Page 28 of A Storm of Fire and Ash

The memory of last night still clung to my skin like starlight on silk.

I lay sprawled across my bed, the afternoon sunlight peeking through the curtains cast lazy golden streaks across the sheets.

I didn’t regret any of last night. Not the way they looked at me. Not the way they touched me. Not the way I cried out their names, or how I took them both without hesitation.

If anything, it made me feel powerful. Unashamed. Like I was more than just the girl shaped by grief and fire—I was something raw and untamed, something divine.

But Fintan… he hadn’t looked at me the same this morning. He hadn’t said much at all. His mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicked away whenever mine found his. He hadn’t even said goodbye before leaving with his guards at dawn.

I sat up slowly, letting the cool air kiss my bare skin before reaching for the silk robe beside the bed. As I wrapped it around me, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—hair tangled, lips swollen, eyes shadowed with makeup.

He needed to feel whatever he needed to feel. I would not bury myself beneath someone else’s guilt.

Not anymore.

At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself of.

I crossed the room, my fingers trailing along the cluttered desk until they landed on a worn book bound in violet leather. The Trials of the Sorceress. I hadn’t opened it in days, but it had lingered in the back of my mind.

I flipped it open, and the same page found me again, as if it had been waiting.

The Mage Hand is not summoned. It is born. Not an extension of the mage, but a fragment of their soul given purpose.

My heart skipped.

As I read the words again, a strange heat sparked in my chest. My magic, always humming beneath the surface, began to flicker—like candlelight caught in the wind. I set the book down, suddenly breathless, as a shimmering sensation climbed down my arm.

I stared at my hand.

Dark, swirling light coiled over my fingers like ink in water—smoky and silver-veined, pulsing with something ancient. Not summoned. Not forced. It simply… came. As if I were now worthy of its appearance.

A weightless shape began to form above my palm—semi-transparent, made of magic and intent. Fingers stretched, glowing faintly violet and gold.

I gasped.

Mage Hand.

My lips parted in awe as I raised my arm toward the bookshelf across the room. Go, I thought, not commanding it—but inviting it. Like a friend.

The Mage Hand drifted forward with fluid grace, plucked the candle from the table, and floated it gently back into my grasp.

I gasped. “Oh… oh, gods.”

It moved before I could think—lifting strands of my hair and weaving them into a braid down my back with more skill than I had on my best day. I laughed softly in disbelief. “Well, aren’t you clever,” I whispered.

Then it grabbed a dress from the armoire and draped it over the chair. I stood and walked over, stripping from my robe and sliding the dress on. Mage Hand moved behind me, sliding up the back of my dress, and zipped it closed with elegant precision.

Power hummed beneath my skin, alive and curious, as if I’d stepped through a doorway I hadn’t even known existed. The Mage Hand curled in the air for a moment—like it was waiting for a goodbye—and with a simple breath from me, it vanished in a swirl of light.

Gone.

But not really. I could still feel it. Magic called to magic. It was me.

I stood motionless in the center of my room, fingers flexing slightly, still tingling from the magic.

My heart beat wildly in my chest. I picked up the book from my bed.

Only Mages can wield Mage Hand. That’s what the text said.

I flipped back to the page again, my eyes scanning the line over and over, as if it might change:

Mage Hand is a sacred extension of a true magical gift. It cannot be summoned. It awakens only in those of pure lineage—those touched by the first arcane flame.

But I wasn’t a Mage. I was Royal Fae.

Suddenly, the words my mother had whispered to me as she lay dying, echoed like a ghost against the walls of my mind, creeping in before I could stop them.

Blood pooled from her lips as she mouthed for me to lean in closer. So close, her lips touched my ear as her voice broke, “Your mo-mother and father… were m-more than just Royal Fae.”

I closed my eyes. The memory hit hard—no longer a gentle ache, but a knife twisting deep into my ribs.

I was back there again, kneeling in the ashes of our home. Her blood on my hands. Her body was so small and fragile in my arms. Her eyes, once brilliant, were dimming fast, the last flicker of life like a dying ember.

“More than just Royal Fae,” I repeated out loud.

What had she meant?

I exhaled sharply, forcing the memory back into its cage, though the edges still burned.

I had read enough since then—torn through books on Warlocks, Mages, Fae courts, even whispered legends of the Dragons.

I knew enough to understand that even Royal Fae didn’t have access to all four elements like Warlocks did.

And they certainly didn’t possess Magecraft.

So if I had fire, earth, air… and now Mage Hand… then what was I?

What was I becoming?

I needed answers. And I needed them yesterday.

I knew the only person I could ask was Father. I planned on seeing him later tonight.

But for now—before my thoughts spiraled too far—I needed food. And a little company.

The kitchen was already a flurry of motion when I arrived. Cendrin was elbow-deep in flour, muttering curses under his breath, while Sivka danced around him with a ladle, humming an off-key tune that may or may not have been a war chant.

“There she is,” Sivka announced the moment I stepped in, raising her tawny, exposed arms like I was the Queen herself. “Elara, I hope you enjoyed your night with the prince the other day. You left the gardens in such a rush,” she smirked.

My cheeks flushed.

“You put those herbs in my tea! I knew it!” I shouted. I wasn’t mad about it.

Sivka chuckled.

Cendrin grunted. “If you’re here to help, girlie, then help. Do not stand in the way. That bread won’t shape itself.”

“I was thinking more of tasting than shaping,” I replied, sliding onto a stool and stealing a peach from the counter. I took a bite and went to reach for a slice of bread.

Cendrin slapped my hand lightly with a wooden spoon. “Get your greedy skinny fingers off my masterpiece,” he teased.

“You wound me, Cendrin,” I said with a grin. “I only wanted to ensure this bread wasn’t poisoned. You know, since Sivka here likes to play games.”

“If it were, I’d have fed it to Sivka first,” he deadpanned.

I laughed along with Cendrin.

“Rude!” Sivka cried dramatically, pressing her hand to her chest. “I slave away every day keeping morale high, and this is how I’m repaid?”

“I can feel the morale,” I teased, nibbling on the stolen bread. “It tastes like treason and cinnamon. Better than your bitter, sexy tea,” I glared at her playfully.

Sivka feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you are speaking of. I was simply just following the Queen’s orders.” Sivka laughed and plopped a bowl of spiced berries in front of me. “Eat. You look like you could use some food.”

The warmth of the hearth and the chaos of the kitchen grounded me—pulled me from the swirl of memories and magic. A deep growl resonated in my head again.

“Help.” Its deep voice roared. It sounded far away.

My eyes went wide.

“What’s wrong?” Cendrin asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Did you guys hear that?” I asked.

They both looked at me like I was crazy. But I could feel it. Like something had awakened in me. And it wasn’t going back to sleep.

Without another word, I slipped down from the stool and made my way towards the gardens. I’m not sure why, but something deep inside urged me to go there.

The castle was quiet, unusually so. My flats padded softly against the stone floors, the cool air brushed against my arms as I wandered without purpose—or at least, that’s what it might’ve looked like. But I felt something. A pull. A whisper beneath my ribs, a low thrum in my bones.

I wasn’t walking aimlessly.

I was following instinct.

“Help.”

The voice crackled through my head like a sudden gust through dead leaves—hoarse and desperate. I froze in the middle of the corridor, my breath catching in my throat.

“Who are you?” I whispered aloud, barely moving my lips. “Where are you?”

Silence.

Only the distant drip of condensation from the ceiling answered. I swallowed the tightness in my throat and continued forward, every step heavier with unease. My feet carried me past the familiar corridor where morning light usually spilled in from the gardens—but I didn’t turn toward the warmth.

Instead, I stood once more in front of the massive iron doors, rusted and weathered, veins of ancient magic still etched like spiderwebs across their surface.

The Queen had told me casually and with a dismissive wave, that the lower chambers beneath these doors held nothing but rats and old, forbidden books that no one was allowed to read. Useless things. Dangerous things.

Yet something behind that iron—someone—was calling for me.

“Help,” the voice roared again in my head, clearer this time. So loud it made me flinch.

My hand tingled.

I looked down—and there it was.

Mage Hand.

It shimmered with faint energy, hovering just above my skin. Not summoned. Not called. Just there, reacting to the pull.

Shit.

Panic rose in my chest. I looked around quickly, making sure no one was there to see. The halls were empty, the only witness the ivy curling in from the garden windows.

“Hide,” I hissed in a breath, and the hand vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a faint warmth against my fingers.

“Elara!”

I jumped.

Eryn’s voice cracked the moment like a whip, and I turned to see her jogging toward me, a light sheen of sweat already glistening on her arched brow. “There you are. I’ve been searching everywhere. You weren’t at breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” I muttered, brushing my hands on my hips and forcing my pulse to slow.

“Well, come,” she said, already turning. “Your magic won’t train itself.”

I looked down at my dress. Why did I put this on?

“I need to change first.”

“Nope,” Eryn said. “You dress like that you fight like that. Now, let’s go.” Her voice was stern, and I rolled my eyes at her, huffing in annoyance.

And just like that, the moment passed. The call, the voice, the iron doors—they had to wait.

I groaned under my breath but followed her through the now-familiar path beyond the castle walls. We sprinted the forest trails, the trees whipping past us in blurs of green and gold. Fae speed made the air rush against my face like wind on a cliff’s edge. My legs burned, but I didn’t stop.

Then came push-ups until my arms trembled, then punches blocked and thrown as Eryn drilled me again and again, her strikes fast and punishing.

My mind barely caught a breath before Makar stepped in with that maddening grin, pushing me to hold my mental shield even as he whispered illusions and riddles into my thoughts, trying to unravel my focus.

“You call that a shield?” he teased, voice like silk dipped in trouble. “My auntie’s cat had stronger defenses.”

“Had?” I asked.

“Yup. She’s dead now. Both of ‘em.”

By sunset, I could barely lift my arms.

The training didn’t end until I collapsed to my knees, gasping, sweat streaking down my temples. My magic flickered behind my ribs, worn thin and unruly. I skipped dinner—I couldn’t even think about food.

When I finally stumbled back to my room, I didn’t bother lighting a candle. The door closed behind me with a soft click, and I collapsed into bed without a word.

Mage Hand reappeared without command, tucking the covers gently around me, its invisible fingers undoing my braid with soft, precise care.

“Thanks,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

It lingered for a moment. And then, just as my eyes began to flutter closed, it vanished into the dark.

I slept with whispers still echoing in my head. Whispers I couldn’t quite remember. Or forget.