Page 25 of A Storm of Fire and Ash

The bathwater was laced with lavender and jasmine, steam curling from the copper tub in lazy spirals. I sank into it with a sigh that shook the bones from my body, letting the warmth soak into my sore muscles.

I knew I shouldn’t be drinking before the tavern, but my body was sore, and I needed to numb the hole I constantly felt in my chest.

I finished the last of my wine and set the chalice down on the tile bathroom floor. My hair floated around me like ink, the only sound the soft drip of water and the distant hum of the castle beyond my chambers.

I had just begun to doze when the door creaked open.

“Elara?” Yara’s melodic voice called gently. “I come bearing options.”

She slipped inside with a soft smile and an armful of fabric. My heart sank and fluttered at once.

“Please tell me it’s not something that requires a corset.”

“No corset,” she said sweetly. “But I am dressing you like a goddess.”

I groaned. “Why?”

“Because if you’re going to walk into that tavern tonight with Makar, Eryn, and the prince, you’re going to make jaws hit the floor.”

I hadn’t known Fintan was planning on coming out too, but a wave of excitement surged through me at the thought of seeing him again.

Memories of our steamy night together flooded my mind, igniting a warmth deep within me.

Overwhelmed, I submerged myself beneath the water, as if hoping to drown the flutter of anticipation that coursed through my veins.

With no room left to protest, I felt Yara’s gentle but insistent hands pulling me from the bath.

She wrapped me in a soft, warm towel, cocooning me in its comforting embrace before leading me to the mirror.

As I blinked at the figure staring back at me, I barely recognized the weary reflection.

It was the image of a tired, half-drunken Fae girl, her spirit seemingly weighed down by grief and flickering embers of fire.

Through the glass, Yara met my eyes, her expression a fragile blend of concern and understanding. Her demeanor softened as she leaned slightly closer, and I could see the way her brow furrowed ever so slightly.

“You’re more than what’s happened to you,” she said gently, her tone tender, as if she were trying to offer me a lifeline.

Yara pulled up a chair, and I sat in it.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I simply nodded, feeling the warm, treacherous tears brimming at the corners of my eyes.

“Have you ever lost anyone you loved?” I suddenly asked her, the question escaping my lips before I could think twice.

Yara brushed her fingers through my long, damp hair, her touch both soothing and maternal. “Of course, dearie. I have loved and lost many throughout the years. The world is not a kind place,” she replied, her voice tinged with a quiet sadness.

“How do you rid yourself of the depression? The sadness? The weakness and helplessness that consumes you whole?” I asked, my voice breaking, unsure whether she had ever experienced sorrow as deep as the chasm I felt within me.

“Depression is not a malfunction, dearie; it is a reckoning. It is a collapse of illusions, a rebellion of the soul,” she said. Her voice soothing the storm swirling inside me. A sad smile crept onto my face.

“That heaviness you feel?” She continued, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding. “It is the weight of a life that no longer serves you. The numbness? It is your spirit, weary of its chains, refusing to engage in what has become a mere facade of truth.”

“But… everything is my fault,” I murmured, desperation spilled from my lips. “I don’t know how to fix myself… I feel so lost, so helpless.” Tears flowed down my face like a river, each one a fragile testament to my sadness.

“That’s because depression isn’t a problem to be fixed. It’s a truth to be faced—an awakening,” she replied, her voice steady and compassionate. “You are shedding—an old self, outdated patterns, and illusions that no longer reflect who you truly are.”

A warm tear rolled down my cheek, and with a gentle motion, Yara reached over to wipe it away.

“The pain you feel,” she said, her hand resting over her heart as I gazed at her through the mirror’s reflection, “it is the fire that burns away everything false, purging your spirit of the weight that has held you back.”

“Then what remains?” I asked.

“The real you.”

My chin quivered as I spoke. “I feel like I have lost myself, as if I don’t even know who I am or what I truly am. I can’t even get my magic right.”

Yara shook her head gently, her expression filled with understanding.

“No, dearie,” she replied softly. “You are meeting yourself for the first time. The real you. The version of you that has been buried beneath layers of expectations, survival instincts, and silent suffering. Depression is the dark cocoon before the wings. It is painful, but it is also a powerful transformation. You aren’t breaking; you are becoming. ”

A chill ran down my spine at her words, and I murmured hesitantly, “Wh-what if I don’t make it out?”

“You will. Not because you hope to, but because you must. The world has not seen the final version of you yet. And when this storm passes—and Elara, it will pass—you will not return as you were. You will return as fire.”

I stood up, not caring that I was still in my towel, and I wrapped my arms tightly around Yara. As I embraced her in a hug, she hesitated only for a moment and then wrapped her arms around me too.

“Thank you,” was all I said.

Yara had understood me, understood how I was feeling. She was easy to talk to, and I couldn’t help but feel a motherly instinct that poured from her. She made me miss Mother dearly, but I also appreciated her friendship and kindness.

Yara dressed me in a deep purple dress that clung in all the right places and shimmered faintly when the light hit it.

The neckline dipped low, the hem long enough to graze the floor but slit high up both thighs.

It wasn’t fancy, exactly—but it was deadly.

Paired with loose curls, thick eyelashes, pink lips, and the soft scent of rosewater, I didn’t recognize myself.

Yara stepped back with a grin. “There she is.”

I smoothed the fabric over my slim waist and glanced at the mirror again. Smoke show, indeed.

A light knock on the door caught mine and Yara’s attention, and in walked Fintan.

Tall. Handsome. And his dimples on full display as he drank me in like water.

“Alright,” I muttered. “Let’s go get drunk.”

The pub was warm and full of laughter, candlelight flickering off wood-paneled walls, casting a golden glow over tankards and flushed cheeks. I could already hear music pulsing from within as Fintan opened the door for me, a cocky grin playing on his lips as I stepped inside.

“After you, trouble,” he murmured, and I smirked as I brushed past him.

The moment we crossed the threshold, a dramatic gasp echoed across the room. I looked up just in time to see Makar stumble back, one hand clutching his chest.

“An arrow!” he declared, loud enough to silence half the room. “Right through the heart. Gods, woman, how dare you walk in looking like that!”

Fintan tensed beside me. “Easy,” he said with a raised brow and a possessive tilt of his jaw. “Careful admiring what’s already spoken for.”

Makar just laughed, eyes twinkling. “Can’t blame a man for falling to his knees for a vision.” He gave me a low, exaggerated bow, and I rolled my eyes, feeling a flush rise in my cheeks. But I didn’t hate the attention.

“You clean up nicely,” Eryn said as she handed me a large ale.

She was dressed in black leather leggings and wore a tight black shirt that showed off her cleavage nicely.

Her lavender hair was braided tightly, tossed to one side so you could see the buzzed part of her head.

“Not so bad yourself,” I smirked and took a long gulp from my cup.

Hours passed. Ale flowed like river water, and laughter echoed as the four of us claimed a corner booth near the hearth.

Eryn, cheeks flushed and braid undone, was halfway through another story about sparring with some douche, when she blinked slowly, then slurred, “If I don’t leave now, I’m going to fall asleep in this mug. ”

“You’d be a legend,” Makar said with mock reverence.

Eryn snorted, wobbled to her feet, and pointed at us like a stern matron. “Don’t drink too much, and no—whatever weird chaos you two get up to,” she added, gesturing between Fintan and Makar before staggering toward the door.

“Yes, Mommy,” Makar teased. She flipped him off as she walked out of the pub.

That left the three of us.

Makar leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the booth with casual confidence, swirling his drink. His short-sleeve shirt was tight and showcased his muscles nicely. “You’re both looking dangerously pretty tonight,” he said, eyes flicking between me and Fintan. “Must be something in the air.”

I tried to play it off with a laugh, but the way his gaze lingered… heat crawled up my neck. There was something bold in the ale, in the music, in the way Fintan’s thigh brushed mine beneath the table.

My thoughts spun, delicious and dangerous. The image of both of them—close, teasing, mine—sent a pulse of desire low in my belly.

Then I felt it.

A whisper across my mind, silk-soft and smug.

“Perhaps I should convince the prince for the three of us to have fun? Seems like that is all that’s on yer mind, love. Keep yer damn shield up, love.”

I gasped—visibly—and my heart leapt. I’d let my mental shield drop. Damn him.

Makar met my gaze across the table, utterly unapologetic. Fintan looked between us, confused at first, then narrowed his eyes, lips twitching as if he sensed something unspoken passing through the space.