Page 4 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

It had been three days since my last delightful chat with King Rafael.

Aitan had dumped me back in the dungeon right after Tadeo patched me up.

I guess I was supposed to be grateful for the gesture, but honestly? I’d have preferred to keep the scars.

At least they would’ve been mine.

A parting gift. Something ugly to shove in Rafael’s face every time he looked at me. A small rebellion carved into my skin.

I rolled over, the steel cot beneath me as cold and unforgiving as everything else in this place.

It dug into my back like icy talons, a reminder that even rest came with discomfort.

No blankets.

No sheets.

Just the chill seeping through the adamas walls, creeping under my skin like it wanted to settle in and stay.

My thoughts spun in circles, always leading back to the same place—my future.

If you could call it that.

Death would’ve been easier.

Cleaner.

But that wasn’t what was waiting for me.

No, what lay ahead was worse.

A living death. A mind trapped inside a body that wasn’t mine anymore, aware of everything but powerless to stop any of it.

The followers of Las Madres weren’t supposed to fear death.

It was just another step, another door.

But maybe that only applied to those whom Las Madres still cared about.

And since I’d lost my Fuegador magic, maybe that favor had run dry.

The thought hit me like a weight on my chest, heavy and suffocating, as if the very air was made of dirt and stone pressing down on me.

I’d never been afraid of dying before.

But this? This wasn’t dying.

This was disappearing, piece by piece, until nothing was left.

I glared at the cracked ceiling, tracing the jagged lines in the adamas as if they held answers.

The fissures seemed to twist and shift, distorting into shapes that pulled memories I’d rather keep buried.

Mother’s face surfaced, sharp and vivid—her touch both cruel and kind, a blade wrapped in silk.

She could be warmth one moment, ice the next.

The ache in my throat tightened, like her hands were still there, invisible fingers wrapped around my neck, squeezing until all that remained was the echo of what she’d made me.

I lay in bed, small and tucked beneath heavy blankets, while Mother stroked my hair with a gentleness that didn’t match the woman I knew.

Her nails slid through the strands like she was weaving threads of silk, her gold-painted lips curled into a soft smile that seemed too delicate for someone like her.

“Tell me a story,”

I whispered, twirling a strand of her black hair around my finger. It was cool and smooth, like everything about her—polished, perfect, hiding sharp edges beneath.

“Which one, mi tesoro?”

she cooed, her green eyes narrowing slightly, feline and unblinking.

I thought hard, sorting through the endless library of legends tucked in the corners of my mind. There were so many, but one always lingered just a little brighter than the rest.

"The one about Las Madres,”

I said, my voice soft with anticipation.

“Very well,”

she chuckled, the sound low and warm, like honey laced with something bitter. She kept stroking my hair, the rhythm almost hypnotic.

"Once, there were twelve sisters. Each one a goddess in her own right. When they looked down on the world, they saw nothing but hunger, cruelty, and suffering.”

Her voice wrapped around me like a blanket, but I knew better than to get too comfortable. That was the thing about Mother—her softness was just another weapon.

“They decided to gift a piece of themselves to those they would call their daughters,”

she continued.

"So that their daughters could rise from the ashes of their birth.”

I squirmed under the covers, breath held tight, waiting for the part I loved—the twist, the betrayal, the sharp edge hidden beneath all that divine generosity.

“There was only one problem,”

she murmured, her smile sharpening at the edges.

"Tochlin and Xiomara were twin goddesses who shared the same gift—heavenly light. Tochlin wanted to be the Sun Mother. But so did her sister.”

I knew the story by heart, but it never got old.

“Tochlin was clever,”

Mother said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Clever enough to trick her sister. When Xiomara wasn’t looking, Tochlin threw a rabbit in her face—”

I giggled, even though I knew how it ended.

“—darkening her light. While Xiomara was distracted, Tochlin rose to the sky and became the Sun Mother. Xiomara was left behind, doomed to shine only at night. She became the Moon Mother, her light dim and borrowed.”

Mother’s hand paused for just a breath before resuming their careful strokes, like she was braiding the moral of the story into my scalp.

“This trickery created a divide among the goddesses,”

she said, her tone now threaded with something heavier.

"Those who sided with Xiomara gifted their daughters with power over the human body—so they’d never be deceived again. The Gifts of the Mind, Dreams, and Healing.”

Her hand slowed, her nails grazing lightly against my scalp—a subtle reminder of the sharpness beneath her softness.

“But those who believed Tochlin did nothing wrong,”

she continued, her smile creeping back, “gifted their daughters the power to control the very elements of Corinea—Water, Fire, Air, Metal, and Earth.”

I could see it in my mind, as vividly as if I’d been there—the way Las Madres descended upon Corinea, their divine hands scattering power like seeds, choosing who was worthy enough to bloom.

“Meanwhile,”

Mother whispered, “four sisters sided with neither the Sun Mother nor the Moon Mother. They decided to gift their daughters with the most powerful magic of all. The power over death, the power to control animals, to tamper with time, and to see the future.”

Her voice grew softer, almost conspiratorial, the kind of tone meant to sink hooks into the mind.

"But when Tochlin and Xiomara learned of the magic their sisters had given, they rallied together. They locked the four in a celestial hell so that no daughter would ever wield their dangerous magic again.”

I reached for the jade totem dangling from Mother’s neck, drawn to it like a hawk to blood. A dragon devouring its own tail—the seal of House Zaldanna. The jade was cool beneath my touch, the grooves and swirls etched into it worn smooth from years of touch. I traced the lines reverently, as if they held answers.

“What about me, mamá?”

I asked, my voice small, my heart too big for my chest.

"Tell me the story about me.”

“Patience,”

she snapped, her eyes darkening like storm clouds rolling in. The softness evaporated, replaced by something sharper, colder.

I shrank back into the covers, heat crawling up my cheeks. Lesson learned—don’t interrupt.

Her gaze softened slightly, but it was the brittle kind of softness, the kind that could crack without warning. “One day,”

she continued, her voice smoothing out again, “a fearsome warrior uncovered the path to the mothers who’d been imprisoned. She offered to release them, asking for only one thing in return—she could bear no children of her own and desired to be a mother.”

Her hand drifted to my hair again, like she was weaving the story into me with every stroke.

“The Goddess of Death, Quiacatl, granted the liberator’s wish. She promised to create a warrior mightier than herself. A child born of flames and spirit, with unimaginable power.”

My heart swelled like it might burst.

"That’s me,”

I whispered, grinning like an idiot.

Mother leaned down and pressed her lips to my forehead, the warmth of the gesture sinking deep, wrapping around my heart like chains.

"Yes, mi amor. You are Quiacatl’s gift to me.”

She placed her hand over my chest, right where the Death Mother had left her marca, her symbol of favor. I felt the weight of it even then, though I didn’t understand it. Not really.

I shivered, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

"What about the bad dragons?”

Mother’s eyes glinted, but her smile was soft. Deceptively soft.

"You mean the Mondragóns? You have no need to fear them,”

she said, her voice sweet and sharp all at once.

"I made sure they could never come back.”

Her voice faded, but the words stuck. They always did. Lessons wrapped in bedtime stories, threaded through every gentle touch, every soft whisper. Power disguised as kindness. Control hidden in comfort.

It was Mother’s greatest trick.

And I’d fallen for it every time.

Mother had always warned me about the Mondragón family.

Traitors, she’d called them.

Power-hungry vipers who’d planned to rip the throne out from under her the second they learned about my marca.

If they’d succeeded, they would’ve used me like a weapon—a slave wrapped in the illusion of purpose.

But their plot failed, and they paid the price. Every last one of them slain for their treachery. A neat, tidy ending.

I reached for the marca without thinking, brushing over the red and blue lines etched above my heart.

Cold.

So cold it felt like ice pressed against bone.

And then it hit—an avalanche of fear.

Thoughts and memories and voices tearing through me like a sandstorm, sharp and suffocating. My heart raced. My mind spun. My soul keened. Had Quiacatl truly abandoned me?

Before I could even finish the thought, the marca blazed to life—searing hot, like a live ember pressed to my chest.

The heat stole my breath, and then the world shifted.

A thunderclap roared through the dungeon, rattling the adamas walls like they were nothing more than thin sheets of metal.

The ground trembled beneath me, and alarms shrieked through the halls—high-pitched, slicing through the stale air like blades.

Crimson lights flashed overhead, bathing everything in blood.

Another explosion.

Closer this time.

Dust rained from the ceiling, falling like ash.

The third blast hit harder, sending a ripple through the metal cot beneath me.

The whole room felt like it was breathing, expanding and contracting with every detonation—each one creeping closer.

I pushed myself off the cot, my arms wavering under the effort.

My body felt like it had been carved from stone, every muscle heavy and uncooperative.

I collapsed onto the cold floor, the impact rattling through my bones, but I didn’t stop.

I crawled to the corner, dragging myself like a wounded animal, tucking my head between my knees.

My hands shot up to cover the back of my neck, instinct overriding pride. Not that pride was much use in a collapsing cell.

Another boom, louder this time, made the steel door groan and buckle.

The silver adamas walls rippled like water disturbed by a stone—except water didn’t usually scream.

Footsteps thundered past my cell, guards shouting orders, their voices panicked and sharp.

Gunfire erupted, the cracks of the shots deafening in the narrow corridor.

Bullets ricocheted off the walls, whining like angry wasps, sharp and wild, as if the very air had turned against us.

I didn’t know what was happening.

But for the first time in a long while, I felt something that wasn’t fear.

My ears rang like a bell after the explosion, the sound vibrating through my skull.

The door to my cell was no longer a door—it was a twisted hunk of metal blown off its hinges.

A flash of light sliced through the darkness, blinding me.

I threw an arm over my face, wincing against the sudden sting.

When the light faded, he was standing there.

A man dressed head-to-toe in black, like some walking shadow with a flashlight in one hand and a hatchet in the other.

Not exactly the knight-in-shining-armor type, but I’d learned not to expect that anyway.

He was massive—well over six feet, muscles straining under his fitted shirt and tactical gear.

His beard was trimmed into sharp lines, matching the precision of his close-cropped hair.

Even from where I was crumpled on the floor, I could smell him. Like the jungle—fresh leaves, blossoms, and sweat, the kind of scent that clung to skin like a second layer.

My marca flared to life, a sudden warmth spreading over my chest as soon as my eyes landed on the hatchet.

My fists clenched, adrenaline cutting through the haze of exhaustion.

I couldn’t win against a man like him—he was built like a damn battering ram—but if he was here to finish what Rafael started, he’d have to work for it.

“Who are you?”

I demanded, my voice rough and raw but steady enough to get the point across.

“Your rescue party,”

he said, his voice deep and rumbling, like the floor itself was responding.

Definitely Rojano—his accent rolled through the words like molten glass, smooth but unyielding.

His russet brown skin and thick, dark brows sealed the deal. No one with that face came from anywhere but home.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

Rescue party. The words hit harder than the explosion.

Saved. I was saved. Praise Las Madres.

A small, fragile part of me wanted to rejoice, to collapse into the relief flooding my chest.

But the rest of me—the part built from scars and bitterness—soured fast.

Six months.

That’s how long Mother left me to rot in this dungeon, like an afterthought.

Maybe this was her version of penance for my failure at Yoatl Beach.

Maybe this was all I was worth.

Rage fizzled out, leaving exhaustion in its place.

Relief crept in, slow and foreign, wrapping around my ribs like I didn’t know what to do with it.

Somehow, I’d escaped the king’s grip.

Somehow, I was being saved.

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling but holding.

The future was still a question mark, but at least I’d face it with my own people.

That had to count for something.

As I stumbled toward the door, a swell of longing hit me like a punch to the gut.

I could almost feel the red sands of Rojas beneath my boots, the heat rising through the soles, wrapping around me like an old friend.

I imagined my body scrubbed clean, my hair brushed until it gleamed.

The taste of real food—warm, spiced, enough to make my belly ache from fullness. And sleep. Real sleep. The kind that wrapped you in silk sheets and feather beds, where nightmares couldn’t find you.

It didn’t feel like a far-off fantasy—for once.

It felt like a goddess-damned promise.

Praise be to Las Madres. I was going home.

Just as quickly as the relief washed over me, it was gone—ripped away and replaced by something colder, sharper.

Terror.

I wasn’t Bruja anymore.

Mother didn’t know that.

But I did.

The loss of my magic wasn’t just a personal failure—it was the death of her greatest weapon.

And when she found out ...goddess help me.

Mother’s wrath wouldn’t be poetic or symbolic. It would be catastrophic.

She’d shred my mind apart with her Mentedor magic like it was paper, tearing through every thought, every memory, every fragile piece of me. The mCon was a plaything compared to the pain Danixtl Zaldanna could inflict.

The thought hollowed me out.

I was still reeling from that gut punch when the Rojano man approached. His hazel eyes flicked to the adamas chains binding my wrists, sharp with calculation. He cursed under his breath and barked over his shoulder, “Malakai! I need you!”

A voice answered from down the hall, terse and annoyed.

"A little busy here, Dom.”

The sound of fighting echoed through the dungeon—gunfire, metal clashing, bodies hitting stone. My heart thudded in time with the chaos outside my cell.

“She’s got adamas chains!”

Dom shouted back.

That got someone’s attention.

Another figure appeared in the doorway, stepping over the mangled remains of my cell door like it was nothing more than debris. He moved like a shadow—fluid, controlled, every step laced with lethal grace. Tall, lean, muscles coiled beneath his dark clothes. His disheveled silvery-blonde hair caught the flickering crimson lights, but it was his eyes that pinned me in place.

Violet. Bright. Burning.

They landed on the chains digging into my skin, and rage flashed there—hot and unfiltered. Not the self-important rage of men like Rafael. This was different. Older. Sharper. Like it didn’t just burn—it consumed.

I pressed myself back against the wall, heart hammering. This wasn’t just some Rojano rebel. This male wasn’t human. He was something else—something ancient and powerful and wrong, in the way nature feels wrong right before a storm rips the sky apart. My throat went dry, dread filling the hollow space where relief had been just moments before.

He raised his hands, slow and easy, like he was used to calming dangerous things.

"Don’t get twitchy, mu?eca,”

he said, and his voice—goddess, that voice—slid across my skin like silk soaked in sin. Smooth. Disarming. Laced with something sharp.

I hated that I liked the way it sounded.

I hated his little nickname for me even more. Doll? Seriously?

I stayed pressed against the wall, too drained to argue, too wary to fight.

He nodded to the chains, then cocked his head with a half-smile that shouldn’t have looked so pretty in a dungeon.

"I can get those off in ten seconds flat.”

His eyes gleamed, violet and unreadable.

"Unless you enjoy being shackled. In which case . . . we’ll have to have a conversation later.”

He moved closer, slow and careful, like I was some skittish creature ready to bolt.

His hands reached for the cuffs, and even though every instinct screamed at me to pull away, I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

My body was frozen, locked in place by exhaustion and fear.

He closed his eyes, and a warmth spread where his hands brushed the metal.

Not burning—just a soft, tingling heat, like standing too close to a fire on a cold night.

His scent drifted over me—fir needles and spearmint—fresh and sharp against the dungeon’s rot and blood-soaked air.

My insides twisted, part ice, part something else I didn’t want to name.

Within seconds, the adamas melted like wax, dripping to the floor in molten streams.

He repeated the process on the shackles around my ankles, the heat licking at my skin, warm but not painful.

When the last piece of metal clattered to the ground, he pulled back, putting space between us.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

The absence of the chains left me lighter—but not free.

Not really.

Because freedom wasn’t just about the chains.

And Mother was still waiting.

His violet eyes locked onto the metal collar around my neck.

“That comes off,”

he said, voice low and edged in steel.

No room for debate. No softness either. Just certainty.

He glanced over his shoulder at Dom, who still loomed by the door like an overgrown gargoyle.

“We don’t have time for that,”

Dom snapped, spitting on the stone before ducking his head outside to check for guards.

"We have to move.”

Malakai didn’t even blink.

Didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

He leaned in closer, close enough that I could smell the jungle humidity and danger on his skin. His eyes never left the collar as he tapped it with two fingers—sharp, deliberate. The clang echoed in the small room like a slap.

“We’re not leaving her in shackles,”

he murmured.

"She’s Bruja. And she won’t have access to her magic until this is off.”

I scowled, the words hitting me harder than I wanted to admit. The collar? It had been this blasphemous piece of Aguatitlan shit the whole time? Not some divine punishment from Quiacatl? Just another tool, another chain dressed up as science.

My blood boiled beneath my skin, equal parts rage and humiliation. I’d spent months thinking I’d been forsaken, hollowed out. Turned out, I’d just been hacked.

Mother would want to know about this. The Aguatitlans had figured out how to suppress Bruja magic in more ways than one—if they could do that, what was next? A chill skittered down my spine, the implications clawing at the edges of my mind.

“And I’m not dragging her through hell with her power leashed. So unless you’re planning on carrying her on your back, Dom—step aside.”

“She doesn’t need her magic,”

Dom snapped, shaking his hatchet toward me like that proved a point.

"The pointy ears paid us to get her out of here, and that’s all we’re doing.”

I blinked, the words hitting me like a slap. Pointy ears? Paid? My stomach twisted.

Mother didn’t send them. Either she didn’t know I was alive—or worse, she did, and this was her idea of a lesson. The part of me that still heard her voice in the dark sneered, You failed. You deserve this.

But why would the Hada care? They rarely involved themselves in mortal affairs unless it benefited them. Why me? The answer hung just out of reach, but I knew one thing—I’d find out.

“Hey, watch your mouth about pointy ears,”

Malakai snapped, shooting a glare at Dom that could’ve lit kindling.

He ran a hand through his silver hair, slicking it back in one smooth motion. The movement revealed sharp, angled ears—elegant, otherworldly, unmistakably Hada.

Of course. Because today wasn’t bizarre enough already.

He didn’t catch the flicker of confusion—or wariness—that passed over my face. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. His back was to me now, all tension and precision as he surveyed the tunnel ahead.

“We’re outnumbered topside,”

he said coolly.

"She’s not just decoration. If things get hairy, we’ll need to use her.”

Useful. That’s all I was to him. A tool. A means to an end. Nothing new there.

Dom glared at Malakai like he wanted to plant that hatchet in his back.

"Hurry up. I’m not killing anyone for this gig,”

he growled, bitter enough to curdle milk.

Malakai turned to me, and I rearranged my face into something resembling indifference. No way was I letting him—or anyone—see the tangle of emotions twisting inside me.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,”

Malakai replied, flashing a grin that had no business being in a life-or-death situation.

"But your delivery could use some work.”

Dom swore under his breath—something creative and loud—but didn’t take his eyes off the corridor. His grip on his weapon was tight enough to crack bone.

"Ten seconds, Mal,”

he growled.

“I could’ve had this halfway off by now,”

Malakai muttered, already dropping to his knees in front of me with fluid ease. He looked up briefly, his violet eyes catching mine. Something flickered there—mischief, heat, intent.

"But no, you had to argue with me. Again.”

His fingers brushed the collar, steady and sure, like this was just another job.

But his voice? His voice was all velvet and heat and teeth.

"Hold still, mu?eca. I’m not in the mood to get shocked.”

I studied him, unable to stop myself. I’d never seen a Hada who wasn’t cursed like the Malditas in Mother’s Bloodguard. They were all ghost-pale with pitch-black eyes, nothing like this—his skin was burnished ochre, his violet eyes too vivid to be real, and his face was almost . . . beautiful. Not that it mattered.

Malakai placed the pads of his hands on the collar, and warmth bloomed against my skin. Not gentle warmth—more like the slow burn of a coal pressed too close. It spread from his hands into my chest, heating up until it felt like I was swallowing fire.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to make a sound. Pain was nothing new. Mother’s training had ensured that. But this was different—alive, electric. A bead of sweat formed on Malakai’s brow, his hands starting to tremble.

“Five seconds,”

Dom barked.

A jolt of electricity ripped through me. I gasped, every muscle seizing.

Malakai yelped and recoiled like he’d grabbed a live wire, landing hard on one knee. The collar remained, smug and unbroken, around my throat.

I gritted my teeth, my fingers tightening around the cursed metal. I wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t let the disappointment show. Not in front of them.

Malakai blew out a breath, shaking out his hands like he’d just lost a round with a bolt of lightning.

"Damn thing’s got bite,”

he muttered, flexing his fingers. Then he smirked, all cocky nonchalance—but the grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Should’ve bought me dinner first, love.”

The joke was there. Easy. Familiar. But I saw the tension in his jaw. The way his gaze lingered on the collar, like it was personal now.

The collar would have to wait. But something told me Malakai wouldn’t.

I shoved down the gnawing unease, filing it away with the rest of the questions piling up in my head. One thing was clear—I might be free of my chains, but nothing about this felt like freedom.

And the Hada?

They were just another problem that I’d have to deal with.

“What do you say we get out of here, doll?”

Malakai said, flashing that infuriating, sly grin like he thought he was charming.

I clenched my jaw so tight it might’ve cracked.

"Call me ‘doll’ one more time, and I’ll rearrange your face,”

I snapped before I could stop myself.

Dom stiffened, all tense muscle and held breath.

Malakai? His grin only widened—slow, shameless, delighted. The two men exchanged a look. One of those silent, loaded glances people give right before someone gets stabbed.

But no blade came.

I didn’t drop dead. Not yet.

Instead, Malakai chuckled, low and unbothered, his violet eyes glinting with mischief.

"Just a little ray of sunshine, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

The tightness in my chest eased, but it was replaced by something equally annoying—confusion.

He wasn’t going to kill me? Not after I’d snapped at him? Not after the threats? I didn’t get it. Men like him—powerful, untouchable—they didn’t tolerate defiance. They crushed it. But here I was, very much uncrushed.

My hands slowly uncurled from the fists I had tucked at my sides.

"Who are you?”

I asked, my voice low and sharp enough to cut glass.

"How did you—?”

“No time for introductions, mu?eca. We’re on the clock,”

Malakai cut in, that same rogue smile playing at his lips like this was a casual market stroll, not a prison break.

He extended a hand like he expected me to take it. Like he hadn’t just waltzed into my disaster of a life and offered himself up as the solution.

I recoiled like his touch might burn.

Pride’s a hell of a thing.

I shoved myself upright using the wall—mistake. My legs buckled like wet parchment. I stumbled—hard—straight into him. My fingers latched onto his biceps. Solid. Warm. Thick.

His grin bloomed instantly, infuriatingly.

"You didn’t have to throw yourself at me, doll,”

he murmured, voice dipping into something low and slow, like he was enjoying every second of this. He winked.

"All you had to do was ask.”

If murder were an option, I’d have carved out the time.

Malakai didn’t seem to care that I was glaring daggers at him. He casually draped one of my arms over his shoulders, his body warm against mine. My instincts screamed to pull away, but my legs weren’t cooperating.

Dom grunted and grabbed my other arm, slinging it over his neck like I was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Between the two of them, I was hauled out of the wreckage of my cell, stumbling over the twisted metal door like some fragile thing.

Gratitude wasn’t in my nature, but I couldn’t deny it—I was glad they were here to help me and not kill me. But that didn’t mean I had to like it. Their assistance felt like acid on my pride. I wasn’t used to needing anyone. I didn’t like it.

Not one damn bit.