

I walk on shaky legs into the cottage, my boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. It's completely empty inside. There are no chairs, no tables, no bed—just a cold hearth in the center of the single room.

I wrap my arms around myself as Mazaline steps inside behind me.

Her plain surcoat swirls around her legs as she shuts the door and turns to face me. "You want to know why I linked your soul with Lyra's."

"Yes."

"Because I believed in you," she says. "Your strength. Your endurance. You will be the one to unite House of Silver and House of Crimson."

I shake my head. "But we never met before Asha brought you to heal me. How would you know those things about me?"

She smiles again. "We have met. You just don't recall. You were a child, and your grandfather ordered you to stay in your room. You sneaked into the Great Hall anyway and hid behind the curtain. He didn't notice you, but I did."

Instinctively, I raise my hand to my scarred cheek, fingertips brushing over the rough, uneven skin. Even after all these summers, it's still a reflex to cover the blemish.

She watches me, her eyes the same striking shade of brown as Jasce's.

Her words return, whispering in my ears. "You will be the one to unite House of Silver and House of Crimson."

"It didn't work," I say through the pain in my chest. "Marrying Jasce. All it did was make my sister angrier."

"It will take more than your marriage to my son to strip away layers of bitterness and hatred."

"What will it take?" Even as the question leaves my lips, my heart clenches, fearing she will demand I leave Jasce.

"Sacrifice. Devotion. Skill. Talent." She lists each word, as if reciting a recipe for dinner. But I know better. Nothing in life is ever that straightforward.

"Is that all?" I ask and immediately regret my sarcasm.

"Let me ask you a question," she says. "How do you see yourself?"

The question churns through my thoughts as I think about everything that has happened since Jasce showed up in Bakva for my birthday. I was out of control when I used Lyra's magic to save Emerin. I was scared when I left with Jasce. I was filled with hope when I married Jasce. And now, I'm full of fear.

Fear for Asha. Fear for Emerin and Tahira being left with our mother. Fear for what this war is going to do to Jasce and his people.

"I don't know how I see myself," I say honestly. "I want to be good, compassionate, loving, honest, reliable."

"You are all of those things, Annora, but all you see are your imperfections." She reaches out and touches my cheek. I think about jerking away, but something about the way she's looking at me makes me allow it. "I could take the scars away, but true strength comes from learning to live with them. To carry them with pride and dignity. Only when you embrace your scars will you be able to see yourself the way I see you."

Is it wrong to hide them?

I don't think so. Especially if it keeps people from gawking at me.

"What else would you like to know?" she asks after a moment.

"What happened to Lyra?"

"She contracted the sweating sickness when she was in Sharhavva. She died the next day."

That quickly?

Poor Lyra.

"Why did you bind my soul with hers? Why not someone else?"

"Her mother came to me after Lyra died and begged me to cast a spell that would make some part of her daughter survive. I did. Just not the spell she expected." Mazaline pauses for a moment. "I think you know why I chose her. To give you her powerful magic, so you could unite our people."

Empathy wells up in my chest for Lyra. She didn't deserve to die so young. "What did Lyra get from this arrangement, other than an untimely death?"

Mazaline's eyes flash with something unreadable. She takes a slow breath before responding. "I cannot help what happened to Lyra. The poor girl was already dead when her mother sent for me."

The Phoenix lets out a mournful cry. The sound pierces the cottage walls and rattles through my bones.

"You may visit me again when you have more questions," Mazaline says, her tone making it clear our meeting has come to an end.

I open my mouth to ask how I can find my way back to this cottage, but the question dies on my lips as the room blurs and fades.

Within moments, the musty cottage is gone, replaced by the familiar grandeur of the palace library. I blink several times as my eyes adjust to the change, part of me wondering if that meeting had just been a vivid daydream.

More questions than answers swirl through my mind. How can I unite the houses when all I have done is anger Asha more?

It's impossible!

I suck in a quick breath and stare down at the Phoenix. Lightly, I touch it, but nothing happens this time.

I snap the book shut and place it on the table next to the chair. Why did Aleksander give me this book and not Jasce?

He knows about the Phoenix, yet he has never mentioned this book to me.

I hate not having answers, and I hate that I haven't spent more time training with Rowena.

That's it.

I'll go to Rowena and ask her to help me more.

* * *

As I stepinto The Pyre Sanctum, I call out for the Muchrah. "Rowena, are you here?"

The older woman appears from an alcove in the back of the massive room. "My Lady, how might I help you?"

"I would like another lesson."

She wipes her hands against her surcoat and nods. "Of course. Let's begin with the basics again."

She guides me to the central dais. "I want you to start with conjuring a flame."

I close my eyes, envisioning the power within me. A warm flicker starts in my chest, then sputters through my veins. I coax it out through my fingertips.

"Now, let it go," she says.

I will the flame to extinguish. It winks out, leaving behind a trail of smoke.

"Again," Rowena says.

I repeat the process—summoning and dismissing the flame over and over.

After countless repetitions, Rowena nods in approval. "You're ready for the next step."

Anticipation thrums through me as she explains what she wants me to do next.

"Focus your energy," she says, "on conjuring a flame that pushes without burning."

I concentrate hard, drawing upon the power inside me. This time when I open my eyes, I don't just create fire—I shape it, mold it into an extension of my will. The flame pulses like a heartbeat, bright and strong but not wild.

Gently, I push it outward, directing it toward Rowena without intention to harm or burn. She stands firm as the flame halts just before her.

"Try again," she says.

You can do this, Annora.

Think in steps.

First, conjure the flame, then use it to move something.

A deep breath centers me, and I reach for the flame inside me again. This time, I envision it as a force, an unseen hand that extends from my body and to the chair across the room.

I focus on it, willing the flame to move it. The chair trembles, then slides across the floor away from me.

"Good." Rowena tracks the chair's smooth glide across the floor. "You're channeling your energy effectively, but I feel your aura, Annora, and it tells me you have far more power than that. I want you to manipulate the chair and move it wherever you want it to go."

I nod and turn my attention to another chair, this one slightly further away.

"Now," Rowena instructs, "lift it."

I conjure my flames in my palm and extend my hand toward the chair, focusing on lifting it into the air, but it doesn't budge. So, I imagine an energy wrapping around it like tendrils of smoke, but the chair remains stubbornly grounded.

"Keep trying," Rowena says.

I close my eyes and concentrate harder. When I open them again and command the chair to rise, it stirs—legs dragging, before it lifts off the ground.

Mazaline's words whisper in my ears. "You are the one who will save our people."

Impossible!

The chair crashes down with a loud snap as one leg breaks under the force. Wood splinters scatter across the stone floor, skittering like frightened mice. I wince at the damage I've caused.

This simple spell was meant to be easy, effortless even, yet I struggle to lift a chair just a few inches off the ground without destroying it.

Rowena clicks her tongue and shakes her head as she steps over to inspect my mess. "Not to worry, My Lady. You'll get it with more practice."

I know she's right. Magic takes time to master. The impatient part of me wishes progress came faster, though.

She clicks her tongue at me again. "There is no need to frown. Mistakes are part of learning and understanding where your focus lies and how easily it can be disrupted."

"I would like to do it again." The exhilaration of channeling the crimson magic still pulses through me, leaving me eager for more.

Rowena shakes her head. "No, Annora. You must rest after conjuring such powerful magic. It takes a toll, even if you don't feel it yet."

I sigh, shoulders slumping. She's right, of course. The rush of adrenaline from earlier has already faded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness.

"Come back tomorrow after you've rested, and we'll continue your lessons," she says.

I nod, accepting her wisdom even as impatience churns within me. There is still so much to learn about wielding the crimson fire, and I yearn to master it. But rushing ahead recklessly will only lead to disaster.

"Yes, you're right," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow then."