Veins bulged, drawing tracks across the man’s face, as he shouted, flecks of spit flying from his mouth.

“Valant! You can’t just let this-this demon live here. Get rid of it! We have families to look after!”

Assent moved through the other faces in the crowd, hesitant at first, but gaining momentum with each nodded head.

“He’s right!”

“It’s gone too far!”

The smoldering flames cut through night’s gloom, casting terrifying shadows over each member of the crowd. The formerly two-story building was now just a stone covered floor with charred and molten lengths of wood scattered about. In front of it, Valant stood, dark stubble added a grim look to his already serious face. Lyra had found his broad build intimidating before, but now he stood between her and the crowd, the last line of defense. She had hated the man, even after he had taken her in, but now all she wanted to do was run and cling to him, playing the part of the scared little girl she was. She couldn’t though, for fear of burning him away like anyone else who tried to help her. So, as the crowds unease swelled, she clutched at her elbows and brought her head down-withdrawing into herself as much as she could.

The few flames that had spread past the house were stopped in their tracks by the Stillwoods, the giant trees proving far more resilient than the wooden planks. The woods stretched out around the small village in every direction. Sometimes, Lyra wondered if she was better off living deep within, alone, where she couldn’t hurt anyone. She shuddered; thinking of her parents-it was too late for that.

She was torn from the respite of her thoughts as a sharp pain struck her brow. Her hands shot up trying to hold the pain inside, and she felt a strange warmth. Lyra stared down, dumbfounded, at her hands, covered in streaks of bloods. Children had woken and gravitated to the scene, like Chits to a corpse. Valant shoved Lyra squarely behind him as he berated the offending child, who guilty held a fistful of assorted pebbles and stones behind his back.

A gruff woman interceded. “Don’t you dare yell at him! Even the children can see what a monster she is.”

The growing army of children liked that. They chimed in, tinkling shouts of “Monster!” weaving into the crowds outrage, as parents made half-hearted efforts to shoo the children back to their homes. Hatred and self-loathing waged a vicious war within Lyra-hatred winning out in the end. She could feel it, mixing with rage, surging in her belly, coursing through her veins, pounding behind her eyes. I don’t want this! Why can’t they just understand that?! She wanted to go back to before her parents took her to find roots-before the massive Scaler roared down on them-before they found her crying amongst three charred corpses. Everything good in her life inevitably burned away to ash, but all these people could do was stand and curse her. Why did good things burn, while the bad stayed? Maybe it was time that chan-

Valant grabbed her hand, pulling her from behind him to his side, her thoughts interrupted for the second time. His eyes were narrowed, flicking from face to face, looking for signs of eminent aggression. None came, thought the disgusted looks cut much deeper than the stone had. Even so, Valant looked nervous, sweat beading above his brow, hand creeping towards the baton at his belt. The other hand gripped hers tight, his face trying to mask occasional winces of pain from the heat.

She tried to yank her hand free, but he held firm. It was typical, even when she meant no harm, she found herself in positions where all she did was create pain. Why wouldn’t he just let go? She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t want to hurt anyone! Overwhelmed, she sank to her knees, self-loathing returning for a chance at vengeance. This time, it won handedly. Valant tried to help Lyra keep her feet, but she just didn’t care anymore. She was exhausted and bloodied. Valant gave up his efforts, letting go of her hand before he tore her arm off. Lyra didn’t know what to do -she never had. Her hatred bled from her as the self-loathing claimed his spoils. She put her hands to her face, trying to block everything out as pathetic sobs wracked her body. There was nothing else to do, maybe it was for the best if this was how it ended.

Valant’s warm, pitying look froze to ice as he eyed the crowd once more, staring at each member pointedly, as if some grand point had been made. Maybe it had. “Look! She’s just-she’s just a kid. You call her a monster, but stand here yelling for the head of a weeping child!” The words cut through the unrest, serving as icy water to jolt the crowd from their haze.

Some members of the crowd turned away or looked down, shame streaking their expressions. Like the vitriol from before, this spread like a sickness. Just as had happened with Lyra, the hatred leaked out of the crowd, returning to whatever dark corner it lived in. Just as quickly as it had violently burst into flames, the situation quietly dissipated into smoke. Valant took his chance and drove the point further, the final hammer on a tent stake.

“Go home! No one is in their right minds. It’s been a long night.”

The crowd took the rope Valant had thrown down, and climbed out of the chasm, some of the rowdier members muttering as they walked away. No one looked happy, but it was enough for now. Soon all that remained were the smoldering home, Valant standing grimly, and Lyra, still kneeled over weeping. He squatted down until he was eye level with her, which seemed quite uncomfortable for the tall man. He tried placing a comforting hand on Lyra’s shoulder, but she jerked away as soon as she felt his heat. Her outright bawling had subsided to choked sobs, rudely punctuated by grasping breaths.

“Lyra. Please look up. I just want to see if your cut is ok.”

She petulantly shook her head, hands still covering her face. “No.” Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“Lyra.” The firm intonation reminded Lyra of her own father. It was the quiet before the storm. Begrudgingly, she looked up, face smeared in blood, tears, and mucus. She could only imagine the ghastly image she must be presenting. Valant reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a plain white cloth. It looked worn and rough, obviously having been used and washed many times before. As his hand reached for her again, she flinched back- an odd reaction to the man she was clinging to just a few moments before. She didn’t know why she jolted away. Part of it was because she didn’t want to hurt him. However, perhaps a large part was that she didn’t understand why the near-stranger kept helping her after the first fire.

Valant sighed, the breath a unique mix of frustration and sympathy. He held his arm straight out and made no further move, proffering the cloth to her. Like a frightened cat she pounced quickly, grabbing it and retreating back away. She wiped at her face, not knowing where to start.

Valant spoke slowly, saying each word in a hushed tone. “Lyra. It’s going to be all right. They won’t hurt you.” She looked up, frustrated that he couldn’t see why that wasn’t the problem. Lyra almost broke right there, needing someone to finally hear the terror and anger broiling inside. She stopped, mouth open. That was when things always got worse. She wouldn’t make that mistake again-not if she could help it.

Valant continued, undeterred by her silence. “You can’t stay here. You shouldn’t have been alone here in the first place. Come with me. We can go see Marianne and Quil.”

The last sentence broke through. Lyra liked Marianne and Quil, perhaps more so than anyone else in the whole world now that her parents were gone. Marianne always gave her food, and Quil, despite being a kid just like her, seemed to understand. Carefully, she nodded, and tried to push herself back to her feet. She almost did, but her left leg gave out just as it was almost straight. Lyra fell to the ground with a yelp, looking annoyed with herself. She began to start upwards again, when a hand stretched out in front of her. She relented, someday this man would lose his hand to hungry Chit, with the way he seemed to offer it out constantly.

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Lyra gazed through the cloudy glass with unwavering focus. She pressed her hand against it with ever-increasing tension, to the point she worried her hand might break through. Seeing Fain and his guard try to weave through the half dozen people gathered outside the keep’s gate had stirred uncomfortable memories for Lyra. I’ve moved past this. But the thought didn’t stop her from feeling like the out-of-control little girl. The fatigue throbbing with each waking moment didn’t help.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

She hadn’t lied to Fain, but still cringed guiltily, even alone, as she thought of the conversation. Lyra had intentionally omitted that each Ignition was not created equally- for starters, most didn’t nearly kill the Wick. Her outburst in the cold, metallic vault was no controlled Ignition, but rather a violent outburst- a quick expulsion of all the heat she had held for half a decade. She ought to have better control of herself by now. The effects of the Ignition still lingered, her blood crawling along like it was weedsap. Any breeze sent a chill straight through her. Her movements were slow and painstaking. Fain had brought some of the Blooms in to take a look at her, but they didn’t quite understand a Wick’s unique physiology. The consequences also stretched further than the physical, her mind feeling just as slowed as her body. Even her mood had soured, at least according to Fain.

He’s probably right, she thought, recalling her bitterness when he had insisted on visiting the other lords without her. “Rest, Lyra. Please”, the boy had begged. In the end, her protests and concerns for his safety had been brushed off in light of her condition. It was one of many blows to her gradually acquired feelings of control. She always worked so hard to veer her life on the intended path. Every time she did, a boulder blocked her way- Quil’s death, her last argument with Tan, and now this. She wanted to blame Sacriel, or maybe Fain, but she knew better. The thought crashed down on her, physically pushing her to sit on the bed. It was her fault. She knew better than to let Fain seek out Sacriel. She knew better than to descend into that cavern. She knew better than to lose control…again.

The scene outside continued to unfold, Lyra watching like a hungry Beak eyeing a Chit. “All you lords look at us like turren!”, a man shouted outside, walking menacingly towards Fain. She wanted to leap through the window and rush to his defense, but she couldn’t find the heat to even get up from the bed. It was too reminiscent of the second time she had lost control. The unwanted memory bubbled to the top, like boiling water. Then Lyra saw the boy shoo his guards away, turning to tell the men to drop their poles. Several members of the crowd looked perplexed, the yelling man’s rage giving way to scrunched confusion. Lyra couldn’t help but to smile as she saw Fain handle it. He looked so earnest, so pained by the crowd’s anger, not a hint of hate in his face. His arms waved around as he plead with the crowd, trying to explain the situation to them. Pride kept the corners of Lyra’s mouth pulled taut. Fain’s situation reminded her vividly of her own, but the boy-the young man- stood in stark difference to her. Whatever kindness and calm she had worked decades to build, Fain possessed naturally. He turned to his guards, motioning inside the keep. The men quickly scurried away.

While he waited, Fain, eyes wide, continued to talk with several members of the group. He was sweating from a combination of the heat and his own frantic conversation. Lyra had to suppress a laugh at that- a lord who was better at talking, and connecting with, the commoners than other lords. It was a ludicrous thought considering how other lords ranged from disinterested to outright cruel when it came to the common people. Of course, Fain had Cataran to thank for his disposition. The boy was an exact reflection of his father, though he himself couldn’t see that. They were both good lords. So good that Lyra had thought meeting them would change Tan’s outlook, but that moment never came to pass- root pulled before a sprout could show.

A few more moments passed. Lyra spent most of them just trying to focus on anything except the constant aching. Her attention was drawn to the guards, rushing back with baskets in each hand. They placed the baskets at Fain’s feet and he immediately went to pull out the soft yellow balls of Oompat. The balls of grain weren’t the most appetizing meal on their own, but they absorbed flavors well and was an inclusion in pretty much every meal. As Fain handed them out his brow was furrowed, and he seemed to be mumbling some words to each person. The poor boy was probably apologizing as he handed out precious rations.

While the gesture was nice, Lyra wondered if it was the wisest course. It wouldn’t make a dent in the starvation festering the city and might attract more crowds outside the keep. Future ones may not be as easy to please like this. Lyra sighed, and pushed herself, slowly, to her feet. She roughly shook her head, trying to beat those thoughts out.

Her ruminations were broken by a tight tugging in her belly. The sight of food had roused something in her-hunger.

“Marcey!” she called.

A short, stammering man ran in room with surprising quickness. “Yes,” he said, stammering, “Is there anything you need, my lady.”

“I told you before. I’m not a lady. Stop calling me that,” she snapped.

“Of course, mistress. As you say,” he said, bowing his head in deference. “What did you need?”

Lyra’s annoyance subverted to guilt, as it often did. “Sorry, Marcey. I need some help getting to the kitchen. Not feeling too hot right now.” She chuckled at her own joke, though Marcey didn’t join. Instead, he hooked his arm under hers, offering a steadying presence. Lyra didn’t miss the distance the man kept- as much as was possible in their current position. It seemed like the entire household had heard of her abilities. Wonderful.

They arrived in blissful silence. Marcey didn’t feel the need to make conversation and Lyra’s appreciation for the man grew a fraction for that. She edged along the stone table, reaching for the firespice to make some tea. Then, seeing a blur in the corner of her eye, she withdraw her grasping hand. Unep’s worn face scowled down at her. The cook towered over even Lyra, a feat that not many, man or woman, could claim.

“Sit. I will cook. My holy,” his deep voice intoned.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve got it.” She reached a hand out again and was quickly forced into another tactical retreat.

“Sit. My temple.”

“Well really, it’s Fain’s temple,” she argued, putting a doubtful emphasis on the ‘temple’, “As his aid, I superce-“

“Sit,” he said, growing more forceful with each iteration.

Lyra harrumphed as Marcey carefully eased her towards the seats. The old cook had come to Fain’s father from another of the cities, far beyond the one or two Molanter even briefly communicated with. His people apparently worshipped food as their gods, paying no heed to the Ancients. In her travels, Lyra had seen a handful of differing beliefs, but none so straightforward as this. Ancients, her own home had worshipped the Stillwoods over all else. They had still acknowledged the Ancients, Eaph in particular, but it was always a secondary mention. But food? Why would one eat their own god? The logic of the religion didn’t make much sense to her, but his devotion showed each time Lyra reverently saw him whispering to meals or cleaning the kitchen. She kept her mouth shut. The man deserved the right to believe as he wished.

After eternal minutes, Unep brought a steaming dish and a small glass of amber liquid to her. He was beaming as he did and whispered something indecipherable as he set the plate down. Lyra found herself starting down some of the same Oompat that Fain had called for. The difference was that hers was cooked to a faint yellow, and covered artfully in hot brown gravy. Lyra almost laughed in delight as she saw the gravy flecked with bright green and red spots. Peppers! Ancients bless you, Unep. As she picked up the ball of grain and bit, another warm gush of gravy erupted from within. Lyra, student of all and teacher of many, was absolutely perplexed. How did the man make a dish clearly intended for her in a few minutes? She hadn’t eaten a fresh meal from Unep in at least a year now, preferring to eat whatever was left over from the day’s meal. Even when she had eaten with the rest of the house, her meals had never looked like this.

Unep looked at her eat smugly, radiating satisfaction. “Is good?”

Lyra’s immediate reaction to his manner and tone was to deny it. She chided herself for the petty thought and responded back, “Very. Thank you,”. Apparently the man had heard about her recent state and taken pity on her. She and Unep had butted heads in the past, and a few minutes ago, but the man had always been loyal. As touchy and strange as he was about cooking, he took pride in helping to support the keep.

Lyra finished the meal, and drank her tea in one swallow. The warmth from both spread throughout, and though it didn’t do much for her actual heat, it energized Lyra. She rose, a bit more quickly, to her feet and walked the dishes over the wash station. Marcey moved to come help, but she waved him off. She put them away unassisted and looked towards Unep, wide smile still plastered to the man’s face. His smile, seemingly smug before, looked kind to Lyra. In fact, Lyra couldn’t see how she thought it smug before. She forced a smile of her own back, and said, “Thank you again. It really was good.”

“You come more? Been long time you eat fresh. I send some more for you tonight.” Unep’s smile was wide and toothy now, threatening to split his face in two.

“That would be wonderful, Unep. I’ll come back for fresh food sometime.” To her surprise she meant it. Lyra didn’t really think about how she had stopped eating with the keep, but the nights eating alone in her study had become a habit. That would change.

She started to move towards an exit. Some fresh air and sunlight would be pleasant after the meal. Effortlessly navigating around the keep, Lyra passed through a double flap leading to a stone walkway. Sunlight crashed down on her and the arid air swirled around her in embrace. Lyra could actually feel the heat around her. It was hard to explain but air with heat actually moved quicker. She took it in with deep breath, and exhaled slowly. It wouldn’t do much for her own heat, but it was a soothing feeling. Wicks didn’t really soak in much heat from the environment. Most of the time, they ran hotter than the air.

Still, Lyra sat and lay back, taking in what she could, enjoying what she couldn’t. The events of the old memory that had surfaced, but the pain had burrowed back. It always did, waiting to strike out when she was vulnerable. Little did it know, it could never stop her. Each time it clawed out was accompanied by memories of Valant that day. Memories with Quil followed suit. Then memories with Tan. There had been some struggles in each of those, but the good far outweighed the bad. Even with Tan. She could fix that. She had fixed mistakes before. After all, she was Lyra Wildfire, student of all, teacher of many. She learned from her mistakes, and overcome them. She took lessons and helped others with them. Right now, she would use all she was and knew to see Fain through this. Then she could fix her mistakes with Tan. Actually, right now, she would use all she knew to lay catatonic in the sunlight. After that, she could start on the rest.