It was well past dark by the time Emberlyth left the west wing saloon. Not that she needed the light. She could have walked these halls blindfolded, counting steps as she went. Still, every tenth stride, she flicked her right hand through the air and whispered, “Surge,” under her breath.
Flames leapt obediently to life, curling between her fingers, casting brief flickers of light against the walls. They burned for mere seconds, each tiny inferno sputtering out before it could take hold. But those few moments were enough. Enough for her to feel a sliver of control. Enough to remind herself that she could still coax something out of her marks.
“See?” she murmured, her voice barely louder than the crackle of dying embers. “I can use them.” The fact that her sleeves had been pushed up, cuffs singed from those first failed attempts, she ignored.
Last night, she’d felt a flicker of pride at even that much. Progress, she’d called it. Now, confidence was a distant thing, drowned beneath bruises and doubt. Her cousin had seen to that. Their fight—if it could even be called that—had ended before it began. A beating so swift, so one-sided, it felt less like combat and more like correction. A firm “We are no longer the same,” etched into her bruised side.
Ember’s fifth “Surge” caught in her throat, the word stumbling over itself as if her tongue had grown clumsy. This time, only a lone spark stuttered into the air before dying. She tried again, more forcefully, and still, nothing.
With a quiet concession, she let her arm fall, heavy and useless, at her side.
Years of practice, of whispered spells and scarred hands, yet this was the sum of her achievements: a half-burned pillow, a blackened door, and a handful of fleeting, stubborn lights. Enough to drain her Marks, certainly. Enough to leave her hollow and empty.
“Yeah, a true master of the arcane,” she muttered, her voice bitter. “A brilliant adventurer in the making.”
With her back against the cold tapestry of the wall, hidden in the hallway’s shadows, she buried her face in her hands. For a long moment, there was nothing. The hallway was silent but for the distant creak of old wood settling. “What am I even doing with my life?” she whispered into the quiet.
She remembered, once, a younger version of herself—a twelve-year-old Ember who’d spent an entire night giggling over a single spark that danced between her fingers. Back then, it had been magic. Back then, it had been enough.
But now? Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Vaelen couldn’t even hold a candle to me back then,” she murmured, her voice brittle as frost. “Now she’s left me so far behind I can’t even see her anymore.” Her voice wavered, her breath catching in her throat. “I can barely even see myself. Where am I headed?”
The words hung in the air, raw and aching. Was it talent that set them apart? Was that why Vaelen shone like silver while Emberlyth was forced to linger in the shadowed halls of this crumbling estate? Because she was a disgrace. An embarrassment to the family. A forgotten branch on the Draekart line, left to rot.
“To the damned void with all that,” she huffed as she reached for a lantern hanging on the wall, an old magi-struct whose once-brilliant core now sputtered and dimmed with age. It took a hard shake—almost a threat—before it coughed up a reluctant glow.
Most everything in the estate was like that. The grand tapestries, the gilded chandeliers, the once-proud halls—they were all worn, threadbare, and weary. Just like Emberlyth. Left to wither.
“If I just had my ascension path, things would be different,” she said, her tone firm, as if saying it aloud might make it true. But the voice in the back of her mind wasn’t so easily silenced. What if it wouldn’t be different? it whispered. What if we’re the same useless Ember, no matter what?
The thought coiled around her, heavy and cold. Maybe that’s what they’ve been afraid to tell you. That you’re not what they hoped for. That you’ll never be…
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Her grip tightened on the lantern as the light inside it flickered uncertainly.
No. She wouldn’t let herself spiral into that pit. Not tonight. Not again.
She drew in a slow, shuddering breath. The spark—the one she’d marveled at all those years ago—was still somewhere inside her. It had to be. And even if it was small, even if it was fragile, it was hers.
And that, for tonight, would have to be enough.
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The evening showed no signs of improving as Ember staggered into the dark and empty kitchen. The first pained realization came with a bruise that throbbed worse with every step. She pressed a hand to her side, wincing.
“That deep-touched fool really has no clue how to hold back, does she?” she said, more to the shadows than anyone. Who else was there to listen? Each word was laced with frustration as she limped toward the nearest stool. “All those years I went easy on you, Vaelen. Never gave you more than a light tap on the head when I bested you in sparring or outscored you on Abda’ tests. And this is the thanks I get? You ungrateful little—”
Her grumbling was cut short as she glanced around the room and noticed the second disheartening fact of the evening. The kitchen was, indeed, empty. Utterly, oppressively so. This morning it had been alive with clattering pans, bustling cooks, and the rich aroma of roasting meats and fresh bread. They had been preparing a feast, not just for breakfast but for the road—a hundred meals packed and ready for the travelers.
Emberlyth hadn’t expected the bounty to be waiting for her now, but she’d expected something. A loaf of bread, a forgotten piece of fruit. Something to remind her that she wasn’t entirely forgotten. She was still a Draekart, after all. Draekarts didn’t go hungry.
“Should I revoke our deal, Ginnis? Is that what you want?” she asked under her breath, though there was no cook to hear her empty threat either. Even if Ginnis had been there, the words carried no weight. The agreement they’d made years ago—simple meals left in the kitchen for her to take at her leisure—was a quiet rebellion against tradition. It was a far cry from the grand feasts in the formal dining hall, where a silent girl once sat in a chair too tall for her, feet dangling, eating alone.
Her legs had grown since then, long enough now that they no longer swung uselessly above the floor. But she had no desire to return to that towering seat. To the cold, cavernous room where silver platters gleamed under flickering candlelight, and her only company had been the sound of her own chewing. No, there were enough memories haunting that place already.
She sighed, letting the silence press down on her like a heavy blanket. Her stomach growled in protest, but she ignored it. Hunger was easier to bear than the gnawing ache of loneliness that had settled deep in her chest. Ginnis might be brusque and tight-lipped, but he’d never forgotten her food before. Not until now.
“Did you leave for the Abyss without telling me?” Emberlyth asked the dark kitchen. The question lingered, unanswered, as the old planks beneath her feet groaned softly, protesting her presence. She made her way to the pantry, her lantern’s glow casting long, flickering shadows on the walls.
Cured sausages, a wedge of cheese, a few apples—she gathered them without thinking, loading the tray she wedged beneath her arm. It wasn’t the most convenient way to carry things, but the lantern left her no choice. There was nowhere to set it down without plunging herself into darkness, and Emberlyth didn’t trust the pantry’s gloom. The last thing she needed was to overlook something useful.
That thought was proven right when her elbow brushed against a hidden stash of chocolates. They tumbled into her pocket as if by fate. A terrible accident, really. Worse still if someone were to eat them before she realized they were there, making it impossible to return them. She sighed, long-suffering, and scooped another handful into her other pocket. Best to be prepared for that sorrow, even as she could imagine Efrain’s clicking tongue.
“If you didn’t want your pantry raided,” she huffed, kicking the door shut with her heel, “you shouldn’t have left me alone, mad, and hungry. You have only yourselves to blame.”
Her voice echoed faintly in the empty kitchen. It was an odd comfort, but not enough. Not when the weight of the day still pressed heavy on her chest. Maybe the entire smoked ham, stacked on top of her tray, was a bit much, but Emberlyth wasn’t in a compromising mood. Food was the simplest balm for the soul, and hers had been battered and bruised beyond measure.
But even that fleeting comfort soured as her gaze fell to her hands. As if by an afterthought, she dropped her spoils onto the counter, raising her fingers to weakly flicker them through the air. She closed her eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“Surge.”
The word hung in the air, fragile and trembling with hope. But nothing answered. No warmth, no hum of power, no spark to light the darkness inside her. Just silence. Again.
She whispered it again, and again, twisting the word with every inflection, every ounce of will she could muster. Her marks remained cold, dull beneath her skin, mocking her.
How many times had she tried? How many nights had she whispered to the void, begging for it to answer? Years of effort, of hope scraped raw, and still, she had nothing to show for it. Just a dream that flickered like a guttering candle, threatening to extinguish with each passing day.