Page 21 of A Storm of Fire and Ash

I sat on the small chair by the window in my room.

I had been reading all the books Eryn gave me nonstop.

The Trials of the Sorcerers—its thick, leatherbound cover was dense and ancient—rested open on my lap.

It was said to chronicle the earliest known magical disciplines codified by the First Circle, which was the earliest known order of magic-wielders, formed when magic was still raw and untamed.

The Mages and Warlocks of the First Circle were the first to study, shape, and name the forces others feared, turning chaos into structure.

Each member of the First Circle had mastered a different aspect of arcane power, and together they created foundational spells and disciplines that future generations would build upon.

I turned the page with care, my fingers brushing against the esoteric glyphs etched in a symbol older than the Royal Fae Kings.

I had learned that Royal Fae lived for hundreds of years, while Non-Royal Fae still lived way longer than humans, but not as long as the Royal Fae did.

I guessed I was going to be around for a long ass time…

My eyes caught on a passage subtly inked in gold, a heading that pulsed faintly as if aware it was being read: “Mage Hand: The Invisible Extension.” My brow arched in curiosity.

It is the will given form, the text began, a projection of one’s own intent.

Mage Hand is no conjured spirit nor bound entity—it is the sorcerer’s own grasp, untethered, moving where the flesh does not follow.

My mind sparked with the implications. This was fascinating!

Mage Hand wasn’t some trick, as lesser Mages often treated it.

According to the Trials, Mage Hand wasn’t simply a floating phantom limb—it was an echo of the caster’s presence, an extension of their consciousness made tactile through will and training.

It could reach through fire, carry delicate vials, or crush unseen strength, slip through locks, all without the caster so much as lifting a foot.

“Slip through locks,” I said out loud to myself. Gods, if only I had been a Mage, I could have tried this. Maybe Mage Hand could have freed my father… Wishful thinking.

You did not summon Mage Hand, the text had warned. You were Mage Hand. It was born from your core, not from ritual.

I looked up from the pages slowly, my eyes gleaming with new understanding.

Most spellbooks had reduced it to a utility, a mere party trick.

But here, it was described as something far more intimate.

It wasn’t just about manipulating objects at a distance—it was about projecting intention into the world with raw, unbroken control.

My lips curled into a small, thoughtful smile. I flexed my fingers experimentally, then raised my palm and focused.

Nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened. I was a Royal Fae. I rolled my eyes and laughed at myself.

There was so much I had learned about Mages that Mother never bothered to share with me.

She had taught me plants by scent and touch before I could even spell my own name.

She’d hold my hand over lavender sprigs and say, “feel the calm in them, Elara,” or crush mugwort beneath her fingers so the bitterness clung to my tongue.

Even her bees had been part of my lessons—the way she folded honey into teas, how its sweetness carried her whispered blessings into a body…

The weight of her pressed heavily on my heart, crumbling it with the realization that we did not have enough time.

Just as I was lost in thought, a quick knock on my door startled me, breaking the tense silence.

Yara stepped in, her warm smile brightening the dimly lit room.

She paused for a moment, glancing over her shoulder before Kalista slipped in behind her, her presence adding nothing but negativity that rolled off her.

Fucking great.

“Good morning, Yara,” I greeted cheerfully, my voice light and airy.

I couldn’t resist my kindness, knowing it would piss her off, so I added with an overly sweet tone, “Good morning, Kalista.” The corners of my mouth lifted at the sight of her eye roll and the irritation that flickered across her face.

Yara cast Kalista an unmistakable look of disapproval, her brow furrowing slightly. Kalista let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes further. “Morning,” she mumbled, her tone dripping with disdain.

Yara, still scrutinizing Kalista, placed her hands firmly on her wide hips, a stance that radiated authority. “What did the prince say, Kalista?” she asked, her voice edged with curiosity and underlying annoyance, demanding an answer as if it would somehow justify the tension brewing between us.

Intrigued by the Prince’s words, I observed the two of them with keen interest. Kalista emitted a low, guttural snarl from the back of her throat before offering a curt, “Good morning, My Lady.” I struggled to suppress a laugh, masking my amusement with my shit-eating grin.

With a decisive stomp, Kalista marched over to my bed, yanking the sheets away with an assertive flourish.

Meanwhile, Yara approached, her dark skin radiant in the warm morning light that filtered in through the small window, casting a soft glow that seemed to highlight her graceful features.

Yara approached the elegant armoire, her movements graceful as she hung up two dresses—one safely tucked away in a delicate garment bag.

“My Lady, if it pleases you, I can style your hair and assist you in getting ready. The prince awaits you,” she offered with a warm smile.

My heart leaped at the mention of him, a rush of excitement flooding my senses.

“That would please me very much, Yara. Thank you,” I replied, my voice tinged with anticipation as I glanced at Kalista. She remained silent, her focus on gathering my wrinkled sheets, dirty towels, and laundry, storming out of the room in silence, leaving behind a tension that hung in the air.

I straightened in my chair for Yara, and she began to brush through my long, dark blonde hair, her fingers deftly working to untangle the knots. “Don’t mind her, Elara. Kalista means well, truly. Life has been harsh on her,” Yara said softly, her tone laced with empathy.

Intrigued, I asked, “What happened to her?”

With a gentle flick of her wrist, Yara continued brushing, her expression serious. “I hold respect for Kalista and believe her story is hers alone to share. I choose to honor her privacy.” I nodded in understanding, though I couldn’t help but feel nosy.

Yara gazed at the stack of books perched elegantly on the table.

“Interesting reads,” she smiled, her fingers skillfully braiding my hair, the strands catching the light as they twisted together.

“You know, these books are forbidden?” she mused, her words sending a chill down my spine.

Panic surged within me as I realized my oversight; I hadn’t hidden them well enough.

Before I could respond, Yara leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“I partially enjoyed A Court Divided: Tales of the Fae.”

I turned my head in shock. “You’ve read this before?

” Yara gently cupped my chin, a tender gesture reminiscent of Mother’s touch.

I closed my eyes, leaning into her calming presence.

“Dearie, I’ve read all of them before,” she replied with a knowing smile.

“Not everything is as it seems. Irongate isn’t safe for your kind, Elara…

” The words hung in the air, and my heart sank as an overwhelming wave of panic washed over me.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking—” I stammered, but she placed her hand over my heart, her aura enveloping me in serenity. “Your secret is safe with me, Elara.” Trust blossomed within me; my instincts whispered that she was genuine.

“How did you know?” I asked, curiosity piqued as she turned me back in the chair to finish pinning my hair.

“I’m an old woman, Elara. I’ve lived long and seen much, often in the company of the royals. I hear things, see things I shouldn’t, and I’ve learned the value of silence. You must be careful. No one can know, especially the King.”

“I know. Trust me, I’ve been preached to a lot about that,” I replied hesitantly. Thoughts of the Queen danced through my mind, and I couldn’t help but ask, “What about Queen Faylinn? She seems kind. Can I trust her?”

“As I mentioned, not everything is as it seems. It is not kind to gossip.” I let out a heavy sigh, my shoulders sinking. Yara rubbed my back gently, her touch reassuring. “Trust your Fae instincts. They will never misguide you.”

Yara finished arranging my hair and helped me into a stunning velvet dress.

The royal-blue fabric accentuated my eyes—even the golden hazel one, making them shine.

She applied a hint of makeup, and as I gazed in the mirror, a smile spread across my face.

“Wow, you did a great job!” I chuckled, feeling a flicker of confidence in my reflection.

“Nonsense. You are incredibly beautiful. You don’t need a pretty dress or makeup,” she smiled back warmly, her eyes sparkling with sincerity.

I felt an undeniable connection with Yara, as if she were a comforting balm for my restless soul. But as a wave of sadness washed over my features, she lowered her gaze to my twiddling fingers, a familiar gesture born from nervousness and anxiety.

Yara gently grasped my hands, enveloping them in her warm embrace to stop my fidgeting.

Needing to find more about the weapon my father mentioned, I asked, “Do you know of a weapon that’s hidden here in the castle? Something the King doesn’t want anyone to know about?”

Yara’s dark brown eyes widened in alarm as she glanced around before hushing me. “You mustn’t go searching! It is dangerous! Do not speak of this again; it will not end well for you!” Worry lined her tone, making my heart race.