Page 7 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

We trudged on for another hour, cutting through a grove of coffee trees, their swollen red berries bursting like bruises in the shade. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and overripe fruit, and every step was a fight against the growing weight of exhaustion pressing down on me.

Airships patrolled overhead, and the sun glinted off their polished graphite hulls, casting a menacing gloom over the purple jacarandas below. Their hulking shadows stretched long and ominous over the jungle canopy, red searchlights sweeping across the wax palms like blood spilled over green silk.

I was slowing us down. I knew that. So did everyone else. But no one else said it besides Kerun. At least, not outright. Not while Dom was already struggling to carry Malakai, and we were all pretending we weren’t about to collapse.

Finally, the jungle opened up, revealing the base of a mountain painted in deep, bloody reds. Dom came to an abrupt stop, throwing an arm out to halt the rest of us. Ahead, a gaping cave mouth yawned open in the rockface, black as pitch.

“We’ll hide here,”

Dom said, shifting Malakai’s weight on his back.

"Let him rest. We’ll move when he’s good to travel.”

Kerun ducked into the cave first, Dom right behind him, careful with Malakai’s dead weight.

I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to go in, because something in me needed to look back.

The jungle was waking up with the rising sun, the air pulsing with the shrill cacophony of a thousand insects—buzzing, clicking, screeching. The trees swayed under the weight of unseen creatures slithering through the branches. Watching.

I turned away and let Lian and Elías guide me inside.

The cave was massive, swallowing us all easily, the cool, damp air a welcome relief from the suffocating jungle heat. Someone had already started a fire, the flickering glow painting jagged shadows across the stone walls.

I sank to the ground, my entire body throbbing, the ache settling into my bones like it planned to stay a while. My calf pulsed, a dull, persistent sting, and without thinking, my hand drifted to the wound.

I only knew one way to fix this. I had done it before. That didn’t mean I was looking forward to cauterizing my own wound, though.

I reached for the power buried deep in my core, for the familiar heat that had always been there, waiting, eager, hungry. I called to it.

Nothing answered.

My fingers twitched, automatically going to my throat, wrapping around the cold, unbending metal of the collar still locked in place.

Damn this thing.

I didn’t know how the Aguatitlans had made it, didn’t understand the technology that kept my magic severed. But they had built it for one reason—to strip me of the only thing that had ever been truly mine.

My jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.

They had caged me. Tried to break me.

And maybe—for a while—they had.

Next to me, Lian unpacked a bedroll with practiced efficiency, his hands moving fast but not fast enough to hide the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes that he probably thought no one noticed. He laid the bedroll out with extra care, and Dom lowered Malakai onto the pad like he was made of glass.

He looked dead.

Rich brown skin had gone pallid, streaked with bruised patches of angry purple welts that looked like they were eating him alive from the inside out. If it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of his chest, I’d have thought he’d already started his one-way trip to the Heavens.

Elías knelt next to him, pressing a hand to Malakai’s forehead.

"He’s getting colder.”

He rummaged through one of the packs, yanking out an extra blanket and tucking it around the Hada like he was a damn child.

“Can you do something?”

Dom’s voice was quiet but steel-edged as he draped another blanket over Malakai’s motionless form.

Elías’s mouth tightened.

"I can try to siphon some of my strength, but he used more power than he had to give. His magic is draining his life force to compensate.”

Dom’s face turned hard, a slab of granite. “Do it,”

he said, extending a hand.

"Siphon from me first.”

Elías blinked.

"Mal wouldn’t want you to.”

“Damn what he does and doesn’t want,”

Dom snapped.

"He’s unconscious. He doesn’t get a say.”

He held Elías’s stare, unyielding.

For a moment, I thought Elías would argue. Then he nodded, grim-faced, and grabbed Dom’s hand, placing his other palm against Malakai’s chest.

A pulse of golden light flared in the center of Dom’s chest, liquid fire that snaked down his arm and into Elías’s hand. The gold turned mossy green as it traveled beneath Elías’s skin, spreading like roots across Malakai’s chest. Sweat dripped down Elías’s face, the effort twisting his features into a grimace.

Some color returned to Malakai’s ochre skin, the purple welts fading slightly.

I watched, fascinated despite myself. I’d seen Curador magic before, seen it stitch wounds and pull the dying back from the edge. But this? This was different. This was reckless. Dangerous. The kind of thing Mother would never sanction.

Because in Mother’s world, bodies were disposable. No point risking one Curador’s life to save someone else. Why bother when there were always more bodies to throw at the problem?

The kind of thinking that made perfect sense . . . until it was your body on the line.

I shook off the thought. It didn’t matter. These people weren’t my concern. They were mercenaries. Hired muscle. I wasn’t about to start caring about what happened to them.

Even if the way Dom looked at Malakai, with that raw, desperate loyalty, made something inside me ache in a way I didn’t want to name.

Elías exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging as the green glow faded from his hands. He looked like hell—face pale, sweat dampening his red curls—but when Dom took a step toward him, he waved him off.

“I’ll be fine,”

he muttered, even as the shadows beneath his eyes told a different story.

"You need rest.”

Without waiting for an argument, he corralled Dom toward a bedroll like a mother herding an unruly child.

Lian appeared at my side, brows furrowed, his gaze flickering between Elías and Dom like he was debating whether to step in. Instead, he handed me a pair of brown leather boots and a woven knapsack.

"I put some fresh clothes in your pack,”

he said, voice tight.

“Those are mine!”

I turned to see Kerun perched on the other side of the cave, arms crossed, his face twisted in righteous indignation.

Lian huffed, already done with this conversation.

"Yes, and she needs them more than you do.”

Kerun stuck his tongue out at him. Real mature.

Lian just shrugged, unfazed.

"He gets cranky when he’s hungry,”

he explained.

“I can still hear you,”

Kerun snapped.

"And you’re giving her my spare boots. What if I need them?”

“They’re called spares for a reason, Ker,”

Lian said, voice barely rising in annoyance.

Kerun muttered something under his breath and turned his back to us in protest, probably planning his revenge.

Lian scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling sharply like the kid was a constant, low-level headache. Then he turned to me.

"There’s usually some kind of natural spring in these caves. Do you want me to help you find one to clean up?”

His words were polite, but his eyes kept darting toward Elías. He wanted to stay. Needed to.

“No,”

I said, forcing my aching muscles to work as I heaved myself to my feet. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain lancing through my calf, but I bit it down.

"Thank you for the offer, but I’ll find it myself.”

I grabbed a torch from the fire and turned away, picking a passage at random.

The voices behind me faded as I ventured deeper. The cave air was thick and damp, clinging to my skin like cold fingers. Shadows stretched long across the jagged walls, flickering with every step.

After a few minutes, the tunnel widened into a small cavern, and there it was—a bubbling spring. Water cascaded in thin ribbons from the porous ceiling, filling a deep cerulean pool in the center of the cave. The surface rippled. Alive. A quiet, restless thing.

It looked like something from a dream.

Or a trap.

I tightened my grip on the torch, scanning the dark corners of the cavern. Because if life had taught me anything, it was that peace never came without a price.

Not seeing anything that might want to eat me, I peeled off the gray linen shirt and pants, the blood-stiff fabric slapping the ground with a wet plop. Standing there, bare and bruised, I barely recognized myself—just a mess of raw skin and half-healed wounds, my body a canvas of every bad decision I’d ever made.

The steaming pool lapped at my ankles as I stepped in, the water biting into the open gash on my calf. I gritted my teeth and sank deeper, welcoming the sting. Pain meant I was still here. Still fighting.

My fingers trailed over the marca above my heart—the raised outline of a hummingbird etched into my skin like a brand. Mother had told me it was Quiacatl’s mark, a gift from the Goddess of Death herself. A symbol of the bargain Mother had struck.

I traced the familiar ridges, swallowing down the sharp twist of longing in my chest. Home. Rojas. My body ached for it, but longing was a weakness. Mother had made that very clear. There was no room for sentiment. Only obedience.

I shoved the thought aside and focused on scrubbing the dried blood from my shoulders, my fingers ghosting over the scars coiled around my collarbone. A hundred lashes worth of Mother’s righteous anger. A roadmap of every failure, every lesson seared into my skin.

Had my time in that dungeon been penance enough?

Doubt curled in my stomach like smoke. If history was any indication, Mother would demand further payment. She always did.

I dunked my head under, letting the water steal my breath. When I surfaced, I exhaled sharply, clearing my mind. No use in thinking about things I couldn’t change.

What I could do was get some answers.

Why had the Hada hired Malakai to take me? What did they want with me? And—more importantly—how the hell was I going to slip these mercenaries and make it back home?

One problem at a time.

I scrubbed until my skin felt raw, until every trace of that dungeon was erased. But the truth was, no amount of water would be enough.

Some stains never washed away.

After soaking in the bubbling pool long enough for my fingers to wrinkle and my muscles to stop screaming, I finally dragged myself out. The air hit my damp skin like a slap, sending a shiver down my spine.

I rifled through the rucksack and pulled out a plain black blouse with simple obsidian buttons. It was loose and shapeless, meant for someone broader than me, but I tucked it into the waistband of a pair of black trousers to keep it from swallowing me whole. The pants were too long, but that problem was easy enough to fix—I shoved them into a pair of brown boots that laced up to my knees.

Functional. Practical. I looked like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, which was exactly what I needed.

Still, something made me hesitate.

I edged back toward the pool and crouched at the water’s edge, staring at the reflection that rippled back at me.

A hollowed-out ghost stared back.

My cheeks were sunken, my eyes too large for my face. The sharp angles of my bones jutted beneath my skin like unfinished carvings. My hair was a tangled wreck, hanging in dark, matted waves past my waist, more like the twisted roots of a tree than something that had once gleamed like silk. My skin had lost its golden luster, dulled by months without sunlight, replaced by something sallow, sickly.

I barely recognized myself.

The face in the water didn’t belong to the girl I used to be.

I swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing against my ribs. I had never cared about beauty the way other girls did, had never been granted that luxury. Still, I mourned this loss. Not of vanity. Of strength. Of presence. Of the fear I used to command with just a glance.

Mother’s voice slithered into my skull, a sneering whisper of contempt. Pathetic. Disgraceful. Weak.

I clenched my jaw, shoved those words back into the dark, and locked them away. No room for that now.

Scooping up the rucksack and my filthy, bloodstained clothes, I turned on my heel and made my way back toward the main part of the cave, my footsteps steady. Unshaken.

I tossed the dungeon-issued rags into the fire and watched them curl, blacken, and bubble into nothing. It was the most satisfying thing I’d done in months.

Upon seeing me, Elías leaped up and gasped.

"What in the Heavens are you wearing?”

I glanced down at myself. Simple black shirt. Simple black trousers. Boots. Nothing outrageous.

“Clothes?”

I replied, wary and utterly confused.

Elías made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and spun toward Lian, eyes wide with betrayal. “Li-Li,”

he whined.

"You picked this out? You couldn’t find anything nicer? She looks awful. All black? No color? She looks like she’s going to a funeral!”

From his corner of the cave, Dom, who was also dressed in all black, flipped him off without looking up.

Lian, tucked into a cave nook, barely lifted his head.

"They’re practical,”

he said with the exasperation of someone who’d had this argument before.

"And all we have that fit her.”

Elías threw his hands up.

"Does no one here have vision?”

He whirled toward his pack and started rummaging through it like a man possessed.

“I’m fine,”

I said, not wanting to cause trouble.

"They’re clean. That’s more than I could ask for.”

“Nonsense,”

he quipped, pulling out a midnight blue bolero jacket embroidered with mint and yellow thread along the sleeves and collar. He shoved it into my arms.

"It gets cold at night. You’ll freeze without something warm. Here, put this on.”

I sighed but shrugged it on. It was too roomy in the shoulders, a little loose at the waist. Still, the fabric was soft, the embroidery delicate, and as ridiculous as it was . . . I felt something.

For the first time in six months, I didn’t look like a ghost of myself.

Elías put a hand on his chin, scrutinizing me. “Turn,”

he ordered.

I gave him a deadpan look. He waved his hand impatiently.

"Come on, turn.”

I felt ridiculous, but I did it.

“It’s missing something,”

he murmured, going back to his pack. A moment later, he produced a magenta sash. Without waiting for permission, he wrapped the silk around my waist, winding it until only a few inches of fabric were left hanging.

“There,”

he said, stepping back with a satisfied nod.

"Much better. Though the hair . . .”

He reached for me.

I stepped out of his reach fast.

"I’ll handle it.”

Elías huffed but didn’t push, looking satisfied with his work as he flounced back to his spot by the fire.

I ran my fingers over the embroidery on the bolero, then the sash. The colors were bright. Too bright. Not practical attire for an assassin. Mother wouldn’t approve.

Because of that, a small part of me didn’t hate them.

“So you think I’m dressed for a funeral?”

Dom asked when Elías sat next to him.

“All I’m saying is you lot could take some of my advice every now and then,”

Elías quipped.

“We’re hiking, Elí. What does style have to do with it?”

Dom retorted.

“Style can be practical too,”

the Curador added, crossing his arms over his chest as if that was the end of that particular discussion.

I moved toward where Lian was sitting, a knife in his hands as he whittled at a piece of wood with slow, careful movements. He kept glancing at Elías from the corner of his eye, but the second he caught me noticing, he ducked his head like a guilty child caught sneaking sweets.

“What are you making?”

I asked as I ran my fingers through the wad of tangles in my hair.

“It’s nothing,”

he muttered, voice tripping over itself.

"Just a little token. A silly thing.”

He was carving an agave plant—sharp, delicate leaves fanning out from the center, the shadows between them giving it depth. It was good work. Precise. Thoughtful.

The agave was Citlalli’s totem—the Goddess of Healing. A fitting choice for a gift intended to be presented to a Curador.

I tilted my head, watching Lian’s fingers ghost over the edges, smoothing them with a reverence he probably didn’t even realize he was showing.

“Does he know?”

I asked, keeping my voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

Lian froze for half a second, then scoffed under his breath.

"Know what?”

I snorted.

"That you’d probably carve him the whole damn jungle if he asked for it.”

A pink flush crept up his neck, disappearing into his auburn curls.

"It’s not—”

“Don’t bother,”

I cut in.

"I was locked in a cell for months, and even I picked up on it.”

He pressed his lips together, fingers tightening around the carving. I wasn’t trying to embarrass him, but Mother had taught me that silence was for cowards. And Lian didn’t seem like one.

I nodded toward Elías, who was still locked in a passionate debate about practical versus aesthetic clothing with Dom and Kerun, throwing around words like sophistication and visual intrigue as if their lives depended on it.

“He likes you too, you know,”

I said casually, still yanking at a knot in my hair.

"Though I’m sure you’ll both be doddering old men before one of you admits it.”

Lian let out a soft laugh, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. His fingers traced over the carving again, thoughtful.

I groaned under my breath, giving up on my tangled hair.

"Damn it. Maybe I should have let Elías help.”

Lian smirked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small wooden comb. He handed it over without a word, but there was a glimmer in his eye—like he’d been expecting this outcome all along.

I took it with a huff and set to work, pretending not to notice the way Lian’s gaze flicked toward Elías again, the little agave carving turning over and over between his fingers.

After what felt like an eternity of yanking, twisting, and outright threatening my hair, I finally gave up. My patience—what little I had—snapped like one of the many strands tangled in this disaster.

I turned to Lian, my voice flat.

"Can I see that knife?”

He frowned, fingers tightening around the hilt.

"What do you need a knife for?”

I gave my hair a particularly vicious tug, wincing as it pulled at my scalp.

"I’m not getting anywhere with this.”

His expression shifted from wary to outright horrified.

"You want to cut your hair?”

“Yes. Are you going to give me that knife or not?”

Lian’s gaze flicked between my hair and the blade like I’d just announced my plans to amputate a limb. He muttered something under his breath—probably about impulsive women and bad decisions—before digging through his pack. Instead of a knife, he pulled out a brush and tossed it my way.

“Try this first,”

he said.

"Then we’ll talk.”

I caught it and immediately went to work. Two strokes in, the damn thing got stuck. Perfect.

Lian chuckled.

"Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

He set down his carving and reached for me.

Instinct kicked in before I could think, and I jerked back, my fingers tightening around the brush like a weapon. But Lian was fast—too fast for someone so quiet. He caught my hands before I could dodge again, holding me there with that same steady, patient grip.

“I can do it,”

I muttered, my face heating in humiliation. I wasn’t weak. I could handle myself. I could slice a man’s throat in his sleep, and yet a simple tangle of hair had bested me.

Lian didn’t argue. He just hummed softly, like he already knew I’d lose this battle, and carefully pulled the brush free. His hands moved deftly, working from the ends up, untangling the mess I’d made with an ease that was almost insulting.

“This might hurt,”

he warned.

I snorted.

"I’m not a stranger to pain.”

And yet . . . it didn’t hurt. Not really. Not like it should have.

Every time he hit a particularly stubborn knot, he’d pause, murmuring a soft apology before working it loose. It was unnatural. Too gentle. Too careful. Mother had trained me to withstand pain, to take a beating without flinching, but this? This, I didn’t know what to do with.

By the time he started braiding, my whole body had gone stiff, fighting the unfamiliar warmth pooling in my chest.

I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I could tell he was good at it. “Thanks,”

I muttered, forcing my voice into something cool and detached. I refused to let myself lean into it. Refused to enjoy it.

Lian chuckled softly.

"Had a lot of practice.”

Something in his tone made me pause.

"Braiding hair?”

“Yeah,”

he said, voice dipping into something quieter.

"Grew up in an orphanage. Not enough caretakers, so the older kids looked out for the younger ones. We helped each other get ready for school—brushing hair, tying shoes, fixing uniforms. Just what you did.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

The orphanages in Aguatitlan were infamous, their children were turned into workers, engineers, or worse—sold off entirely. I’d read the reports. I knew the truth behind their pristine fa?ades. But I kept my mouth shut. Lian didn’t need me to tell him what he already knew.

Instead, I stared at the fire, at the shadows dancing against the cave walls, and let him finish braiding my hair.

Lian’s voice was calm, casual even.

"Though I admit, none of the girls had hair this long.”

His fingers ghosted through my hair again, loosening another tangle near the bottom.

"A few cultures adhere to this practice,”

he continued, his tone almost conversational.

"Mizushima is one. The Hada of Tiepaz is another. And, of course, there’s Rojas. But you already know that, don’t you?”

My entire body went stiff, like someone had sucked all the air from the cave.

Stupid. I was so goddess-damned stupid.

Even tangled and matted, my hair had fallen past my waist. Now that it was combed out, it pooled on the ground like a damn neon sign flashing Rojas royalty. There was no hiding it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out I wasn’t just from Rojas—I was someone.

I forced myself to keep still. Maybe—maybe—his knowledge stopped at general cultural awareness. Maybe he was just making an observation.

Then he said the words that made my stomach drop.

“When Mal briefed us about this job, he said nothing about you being the Princess of Rojas.”

His hands stopped moving.

My heart stopped with them. Then restarted. Then stopped again.

He knew.

I glanced over my shoulder and met his sharp, ever-watchful gaze.

"How long have you known?”

I asked, keeping my voice even.

Lian tilted his head, assessing me the way a predator might consider wounded prey.

"Didn’t. Not until you just confirmed it.”

Shit. Shit.

I fought the instinct to react, to lash out, or shut down. Stay calm. Stay unreadable.

“Do the others know?”

My eyes flicked to Malakai’s sleeping form.

“I’m sure Malakai does,”

Lian admitted, tying off my braid with practiced ease.

"He’s the one who took the job. The others don’t. Not yet.”

Not yet.

I swallowed hard, reigning in the wince that threatened to betray me. Not yet meant Lian was already making decisions about when and how to tell them. It meant my window for escape was rapidly shrinking. The Nightshade of Rojas wasn’t exactly a popular figure in Corinea. There were a hundred reasons they might want to turn me in, and even more ways they could use me for leverage.

But this didn’t change my plan. Not really. I never had any intention of going to the Hada in Tiepaz. The only difference now was the timeline.

I needed to be strong enough to run. Strong enough to fight. I’d recover, I’d make a plan, and then—first chance I got—I’d be gone.