Page 33 of A Storm of Fire and Ash

Agony ripped me from the dark.

I came to with a scream already tearing through my throat, ragged and hoarse, as if I’d been screaming for hours.

My body was fire—no, worse—fire would have been a mercy.

This was something crueler. Something that burrowed beneath my skin and lit every nerve in my back like lightning cracking open bone.

I was face-down on something soft, though it did nothing to soften the pain. The bedding beneath me was damp with sweat—maybe blood. My hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, and I couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think. My entire world narrowed to the shredded ruin of my back.

“Hold her down—Elara, don’t—!”

That was Eryn’s voice. She sounded close. Too close. I wanted to tell her to go away, to stop touching me, to stop breathing, to leave me in the dark where at least the pain hadn’t been this sharp.

But my mouth wouldn’t work.

Nothing but a scream ripped through me. My hands clenched, and snot poured from my nose as my tears stained the sheets I was lying on.

A hand touched my shoulder—Fintan’s, maybe? It was too warm, too steady—and I screamed again, louder, until my vision exploded into white. I thrashed, but my body barely obeyed, trembling violently under its own weight.

“Fintan—get something—gods, she’s burning up—”

I didn’t hear the rest. My mind began to unravel, and the voices stretched and blended into a dull roar. The pain surged again, rising like a tide of acid through my spine. I choked on a sob as darkness lunged for me—

And then I was gone again.

I surfaced to murmurs and footsteps. The room was quieter. Dimmer. My skin throbbed with fire that wasn’t my own, but something had changed.

“Out,” a voice growled. Deep. Commanding. Unfamiliar and yet… familiar.

I blinked, or thought I did. The world was blurred shapes and warm shadows. Someone protested—Makar? Eryn? But the voice came again, low and final.

“I said out! All of you.”

Silence followed. Then retreating footsteps.

A figure knelt beside me, close enough that I could feel his presence even through the fog of my mind. Cool fingers brushed my temple.

“Elara,” the voice murmured. Gavrin. “I’m going to try to ease the pain, but I can’t undo what’s been done. I can only stop the infection. It’s not going to be pleasant.”

I wanted to cry, to beg, to tell him to leave—but all I managed was a broken gasp as his hands roamed over my back.

I screamed.

My body shook. My eyes fluttered shut.

And I fell again.

A dream took me.

It wasn’t long, barely more than a flicker.

A cave, pulsing with heat and shadow.

A massive white-scaled nose, slick and scarred, exhaling steam that curled like smoke through the air.

Flames.

Screams.

Arrows made of fire.

Fire and ash rained from above.

My ears—my Fae ears—rang.

Green eyes stared at me through the dark.

Then—

I woke.

The pain hadn’t left me. It clung like hot metal to my bones, branding every breath. Fintan was on his knees in front of me. His eyes. The King’s eyes.

I screamed, “Get away! Get away from me!”

I tried to move and failed. My body gave in again, dragging me under. Darkness swallowed me, but this time, it brought me somewhere else.

I stood barefoot in the garden—the one behind the east wall where I drank tea with the Queen—but the air was colder here, as if the night itself was holding its breath.

Mist curled at my ankles as something summoned me to walk back into the castle.

And there it was, the iron door. Tall. Silent. Its surface shimmered with silver symbols, ancient and humming faintly, pulsing with a rhythm that made my heart stutter to match it.

I stepped forward, barely able to feel my legs. My hand trembled as I reached out. The moment my fingers brushed the cool, metal surface—

Everything shifted.

The world vanished in a blink. I stood in pitch black, a space so vast it swallowed sound, time, and thought. And then came the voice.

“Flameborn,” it rumbled, deep and ancient and warm like a hearth wrapped in stone. “I will heal you now.”

I blinked into the dark, searching for the source. “How?” I whispered. “How can you?”

A long silence followed. Then—

“We are connected. We are one.”

“Mage Hand?” I asked. A deep rumble laughed.

“You’re funny, little one,” The voice moved through me, a vibration in my chest, in my blood.

“I can ease the pain, only the physical,” it continued.

“The smaller gashes will vanish. The deeper wounds—I can close them. But they are too deep, even for me. I can take the pain… but you will carry the scars. As for the pain in your heart, only you can heal that, little one. Heal your soul, forgive yourself, and then find me.”

My throat tightened. I understood exactly what the latter meant. “Who are you? Please, tell me.”

Another pause. Then the voice lowered, graver than before.

“If you need to ask, you shouldn’t know. And if you do not know, you are not worthy of asking.”

What the Divine does that even mean?

Before I could respond—before I could even feel afraid—I woke.

Gasping, drenched in sweat. The world snapped back into place. Light. Movement. Warmth.

“Elara!” Eryn’s voice was thick with emotion. She was leaning over me, clutching my hand tightly.

Makar hovered nearby, eyes wide, as if unsure whether to touch me or not. Gavrin stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, but his expression was not hard—it was stunned.

“You’re awake,” Eryn whispered, brushing my soaked hair from my face. “Thank the gods, you’re awake.”

I blinked, dazed. My body felt… wrong. Or maybe right. I didn’t hurt. Not really. Just a dull ache, far away.

Gavrin stepped forward, squinting at me with one eye as though I were some strange puzzle. “How did you do it?”

I blinked at him. “Do what?”

Makar’s brow furrowed. He stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Elara… your back. The wounds—they’re gone.”

Eryn nodded, swallowing hard. “There’s nothing left but scars. Deep ones… but you’re not bleeding. You’re healed. We watched,” she took a deep breath, “we watched your skin repair itself in seconds.”

I didn’t know what to say. I sat up slowly, eyes darting between them.

“I—I don’t think it was me.”

They all looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“Fintan?” I asked, not wanting to see him. Not yet. I couldn’t. Not when his eyes reminded me too much of his father’s.

Makar shook his head, “You screamed at us to get him out. You didn’t want to see him. He is fine though, the whip got his chest but luckily, he had on his leathers and the lashing didn’t leave a mark.”

I sighed with relief when I realized he wouldn’t be barging in.

I slid off the bed with careful, deliberate movements, half-expecting the fire in my back to roar to life again. But it didn’t. My body ached, but the sharp agony was gone—just a ghost now.

Gavrin quickly came to my side, supporting my weight by grabbing my elbow.

I looked up at him and smiled.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You need to eat. It’s been four days,” his deep voice rumbled.

“I said I’m fine,” I snapped. Gavrin let go.

“Please, everyone, go. I wish to be alone.”

“Elara, but—” Eryn stopped when I gave her a look.

“Alright, everyone out. You heard her,” she ushered everyone to the door. She stopped before leaving. “I’m glad you’re alright. You are so fucking brave, Elara. I’ll send for Molyara.”

She closed my door.

The full-length mirror stood next to the armoire, half-covered by a drape of linen. I walked toward it, the floor cool under my feet, my heart pounding harder with every step.

I stopped in front of the mirror and turned, slowly, painfully aware of every motion. I let my shirt slide to the floor.

I didn’t recognize my back.

What should have been open wounds and torn flesh was now a landscape of scar tissue—no blood, no bandages, just skin that had been carved and sealed.

I knew I had gotten nineteen lashes, but not at all were there.

Some scars faint and narrow, others deep and jagged, crisscrossed from my shoulder blades to the small of my spine.

Some lashes had overlapped, creating thicker ridges, pale and raised like silvery welts frozen mid-heal.

It looked like molten metal had been poured over me and cooled in streaks—violent, permanent artwork.

I counted every single one that I could see.

Ten.

Ten, just like all the gods and goddesses themselves. Like each had blessed my skin with a wicked touch.

I lifted a hand and brushed my fingertips over one of the deeper scars. The skin was ridged and warm, as if it remembered what had happened even if the pain had been taken. I pressed harder. No sting. No burn. Just… texture. As if someone else’s back had been grafted onto mine.

But it was mine.

The marks curved slightly with the shape of my body, following the path of each lash. Some had left starburst patterns where the tip of the whip had bitten in and curled. Others were long and deliberate—measured cruelty.

I swallowed hard. They didn’t hurt. But they would never fade. I didn’t remember healing. I didn’t feel power surge through me. No magic. No chant.

Just the door.

The voice.

The heat of unseen flame.