Page 26 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into two more months as the jungle thinned, giving way to arid terrain.

The suffocating humidity of Endrina gradually dissipated, replaced by a dry, relentless heat that pressed down on us like a physical weight.

The air smelled of dust and sun-scorched earth, and the once-abundant riverbeds had dwindled into cracked dirt and shallow pools.

Potable water became scarce, forcing us to collect morning dew from the wide leaves of wax palms to refill our canteens.

With each grueling day’s hike, my strength returned, my body rebuilding itself from the weakened state I had been in when we first entered the jungle.

The endless walking, the constant demands of survival, the weight of my gear pressing against my back—it was all an unspoken training regimen, forcing my muscles to remember what they had once been capable of.

My steps grew lighter.

My endurance stretched longer.

I was no longer merely keeping up.

I was keeping pace.

Xixi was thriving.

Each day, she seemed to grow larger, her frame filling out into something more formidable, her movements more graceful and sure-footed.

By now, she was the size of a full-grown jaguar, prowling the terrain with effortless precision.

She hunted for herself and often returned with her fur damp from swimming in the few streams that remained, her stomach full and round from whatever unfortunate creature had crossed her path.

She had become a shadow at my side, both guardian and menace, depending on who you asked.

I spent my days with Lian and Elías, learning the delicate balance between healing and harm that existed in Endrina’s plant life.

Elías delighted in pointing out which leaves could save a life and which could end one with just a careless touch.

Lian had taken it upon himself to teach me the simple but vital skills of self-care, ones I had never been given the chance to learn before.

He showed me how to properly untangle my hair without snapping half of it off in frustration, how to braid it and wrap it so I didn’t swelter beneath its weight.

When my menstrual cycle returned—something I hadn’t dealt with in months due to the stress and malnourishment of captivity—he crafted a discreet menstrual cup for me, carefully explaining how to use and clean it.

If it had been anyone else, I might have curled up and died of embarrassment, but with Lian, I found I could trust him with even the most personal of things.

He made it seem as ordinary as tending a wound.

Some days, Dom invited me to hunt with him and Xixi, teaching me the art of tracking, trapping, and gutting game.

His movements were efficient, honed by years of practice.

He showed me how to look for bent grass, for claw marks on bark, for the barely perceptible trails left behind by prey.

And when we returned, we would prepare hearty soups together, throwing in fresh herbs and hominy, always leaving an extra portion for Xixi, who devoured her meal with all the decorum of a feral beast.

Kerun had taken to trailing after me, his curiosity as sharp as his tongue.

He badgered me with questions about my training, relentless until I finally caved and agreed to teach him a thing or two.

Serpentienza was far too advanced for him, much to his irritation, but he took well to the simpler techniques—disarming moves suited to his size, the mechanics of a proper throw when it came to knives.

He was eager, quick to learn, though he pouted every time I refused to show him something more deadly.

When he wasn’t pestering me, he and Xixi were getting into mischief, much to Elías’s dismay.

Their latest scheme had involved sneaking a live snake into Elías’s bedroll, and he had spent the better part of the morning shrieking and swearing vengeance upon them both.

Some days, I joined Malakai as he scouted ahead of the group, our strides matching as we walked in companionable silence, broken only when he chose to share snippets of his life before becoming a mercenary.

I learned that he had once trained for something greater, that he had known luxury before exile, that his past was filled with ghosts he refused to let haunt him.

He told his stories easily, a smirk tugging at his lips as he spoke, but I could see the shadow beneath his words, the weight of what had been lost.

Despite the dangers of Endrina, we had yet to encounter anything as fearsome as the cuegle or ciguapa.

As Lian had said weeks ago, Xixi seemed to deter the worst of the jungle’s nightmares.

Malakai couldn’t be everywhere at once, and having an additional protector was a comfort we all felt but never voiced.

At night, however, my own demons found me.

Dreams plagued my sleep, more vivid than before.

I saw bodies in my wake, flames licking at the edges of my vision, blood staining my hands.

I saw the faces of the ones I’d killed, the ones I’d hunted.

And worst of all, I saw Malakai and his crew, bound before me, their eyes dull with resignation.

My blade slicing through Malakai’s throat, the warmth of his blood on my hands.

I heard the whisper of my mother’s voice, reminding me of what I was. What I would always be.

The Nightshade of Rojas.

I would wake in the dark, my breath ragged, my skin damp with sweat.

Some nights, Malakai was already awake, watching me with an unreadable expression.

He never asked about the dreams.

But I could feel the question lingering between us, heavy and suffocating.

I never gave him an answer.

Because deep down, I feared the truth.

I feared that someday, the dream would no longer be a dream at all.

A fresh breeze blew in from the east, cool and brisk, carrying the scent of dry leaves and the faintest whisper of home.

It raked through my hair, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

I hadn’t thought of Rojas in months, hadn’t allowed myself to.

But now, with the shifting seasons, it was impossible to ignore.

Fall had come to Corinea, and with it, El Día de Las Madres was approaching.

For a full week, Rojas would be alive with feasts, dancing, parades, and music.

The streets would glow with candlelight as people sang praises to Las Madres, asking for protection, prosperity, and blessings for the year to come.

The scent of roasted maize, honeyed breads, and atole would fill the air.

Children would run wild, their faces painted with intricate designs of jaguars and serpents, playing games between the processions.

There would be fire dancers in the square, drummers whose beats pulsed like a second heartbeat in the chest of the city.

I would not be there to see it.

My heart ached at the realization that I may never stand in those streets again, never feel the steady thrum of the festival beneath my feet, never hear the familiar rise and fall of Rojano voices weaving together in prayer and celebration.

Because I could never go home.

Because my mother—the woman who had carved me into a weapon, who had forged me in blood and shadow—had left me to rot in an Aguatitlan dungeon without a second thought.

She had done nothing to save me.

No whispered negotiations.

No hidden agents sent to retrieve me in the dead of night.

No army to burn my prison to the ground.

I had been discarded, thrown away like something broken and useless. A shattered blade, no longer fit for her collection.

The thought hollowed me out, leaving behind something raw and exposed.

My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms as my throat tightened.

Trash.

That’s what I’d been.

Trash.

And what had I done? I’d latched onto the first offer of kindness like some naive child.

I had allowed myself to fall into routine with Malakai and his crew, had let myself believe that I belonged among them. That this—this fragile, temporary peace—was something I could have. That it was something I deserved.

But it wasn’t.

And I didn’t.

This wasn’t real.

This wasn’t mine.

Malakai had a job to do, and that job ended with me in the hands of the Hada in Tiepaz, locked away behind their gilded walls.

A political token.

A pawn.

A sacrifice.

I spent the rest of the day wrapped in silence, my thoughts coiling tighter and tighter until they felt like thorns wrapped around my ribs.

I didn’t join Lian that evening to carve alongside the firelight, nor did I continue my last lesson with Kerun.

I didn’t hunt with Dom or spar with Malakai.

Even Xixi, ever attuned to my moods, seemed subdued, curling up at my feet rather than playfully harassing Elías.

After dinner, when the others sat in their usual clusters, I helped clean up in silence before pushing to my feet.

“I’m going for a walk.”

My voice felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.

Malakai’s head snapped up, brows drawing together. “Alone?”

“I’ll take Xixi.”

I patted the whistle at my neck before he could argue.

"And I’ll stay close to camp.”

His frown deepened, suspicion flickering behind those violet eyes, but he didn’t press.

I didn’t wait for his approval.

I turned and walked away, slipping into the dense tangle of trees before anyone else could stop me.

I didn’t go far.

I stopped when the voices of the group faded into the rustle of leaves, when the flicker of firelight no longer reached me through the underbrush.

I found a thick, gnarled root jutting up from the dirt and perched on it, bracing my arms against my knees.

Above me, Xixi leapt into the branches of a ceiba tree, shaking free some small, round fruit that thudded against the ground.

She stretched along the thick branch, long and languid, before closing her eyes with a quiet huff, as if to say, ‘Wake me when you’re done being dramatic.’

I leaned my head back against the bark and let out a slow breath.

Everything felt too loud inside my head.

Every doubt.

Every whisper of fear.

Every reminder that I didn’t belong.

I had let myself become comfortable. Let myself slip into the illusion of safety. And I had forgotten. I had forgotten what I was. What I was meant for.

I had forgotten that all of this—the laughter, the companionship, the quiet moments that made me feel human—was temporary.

And temporary things always ended in blood.

“Are you going to tell me what’s troubling you, or are you going to make me guess?”

Malakai’s voice slipped through the trees, low and certain. He moved like a shadow, like the night itself had formed into the shape of a man.

I didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, I ripped a flower from the ground and tore into it with restless fingers, shredding petal after petal, as if its destruction could keep me from unraveling myself. I’d let my guard slip. Let Malakai draw me in with his easy charm and disarming smiles. I had allowed myself to feel something warm, something close to belonging.

But it had all been a lie.

I meant nothing to Malakai. Just as I had meant nothing to Mother.

I tossed the barren stem into the dirt.

"I don’t know why I let myself get wrapped up in this group, in all of you.”

My voice was hoarse, the words raw in my throat.

"I let myself forget that I’m only here because I serve a purpose. Just like when I served Mother. The only worth I had was in what I could do for her, in how well I could kill, how perfectly I could obey. And now it’s the same. My worth is measured in tenos, in what the Hada are willing to pay for me.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

"Once they have me, once I’ve done what they need, they’ll toss me aside. Just like Mother did. Just like you’re going to do.”

There it was. The truth I had been running from, finally spoken aloud, and it ripped through me like a serrated blade.

Malakai stepped closer, his presence warm even as the night air cooled. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for my hand. I tensed, instinct screaming at me to pull away, but I didn’t. His fingers curled around mine, his grip firm but gentle. His touch, as always, was careful—like I was something precious. Like I was something that mattered.

His thumb grazed over my knuckles, slow, almost absent—but the pressure was anything but casual. His calluses caught against mine, and the way his fingers lingered told me he wasn’t ready to let go.

“Only a fool would try to weigh the sun, or the moon, or the stars,”

he said, and his voice—goddess—his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw.

"And just the same, there is nothing . . . nothing in this world that could ever match your worth.”

His jaw clenched like he regretted saying it out loud, like the truth had broken past whatever restraint he was clinging to.

Before I could move—before I could think—he lifted my hand to his mouth. And then I was thinking of nothing but him.

His lips brushed my skin with a softness that broke me. Like a man kissing a wound he couldn’t heal. Like a goodbye he didn’t want to give. I felt the moment catch in his throat. A pause. A breath. A silent war behind his eyes.

And then, with a shudder I wasn’t meant to notice, he pulled back. His fingers slipped from mine. My hand fell to my lap like it had lost all purpose.

“I think you’ll find happiness in Tiepaz,”

he said, barely above a whisper.

"And after everything . . . you deserve it.”

But he didn’t look at me when he said it.

I was grateful that he didn’t. Because if he had, I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d let him walk away.

I stood frozen, staring at the space he had left behind. My stomach twisted, my pulse hammering in my throat. I didn’t realize how much I wanted him to stay, how much I wanted him to not stop, until he was gone.

I should have said something. I should have called after him, told him that happiness wasn’t something I deserved. That I didn’t want Tiepaz—I wanted . . .

I wanted this.

I pressed my hand against my chest, where the ghost of his lips still lingered against my skin.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I wished I had the courage to ask for what I wanted.