![]() ![]() The sparks on my fingers died, and the wisp darted back into my heart. ![]() I held my breath, afraid to break the spell.Ī gust of frigid air whipped my hair across my face. I coaxed it forward, a reluctant thread that grew a little, then a little more. But there it was, a small, churning tendril. If I did it right, the bright sparks on my hand would burst into tiny flames.Īfter years of being told to tamp down my fire, keep it hidden, make it invisible, I struggled each time I tried to find it. I closed my eyes and focused on my heart, willing the gathering warmth to surge upward and out the way Grandmother had taught me. ![]() If the king's soldiers discovered me, wasn't it better to know how to wield my heat? But she died before she could show me more than the most rudimentary of lessons, and Mother had made me promise never to practice at all. Grandmother used to say that the true test of a Fireblood's gift was in the cold. Winter solstice was six weeks away, but my village, high in the mountains, was already blanketed with a thick layer of snow. With my free hand, I pulled a bucket of melting snow closer and edged forward on my knees, ready to douse myself if the sparks flared into something much larger. Sparks leaped from the hearth and settled onto my fingers, heat drawn to heat, and glittered like molten gems against my skin. ![]()
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May 2023
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