Page 90 of Thunder's Reckoning

“He called himself a prophet,” I went on. “Said he was chosen. Said we were too, but only if we stayed pure in the eyes of the flame.”

I looked down at the coffee, the steam twisting like smoke.

“But we were never pure enough.” My voice cracked. “Especially the girls.”

A memory slammed sharp behind my eyes—skin blistering, his voice booming about obedience, the stink of burnt flesh mixing with incense. The ash mark on my chest still itched sometimes, like my body remembered more than I wanted it to.

Miriam’s gaze turned to me then, certain and unflinching. Not pity. Not shock. Just a weight that told me she understood more than she was saying.

“And Gabrial?” she asked carefully. “He was the prophet. And he chose you.”

“Yes.” My throat tightened. “He said the flame created me for him. That only he could love me.”

The words fell bitter in the air. I forced myself to look up, meet her eyes. “That’s not love.”

“No,” Miriam said. Her voice held steel. “It isn’t.”

Silence stretched again, but it didn’t scare me. It felt like she was holding the weight with me instead of letting me carry it alone.

“You still fear that flame?” she asked after a long beat.

The question startled me. My instinct was denial. But the truth slid out ragged. “Yes.”

She reached across the space between us, her hand warm and solid over mine. Not smothering, not pitying, just steady. “I’m real glad you made it out.”

There was something in her voice then—something old and aching. I looked at her and wondered just how much she wasn’t saying.

“You ever hear of anything like that before?” I asked.

Her mouth curved, small and sad. “We all got ghosts,” she said. “Some of us just learn to walk beside them.”

Her rocking chair creaked slow, like it was keeping time with the words.

I sat back, swing shifting beneath me, chest tight with things I couldn’t name. The wind picked up again, brushing hair across my cheek, carrying the clean scent of pine… and something else.

Smoke.

My breath caught.

I turned toward the horizon. The fields were gold and green under the sun, sky stretching wide, blue and endless. Nothing burning. Nothing wrong.

But the hairs on the back of my neck rose anyway. My heart thudded too hard for the stillness.

Miriam stood, setting her empty mug on the porch rail. “I’ll check on the kids.”

The screen door clicked behind her, leaving me with the creak of chains, the hum of cicadas, the distant sound of cars on the highway.

The air smelled sweet again. Safe.

But I couldn’t shake it. That ghost of smoke. That memory of fire pressing close, reminding me it was never far enough away.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

THE SUN HADlong done that slow, honey-coloredslide across the horizon when I finally rolled back in, boots caked with road dust, mind heavier than the saddle I rode in on. The bike hummed under me, constant and familiar, but my chest hadn’t loosened. Every mile felt stretched tight, like the road itself was remindin’ me that peace was just a layover, never the destination.

The air had cooled some, enough that the sweat on my back chilled beneath my shirt, but the day clung stubborn, grease, asphalt, and the sour tang of adrenaline still hangin’ on me. I cut the engine, the sudden silence almost jarrin’. Out here, it was neverquietquiet. Cicadas screamed in the pines, frogs carriedtheir song from the ditch, and the boards of Momma’s porch creaked low in the evenin’ heat. Still, compared to the roar inside me, it might as well’ve been church.

I stood there for a moment too long, helmet danglin’ from my fingers, breath pushin’ slow through gritted teeth. The house looked the same as it always had—weathered wood, white trim, a porch swing that never stopped swayin’ with the wind. Home. And for the first time in a long time, I wondered if I even knew how to walk through that door without bringin’ hell with me.