Page 32 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

The next morning, a sharp knock jolted me from sleep. I groaned, rolling onto my stomach and shoving my face into the pillow made of woven lilies. It smelled like crushed petals and earth, a softness I wasn’t used to.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

At the foot of the bed, Xixi stirred, yawning wide enough to show her impressive canines before lazily setting her head back onto her paws.

I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"What has you so tired?”

I muttered, voice thick with exhaustion. It wasn’t like she had spent the whole night with Malakai.

Heat prickled up my neck at the memory. By the time I had finally whispered goodnight, the sun had already been cresting the horizon. Sleep had come fast and deep, dragging me under before I had the chance to process just how much I had let myself fall into him.

Xixi didn’t bother responding. Instead, she flicked her thick wolfish tail, smacking me square in the face before curling tighter into herself.

With a grumble, I brushed fur from my cheek and stood, padding barefoot across the moss-covered floor toward the door. I ran a hand over my hair, hoping I looked at least somewhat presentable. The last thing I needed was Malakai smirking at me in that knowing way of his.

I pulled open the door, lips already parted to give him a hard time, only to be met with a woman who was most definitely not Malakai.

My stomach dropped.

Burgundy hair cascaded down her back in thick waves, damp with dew that still clung to her fawn-colored skin. Her violet eyes were sharper up close, weighted and knowing. And behind her, delicate, gossamer wings fluttered lazily against the early morning breeze.

The woman who had saved my life.

Malakai’s mother.

“Good morning, Nightshade,”

she greeted, her voice like the hush of wind through hollowed-out reeds.

A low growl vibrated from behind me.

Xixi.

“Behave,”

I hissed, casting a warning glance at the alebrije. Of all times to pick a fight, this was not it.

I ducked my head into a bow, feeling the weight of the queen’s presence pressing down on me. This was the woman who had bargained for my life, who had saved me when no one else could. She deserved at least that much.

Cool fingers found my chin, tilting my face back up.

“You bow to no one, Nightshade. Not even to me,”

the queen murmured, studying me with an unreadable expression.

I swallowed. The intensity in her gaze was suffocating, like she could see straight through me, peeling back every carefully constructed layer.

She’s right, Xixi purred into my mind, surprisingly smug.

The alebrije, however, did not ease the tension rolling off her sleek body. Instead, she slinked from the bed and took up position beside me, her lips pulling back in the beginning of a snarl. The growl deep in her chest was quieter this time, but no less threatening.

“I said, back off,”

I muttered, nudging Xixi with my leg, praying to every single one of Las Madres that she didn’t do something reckless. The last thing I needed was to offend the Queen of El Valle de los Sue?os. Or, more importantly, Malakai’s mother.

Xixi huffed but relented, her growl tapering off into an unimpressed chuff.

The queen smiled. Not amused—satisfied. Like she had already won whatever unspoken game we were playing.

My stomach tightened.

Malakai’s warning rang in my ears. She is not someone you want to be in debt to. Or worse—someone who finds you interesting.

Something told me I had already become both.

The queen smiled fondly at Xixi, a knowing glint in her violet eyes.

"I take no offense. Bonded alebrije are very protective of their humans.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about being referred to as Xixi’s human, but that was a conversation for another time.

I shot Xixi a sharp glare, eyes narrowed in silent accusation. Really? My gaze demanded. When were you going to tell me we are bonded?

Xixi sat back on her haunches, her wolfish tail flicking across the moss-covered floor in lazy amusement. Are you really surprised? I didn’t think I had to spell it out for you.

My nostrils flared. Oh, we’ll be having a long conversation about this later.

The queen waved a delicate hand in the air, her burgundy curls shimmering in the morning light.

"Come, the festival will begin soon, and I wanted to spend some time getting to know you.”

Her tone was light, but there was something calculated behind the words, something too smooth.

Something that made my hackles rise.

I didn’t trust her. Not just because Malakai didn’t. Not just because she had made a deal for my life and let him pay the price. But because she watched me with that same assessing gaze Malakai sometimes wore. The kind that looked right through me, peeling me apart at the seams to find what was hiding underneath.

The difference was—I wanted Malakai to see me.

His mother?

She could keep her curiosity to herself.

Still, I wasn’t in a position to refuse. The queen of El Valle had saved me, after all. And if there was one thing I had learned in my time at court, it was that you didn’t bite the hand that saved your life—until you were sure you didn’t need it anymore.

I followed her outside, leaving Xixi behind to lounge in the dappled sunlight. My alebrije stretched lazily across my bed of lilies, not a care in the world. Must be nice, I thought dryly.

Then I saw the creature waiting for us.

Hovering just beyond the wooden pier was an alebrije unlike anything I had ever seen. A massive, otherworldly being with the wings of a butterfly—each one spanning the length of at least six people lying head to foot. Its body was a blend of creatures: the head and body of a horse, and the coiling tail of a seahorse. Its iridescent wings shimmered in the light, flickering between pinks, blues, and greens, veined with black and deep violet. With each lazy beat, it stirred a gentle breeze through the towering trees.

“This is my bonded alebrije, Enrique,”

the queen said, motioning toward the leviathan creature.

Enrique flicked his flowing green mane and let out a deep, guttural chuff, his massive body shifting with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible for something so large.

The queen arched a brow.

"He’s your ride. Mind the wings—he doesn’t take kindly to having them stepped on.”

I nodded and approached carefully, taking in the elaborate leather saddle that stretched across his wide chest and stomach, leaving his wings free to move. My fingers tightened around the pommel as I hoisted myself up, mindful to avoid the delicate wings.

The queen, for all her effortless grace, didn’t bother with a saddle. She simply stepped off the platform, her golden wings flaring open as she caught the air, her ascent smooth and effortless.

Without another word, she zipped off into the trees, cutting through the morning sky like a blade through silk.

Enrique gave a great leap from the pier, and his wings caught the air beneath us, lifting us higher, higher, until the world fell away beneath us.

My stomach flipped. The jungle stretched out like an endless emerald sea, canopies shifting in the breeze, golden sunlight catching on the glassy rivers that cut through the land like veins of molten metal.

It was beautiful.

And I wasn’t sure if I was soaring toward an opportunity—or being carried straight into a trap.

The wind tore through my hair, the humid air thick and warm against my skin as I raced through the sky alongside the queen. I kept my expression schooled, my grip firm on Enrique’s saddle, but inside—inside, something long buried within me unfurled like a sail catching wind.

Flying.

I hadn’t flown since the battle of Yoatl. Since the alebrije I rode had been shot down, and me with it. Since I had been shackled in adamas, my body bound in ways that made me feel less. Less powerful. Less human. Less me.

But here, with the jungle stretching far beneath me, its endless green canopy glowing in the dappled sunlight, I could almost forget. Forget the collar. Forget the chains. Forget the months spent in darkness with nothing but cold stone and the weight of captivity pressing in on me.

Almost.

A breath caught in my throat as Enrique suddenly dropped into a dizzying dive, his enormous wings slicing through the air like blades. My stomach plummeted, my heart surging with a rush of adrenaline. And then—just as abruptly—he pulled up, his wings catching the wind, lifting us again into the sky.

The exhilaration curled through me like a slow-burning ember, threatening to ignite into something wild. I’d forgotten what this felt like. What it meant to be free.

I didn’t dare release the laughter threatening to spill from my lips. Not with her watching. Not with Malakai’s mother—a woman I knew he didn’t trust. And if Malakai didn’t trust her, then neither would I.

Adele flew ahead, cutting through the sky effortlessly, her gilded wings trailing motes of golden dust in her wake. Her movements were fluid, almost hypnotic, as if she were weightless, a being entirely unbound by the rules of gravity or the limits of mortal flesh. It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. But something about her grace, the effortless power in her flight, unsettled me.

A woman like that—one who moved like she owned the sky, who commanded it—never did anything without reason. And I had no doubt that bringing me here, indulging me in this moment of stolen freedom, was part of a bigger game I didn’t yet understand.

A castle-sized white tree loomed ahead, its trunk thick and sprawling, its pink leaves edged in silver that gleamed in the midday light. The tree was ancient, the kind of old that spoke of things that had seen the world shift and reshape itself over centuries, unmoving while everything else withered and fell away.

Enrique slowed, his wings flaring as he descended onto a wooden platform built into the side of the tree. The landing was smooth, graceful, his large hooves touching down with barely a sound.

I shimmied off his back, careful to avoid his wings, and patted his sleek coat.

"Thanks for the lift.”

Enrique chortled in response, shaking his iridescent mane before lifting off again, his wings stirring the leaves into a flurry of silver and pink as he vanished into the sky.

I turned toward the queen, wiping any lingering traces of exhilaration from my face. My heart was still hammering, my blood still thrumming from the flight, but I wouldn’t let her see. Wouldn’t let her know just how much I’d felt—just how much I’d missed it.

I didn’t trust her. And I wasn’t about to give her another weapon to use against me.

The queen’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. That alone set my nerves on edge. There was something too knowing about her expression, something too pleased. I wasn’t sure if she enjoyed unsettling me or if there was another reason behind it—one I wouldn’t like if I found out.

She led me deeper into the hollowed-out tree, where the walls shimmered faintly, pulsing with a soft, golden glow as if the tree itself were alive and breathing. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their tiny lights flickering in an unseen rhythm, like embers caught in a slow-moving breeze. It was beautiful, but beauty could be deceptive. Especially here.

“Sit,”

the queen instructed, pointing toward a gilded mirror set before a plush, velvet settee. The way she said it left no room for argument.

I hesitated, flicking a glance at her through the mirror’s reflection. I hated being caught in her clutches, but I also felt that as long as I was wary of her, I could at the very least entertain her curiosity. So, I sat and watched her every move as she disappeared behind a silk-draped screen.

She busied herself with something unseen as she continued speaking.

"Do you know what El Día de Las Madres truly means?”

The question caught me off guard. I answered on instinct, the way I had been taught as a child.

"It’s how we honor Las Madres for the gift of magic.”

A soft chuckle came from behind the screen.

"That’s only partially true,”

she said, her voice lilting in amusement.

"The people of Corinea have borrowed their traditions from the Hada. But we are older than their empires. Older than their kingdoms. El Día de Las Madres is not just a celebration; it is a night of power.”

The hairs on my arms rose.

“Through song, dance, and revelry, we weave magic strong enough to thin the veil between the realms. Tonight, spirits roam freely. Some are benevolent—guides, ancestors, lost souls seeking closure. Others are jealous creatures, envious of the living, eager to drag the unwitting across the threshold into the Underworld.”

Something in her tone sent a shiver skittering down my spine.

I didn’t like the way she was looking at me in the mirror’s reflection. Like she knew something I didn’t.

From behind the screen, the queen stepped forward, holding a gown of pristine white silk. Draped over her forearm was an elaborate red mask shaped like a bird, its edges gilded in gold, its plumes fanning upward in an intricate design.

I frowned.

"What’s the mask for?”

She lifted it to her face, the red and gold framing her striking features.

"To protect you,”

she purred, “from the spirits who walk among us tonight.”

My fingers curled around the mask as she passed it to me, its surface smooth and cool beneath my touch.

“The spirits who slip through the veil can see us,”

the queen continued, “but if you wear this, they will not recognize you as mortal. They will see you as one of them.”

The weight of the mask felt heavier than it should. My eyes flickered to her, then back to the mirror. The red gleamed under the candlelight, like freshly spilled blood.

I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more—the mask itself, or the fact that the queen wanted me to wear it.

“Did you know that Rojas first modeled the inakara after the masks the Hada wear for El Día de Las Madres?”

the queen mused, her voice light but edged with something sharper. She tilted her head, watching as I turned the mask over in my hands.

"The Rojanos believed that if our masks could protect against spirits, perhaps they could also grant strength from their patron animal. Swiftness, cunning, intelligence.”

A smile ghosted across her lips. Knowing. Deliberate.

"There is truth to all belief systems, after all. If enough people believe something . . . they make it real.”

I studied the mask more closely, a strange weight building in my chest.

It was unlike anything I’d ever seen—beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. The red lacquer gleamed under the candlelight, smooth and seamless, almost too perfect. Along the brow, golden feathers fanned outward in a graceful arc, their tips kissed in orange so vivid it looked like fire frozen in time.

I ran my fingers over the beak-like point at the nose, the detail so fine it felt like the mask might breathe if I held it long enough.

“What animal is this?”

I asked, my voice quieter than I meant.

The queen’s smirk deepened.

"The firebird.”

A ripple of unease curled down my spine.

The firebird.

A creature of legend—reborn from its own ashes, again and again. An animal said to wield fire as both weapon and gift. Power. Destruction. Renewal.

It felt too pointed. Too personal.

Was she mocking me?

The mask suddenly felt heavier in my hands, like it was made of more than wood and lacquer. Like it was a question I wasn’t ready to answer.

“Go on, get dressed,”

the queen said, waving a hand like I was nothing more than another task on her list.

"I have other business to attend to before the night begins.”

I took the dress and stepped behind the screen, the fabric cool and slick in my hands, like liquid fire.

But the moment I held it up, I froze.

White silk, delicate and soft as petals, flowed into a full skirt. Flames—red and orange—licked up from the hem, curling around the bodice in tongues so intricate they almost moved, like the whole thing was alive and breathing.

But it wasn’t the flames that made my throat close up.

It was the cut.

The neckline dipped just low enough to expose the tops of my breasts. But the back—Las Madres help me. The back was completely open.

No protection. No hiding.

Every scar would be on display.

And worse—my marca.

The thing that would confirm my connection to Dom. Would out me before I ever got the chance to discuss it with him.

A lump lodged in my throat. My fingers tightened around the silk, wrinkling the perfect fabric.

No.

I could wear the queen’s ridiculous finery. Play the part of a polished weapon. But this? I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t walk out there with my back bared and pretend it didn’t matter.

I couldn’t let them see what had been carved into me. What I had become.

“I can’t wear this,”

I said, my voice tighter than I meant.

I stepped out from behind the screen, braced for mockery. For smugness. For the queen to drink in my discomfort like fine wine.

But she didn’t.

She just watched me, her expression unreadable—but softer than I expected.

“Allow me,”

she murmured, stepping closer.

Her hand settled on my shoulder, and warmth flooded through me—slow and steady, sinking deep.

Not just heat. Something else. Something quieter.

Like a ripple across still water.

Like magic.

Like understanding.

My pulse thrummed in my ears, sharp and unsteady.

The queen stepped back, her violet eyes gleaming like she knew exactly what she’d done to me.

I lifted a hand to my collarbone, expecting the familiar raised lines beneath my fingers. But there was nothing.

Smooth skin. Unbroken.

I spun toward the mirror, heart hammering.

The scars crisscrossing my back—gone.

The one etched over my heart—gone.

“What did you do?”

I whispered. The words caught in my throat, thick with something I couldn’t name. Horror. Fascination. Grief.

The queen merely lifted a brow, too composed.

"It’s called a glamour,”

she said, like it was nothing more than a beauty trick.

"It will only last the night, I’m afraid.”

I swallowed hard.

I should have felt grateful. This was a kindness. A mercy.

So why did it feel like a theft?

Why did my skin feel wrong without the marks that had once made it mine?

My scars were proof—of what I’d survived, of what I’d lost, of everything I’d clawed my way through just to still be standing. With them gone, I didn’t feel whole. I felt . . . hollow.

An imposter in my own skin.

Pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

I forced a nod, forced the words out.

"Thank you.”

They felt strange on my tongue. Too formal. Too hollow.

I turned back behind the screen and pulled the dress over my head. The silk slid across my skin like water, cool and weightless, like it belonged to a life I’d never lived.

But my fingers fumbled at the back, clumsy and unsure without the help of attendants.

Back home, I would’ve had two. Maybe three.

The thought struck me like a stone to the ribs. Back home.

As if that place were ever really my home.

As if I could ever go back.

I finished with the ties, pulling them tight and stepped out.

The queen’s gaze swept over me like a blade gliding across silk. Her violet eyes gleamed with something unreadable—approval, amusement, or perhaps something deeper, something more calculated.

The queen smiled, slow and knowing. “Perfect.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant the dress. Or the deception that I had just become a complicit accomplice.

I resisted the urge to fidget. The dress was lighter than I expected, the silk barely clinging to my skin, the corset fitting a little too perfectly. I felt . . . exposed. A fraud dressed in finery.

“Come,”

the queen said, gesturing to a massive vanity set in the corner of the chamber. The polished wood gleamed under candlelight, the intricate carvings of vines and thorns wrapping around its frame giving it the illusion of something alive. It was at least three times the size of the modest vanity in my room.

"Let me do your hair.”

I hesitated.

It wasn’t the offer that made my stomach twist—it was her. The way she had been watching me all evening. Studying me. Like she was measuring something unseen.

But I had no real reason to refuse, so I sat stiffly on the velvet cushioned seat, folding my hands tightly in my lap as she moved behind me.

Her fingers wove through my hair, sharp and precise, tugging as she worked it into some elaborate design. But I didn’t watch. I kept my gaze fixed downward, my nails digging into my palms.

A sharp yank at my scalp made me wince.

“Why won’t you look at yourself?”

the queen asked, her tone deceptively light, but when I glanced at the mirror, I caught the sharpness in her reflection.

I chewed the inside of my cheek.

"I don’t know,”

I lied, because I wasn’t about to spill my darkest thoughts to Malakai’s mother. I didn’t trust her, and I certainly wasn’t going to hand her my weaknesses like an offering.

But she wasn’t fooled.

"What is it you see when you look at yourself, Nightshade?”

she pressed, voice soft, but insistent.

"Hmm? Tell me. Why can’t you bear to look in the mirror?”

I swallowed, my throat tightening. My fingers clenched against the silk of my dress.

What did I see?

I saw the girl I used to be, the girl I would never be again.

I saw the scars that shouldn’t still ache but did.

I saw the ghost of every life I had taken, the weight of every choice I could never undo.

I saw a blade. A weapon honed and sharpened, forged in blood and obedience.

I saw a girl shaped by war and betrayal. A girl who did not belong to herself.

I saw a killer.

I saw a monster.

And I hated her.

“I don’t want to see what I am,”

I admitted, the words barely above a whisper.

The queen sighed, and for the first time since I met her, there was no trace of amusement or condescension in her expression. Only something somber. Something ancient.

“It is a sadness, Nightshade,”

she said quietly, “that you do not see in yourself the beauty that others see in you.”

She stopped braiding my hair, her hands lingering as if caught in a memory. When she spoke again, her voice was distant, as if she were reciting something from long ago.

“You are the whisper of death. The flame of life. The wielder of heaven’s sword. The heart of dreams. You are the Nightshade.”

Her gaze grew unfocused, her lips parting slightly as she exhaled the final words: “You are what was, what is, and what will be.”

The air in the room seemed to tighten. A chill crawled up my spine.

I turned in my seat, staring at her, but her eyes had gone distant—so distant that for a moment, I wondered if she even knew she had spoken.

Then, as if a spell had been broken, her lashes fluttered, and her expression shifted back into something composed, collected. The weight of the moment disappeared as if it had never existed.

I stiffened. What the hell was that?

Before I could ask, the curtain to the chamber parted, and an attendant entered with a graceful bow. Her hair was a halo of white curls atop her midnight-dark skin, a striking contrast against the flowing teal robes she wore.

“Your Majesty,”

she said, voice steady and respectful.

"The festival has begun.”

The queen’s lips curled into a slow smile. When she turned back to me, there was nothing in her face to suggest anything strange had just happened. If she had just spoken a vision—or worse, something she hadn’t meant to say—she was choosing to ignore it entirely.

“I’m late for another engagement,”

she said breezily, as if nothing at all was amiss.

"Go with Petra. She’ll escort you to the festival.”

That was it? No explanation? No acknowledgment?

The dread in my stomach thickened.

I wanted to ask what she had meant. I wanted to demand an answer.

But the way she was looking at me now, all cool amusement and distant elegance, told me I wouldn’t get one.

Not yet.

And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t ready to hear it.