Elira "They may not
understand who you are. Shine, no matter what."
Aisara went into the dorm; she was still wearing Ciaran's shirt, covered in ash.
Lina's eyes widened in surprise. "Okay, what's happening with you? It looks like you've just emerged from a battle." Lina gasped, then grinned. "You burned your clothes again,
right?" Aisara let out a breath, massaging her temple. "Why ask if you already know the answer?" Lina let out a sharp
squeal. "Is that Commander Emmerson's shirt?"
Aisara's eyes fluttered shut. "It's no one's."
"That's his, forsure," Lina stated, watching her intently. "I detect the scent of ash and recklessness, and perhaps even a hint of shadow daddy, about you."
"I reek of a girl who came close to burning down the training field."
Grinning, Lina threw her a new tunic. "You should change your clothes before the lighting ceremony; someone might start a rumor."
Aisara peeled off her shirt with a small, amused laugh. Her pride burned.
With a dramatic sigh, Lina collapsed onto her mattress behind her.
"Do you believe Prince Azric will grace us with his presence tonight?"
Aisara shrugged her shoulders. "You claimed to be terrified by him."
"I am, but like... hot terrified." Lina hugged her pillow. "My dad could be here later. Or soon, at least. They usually come for the end-of-year trials. He's Captain De Suza, King's Guard."
Aisara stopped for a moment. "He trains under Commander Emmerson?" Lina gave a nod. "Dad respects Emmerson, despite the fact that he frightens everyone. He says that
it's better to be feared by someone like that than forgotten."
"Isn't Commander Emmerson younger than your father?"
Lina shook her head, incredulous, then explained the rules of Dominion to Aisara as though she were a toddler. "Let's just say that age is irrelevant. The only thing to consider is the body count. My dad says he is the most ruthless enforcer that has ever existed."
"So," Aisara drawled, considering each word, "if someone like Commander Emmerson said the King had made me his problem and would decide when to execute me... What would that mean?"
Lina's eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary. "I'd take that very seriously and I would avoid him like death. Because that's what he is, Aisara. My dad says Commander
Emmerson doesn't hesitate. He doesn't forgive. And if he's watching you… it's not for your potential. It's for the moment you become a threat."
An uncomfortable silence filled the space between them. "My dad will want to know how I did. He always asks. Says progress is pride. He means it too."
Aisara sat opposite her on her cot. "Sounds like he expects a lot."
"My father always says I should aim for what's above me," Lina added after a moment. "Azric might be
untouchable, but at least if I fall, I fall near power.
Aisara's brow creased.
"Is that why you try so hard?
Lina's hands slowed.
"He used to love my mother. She was breathtaking. But she never had a stone,
and after she had me… she got smaller. In every way." The comb slid gently
through Aisara's hair now, slower. Softer.
"I think he wants to
believe I'm what she couldn't be," Lina said quietly. "So I give him something
to be proud of. It's not a bad trade."
"I'm going to mess
this up," Aisara said, quietly squeezing Lina's hands. Lina paused before
crossing the room to get a wooden comb from her drawer. Without saying
anything, she sat behind Aisara and started detangling her hair.
"Everyone messes up,"
she said. "Do it so exquisitely that it remains unseen; that's the magic."
Aisara let out a
breathy laugh. "I'm not beautiful."
"So then you'll need
to be terrifying." Lina tugged gently at a knot. "And besides, it's just the
lighting ceremony. All you have to do is not explode."
"That's a very low
bar."
"I'm adjusting my
expectations," Lina said breezily. "My father's in the King's Guard. If I
combust in front of Prince Azric, he'll pretend not to know me."
Aisara glanced over
her shoulder. "You're still hoping the prince notices you?"
"Oh, I don't hope."
Lina gave her a wicked grin. "I manifest."
They sat in silence
for a moment.
Then Lina cleared her
throat, brightened. "Anyway, if I end up standing next to Prince Azric and he
happens to glance at me, and I don't burst into flames—that will be the
miracle."
Aisara turned her head
slightly. "And if you do burst into flames?"
"Then I hope you
combust next to me and we both go out with style."
Aisara hesitated.
"Lina, I—"
"Nope!" Lina whirled,
hands on her hips, ignoring the fact that Aisara was holding it together.
"You're not backing out of this. It's tradition. It's important. And we get to
wear the most incredible outfits—"
"Your dad should
already be proud of you, Lina."
Gold. Red. Firelight.
A hundred expectant eyes watching.
"Don't make me cry,
Aisara."
Lina twirled once in
front of the long mirror beside her bunk, her crimson dress catching the
candlelight like flickers of flame. She had twisted her braid into a crown,
pinning strands with tiny garnet studs that shimmered like embers.
"Trust Aisara; you're
the one igniting the fire. The one flame that starts the feast, that opens the
ceremony. The fire everyone eats under tonight is ours."
"Yours," Aisara
corrected. "Ours," Lina corrected her. "Sister flames. I manifest that for us
tonight."
Aisara hesitated,
fingers trailing over the robe's fabric. It was beautiful. Heavy in the way
expensive things were — weighted with meaning.
"It's unnecessary to
be a flame. You just have to light one. You, my dear disaster of a friend, are
going to look stunning. Lina kept on talking straight past the doubt settling
over Aisara. "We're going to do something about your hair," she mused, tilting
her head at Aisara's reflection. "It needs to be pulled back. It's part of the
tradition."
Aisara forced a nod,
fingers tightening around the dress.
She didn't want to go.
She wasn't ready for
this, but she had no choice.
And if she even tried
to run—Ciaran, Commander Emmerson, would find her, anyway. This time, he might
just end her for good.
Dominion's dining
hall, carved from ancient stone, was massive; intricate patterns engraved on
each wall spoke of power and tradition. Aisara looked up at the great dining
hall, its towering columns twisting toward the vaulted ceiling, their dark
marble catching the flickering torchlight.
Banners hung between
the pillars, embroidered with golden thread—the insignias of the powers woven
into the heavy fabric. Each claiming their place, their power. Their control.
Recruits filled the
hall, seated at long wooden tables gleaming under the light. A hush of
anticipation hummed through the crowd, a tension that came from knowing that
this night—the Lighting Ceremony—was more than a meal.
It was a rite of
passage.
"Quit fidgeting."
Lina's voice was bright, too excited as she tugged at Aisara's sleeve, eyes
sparkling. "You're making me nervous."
Aisara's hands had
already burned too much today. What if she lost control again?
The ceremonial hall
was brighter than any part of the academy.
Glass encased candles
spiraled upward, forming a lattice of flame against walls lined with golden
braziers; a long, bare oak table waited in the center for the feast to begin
once the fire was lit. At the far end of the hall stood the unlit hearth — wide,
ancient, carved with sigils of the six elemental callings. Tonight, it would be
Aisara's flame that brought them to life.
At the front of the
hall, she stood with Lina, dressed in crimson and gold. Her palms were slick.
Her pulse was a little too fast. The weight of the robe, the heat of the
firestone at her waist, the pressure of dozens of eyes — it was a lot. But not
as much as his. She didn't need to look. She knew Ciaran was there. Standing in
the shadows by the far pillar. Just far enough to blend. Just close enough to
burn. He was always watching. Not because he wanted to — but because he'd been
told to. If she slipped too far, if she became a threat. He'd be the one to
kill her. The King had made that clear, Lina had echo'd it. Despite that, some
sick, twisted part of her… noticed him.
Not the uniform or the
shadows, but the stillness. The silence that wrapped around him like it knew
what it was waiting for. And gods help her. She hated that it made her stomach
tighten.
A bell rang. A hush
swept through the room. Lina squeezed her hand once — firm, grounding and
stepped forward. Her flame danced up from her palm like a whisper. Gentle.
Controlled. She lit the left most basin.
It was Aisara's turn
next. She moved forward — slow, certain, the firestone at her waist warm but
stable. She raised her hand, called the flame — not with rage, not with fear.
Concentrate. Take a
breath.
Fire away.
And this time?
It came.
Not violently, or too
much. Just… perfect. A single ribbon of flame arced from her palm and caught
the center hearth. It leapt to life, spiraling into the ceremonial bowl, flames
steady, golden-red.
The room exhaled as
one. Applause rippled. The crowd turned to each other, smiling, murmuring. And
Aisara looked up, right where she knew he'd be. Ciaran stood where she
expected, still and unmoving. His expression unreadable.
Valcor, the Head of
Dominion, stepped forward, his presence commanding, his expression one of quiet
reverence. He extended his hands toward them.
"A flame transcends
mere fire," he stated, his voice deep and deliberate. "It is a journey. It is a
transformation." His gaze settled on them both, lingering on Aisara for a
moment too long. "It is power. This is the first step," he said, sweeping his
gaze over the gathered recruits. "Many trials will test you, and some of you
will rise. Some of you will fall, but from this night forward, none of you will
remain the same."
Aisara wasn't
convinced by that idea. She turned, stepping away from the fire as the ceremony
ended and the feast began. The mood shifted, replaced with laughter, movement,
the clinking of cups. The ceremony ended, Valcor and Lysara departing with
Ciaran in tow. Recruits broke off into groups floating around the hall. She
turned away before anyone could see her jaw tighten. Lina grinned and leaned
in. "We nailed it! And Prince Azric winked at me."
Aisara forced a smile.
"Yeah. We did."
She wasn't hungry. She
wanted no part of a man who mean to kill her — and didn't seem the least bit
impressed she hadn't failed. She slipped from the edge of the crowd as the
music began. She took the side corridor — the one that curved behind the great hall,
toward the west wing. She needed air. The fire had gone off without a hitch.
Her hands hadn't trembled. Her flame had obeyed. And yet, she was more unsteady
than ever before.
"Leaving so soon?" His
voice was smooth and amused. Nothing had ever been denied to the golden prince,
spoiled warrior, and future king. He stepped closer. No crown. No guard. Just
his voice, and his presence, and that looks like he could read all her weak
points without even trying.
"So serious, Sherai."
"Don't call me that."
"It suits you. All
sparks but no leash."
She attempted to go
around him. He moved, blocking her path — not aggressively, just… inevitably.
"Aren't you going to
thank me? For watching your brief ceremony? For not laughing when you
hesitated?"
"I didn't."
"You did."
She didn't rise to it.
His smile curved—amused. Not warm.
"You've been fiery
from the moment you arrived. Reckless. Untrained."
He leaned in.
"Unbroken."
The word hit like a
slap. Or perhaps a promise.
"I should bring you to
the King," he said. "But I'm more interested in seeing how long you last before
you crack."
"Try me."
"Don't tempt me." She
kept walking.
She sensed his
movement. Blocking her in.
Fighting back a turn,
she released her breath, his voice's challenge hanging in the air. She wouldn't
give him that.
"Move."
"Not even a 'yes, Your
Majesty'?"
She ignored him.
"I think you need to
learn your place, Serai."
The words were soft.
Deceptive.
And then his voice
changed. Still smooth. But undercut with steel. A push pressed against her
mind. A command.
"Bow. Apologize.
Submit."
The force of it was
there, attempting to penetrate her mind, but it didn't hold her. Azric's steps
stuttered. He had expected her to submit, to kneel. She turned then, then
didn't kneel. She straightened. Eyes locked on his.
"No."
His eyes sharpened.
Shock and surprise flickered for a moment before it disappeared.
"Interesting,"
"Didn't expect that,
did you, your Highness?"
Azric's fingers
closing around her wrist. It was a mistake. The second his skin met hers, her
stone pulsed and Aisara struck. She sank her teeth into his hand. Blood hit her
tongue. Azric cursed, yanking his arm back. Aisara didn't wait. She ran. Down
the corridor, her blood pumping louder than her footsteps, his blood still on
her tongue. And behind her—he laughed.
"Gods," she heard him
mutter behind her. "You're going to be fun."
Her legs burned as she
climbed, and her mind spun. The wind hit her first. Aisara burst through the
narrow stairwell door, feet hitting stone, lungs burning. The rooftop stretched
wide and open before her — the place where she'd once looked up and still believed
in something like freedom. Aisara sat on the rooftop, knees pulled up, the wind
biting at her skin. Her stone still pulsed, the strange jolt from Azric's touch
lingering like a bruise under her skin. She pressed her palms against her eyes,
willing herself to hold it together. She only ever wanted a normal life. A soft
rustling caught her attention, the shadow moved against the night sky and a
small, plump owl fluttered down, landing beside her. Nox had found her! Had
brought her a message from Elira—her last tether to something real, something
that wasn't war and expectation and fire beneath her skin.
Reaching out, she
stroked his soft feathers with her fingers. He stretched out a leg, the tiny
paper tied to it. She untied the note, unfolding it.
Aisara,
You better not already
gotten yourself into trouble. (Who am I kidding? You did!). Things here are
quiet. Not very exciting. I miss you. Tell Rheyn I miss him, too. More than I
thought I would. Write back soon. me everything.
-Elira
She missed her, too.
Missed the late-night talks, the laughter, the way life made sense before all
of this. She reached into her pocket and found a tiny scrap of paper. It was
the paper the old man given her. She didn't know to whom it was addressed, only
noticing an odd drawing. She scrawled a in quick, messy strokes.
Elira,
I already did
something stupid. (Surprise, surprise.) I miss you too. Tell me anything boring
but normal. I need to hear it.
-A
She folded the note,
securing it back to Nox's leg. "Take this back to Elira, okay?" The owl
blinked, ruffled his feathers, then nipped her fingers before lifting off into
the night. Aisara watched him disappear against the sky. The smallest sense of
calm settled inside her. And that's when she heard it.
"How long have you
been a rebel?"
Her breath stopped.
She turned and Ciaran stepped out of the shadows.
His face was
unreadable, eyes were already dark.
"How long?" he
repeated.
"I'm not—"
"You're writing
messages on rebel parchment. and you've bonded with a carrier bird tied to
known insurgents. You're not denying it."
He moved closer.
Shadows trailed behind him, slow and deliberate. "Was the fire training a lie?
The fear? The bite? The girl who couldn't control her flames—was that a mask?"
Aisara clenched the
edge of the ledge, the wind clawing at her robes.
"I didn't—this isn't
what you think—"
"You don't know what I
think." He raised a hand. Her own flame flickered behind her eyes.
"Step back."
"You don't give me
orders."
"The King does." His
voice was icy now. Distant.
"And if I have to kill
you—"
"Then do it."
The silence that
followed was worse than yelling. Her pulse spiked.
"It's from my friend.
A normal letter. Nothing else."
He laughed. A low,
mocking sound.
"You're going to keep
lying. I asked you if you knew the rebel the other night and I accepted your
lie then. I will not fall for it tonight. "
He took another step,
forcing her back, forcing her into the wall of the rooftop. The moonlight
caught on his features—sharp, severe, shadowed with restrained fury. Aisara
shook her head, swallowing back the burn in her throat.
"I don't know what
you're talking about?"
His eyes grew dark.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Fine. I will force
the truth from you." A flicker of movement — his fingers traced over her wrist
and a jolt of energy shot through her. A strange, buzzing sensation in her head
made her vision blur.
Slowly, deliberately,
his fingers grazed her stone. Her thoughts scattered. She couldn't hold on to a
single thought. Her own power shuddered under his touch. "Let's see what you're
hiding."
Her mind reeled as an
unnatural presence slipped into her thoughts. The pressure intensified, peeling
apart the layers of her mind. Flashes—Elira's messy handwriting, her own
frantic scrawl. Ciaran's presence loomed, shifting through the memories with ruthless
precision.
He was inside her
head. His presence tore through her thoughts, fast and unrelenting, peeling
back memory after memory, searching. Not gentle. Not careful. He pulled the
parchment from her memory first. Nox. The note. The rooftop. He went deeper.
The Veilgate. The first night. Deeper still. At the docks with the old man and
the moment he pressed the paper into her hands. The image slammed into Ciaran's
mind. His body locked up, fingers twitching, stalling. Aisara's panic surged at
the pull and twist, reverse, and for a fleeting second, she was inside him. Not
fully enough to see the flash of another memory—his, not hers. She saw a small
boy curled up and alone with his hands over his ears. Shadow bleeding from the
walls and there were screams outside the door. But the little boy never made a
sound. She felt the pain and heard a man's sharp voice. Head the command that
broke him.
Ciaran jerked away as
if she burned him. And just like that, their connection snapped. His shadows
whipped around them.
"Stay off this
rooftop."
Aisara stared at him,
still reeling. Her body still buzzed from the forced connection.
Ciaran shadows whipped
around his boots, erratic, lashing at the stone like something out of control.
He didn't look at her when he spoke—voice low, shaking.
She didn't answer. He
turned. Paused.
"In the event that I
see that owl again, I'll kill it."
Aisara went still. A
rage replaced the leftover haze. No one threatened Nox.
Her fingers tingled,
power surging to the surface. She didn't think or hesitate. The rage bloomed so
fast it settled like a second skin. Hot. Red. Instant.
"No!" she screamed and
hurled a fireball at his back. Magic howled through the air - searing, wild,
reckless. The rooftop flared gold and red as it arced straight for him. Ciaran
turned at the last second and caught it barehanded. The fire didn't burn him,
but it lit something inside him.
His eyes went dark
and, just like that, he moved. Straight toward her. "Wrong move, Aisara."
Ciaran's laughter held
a dark amusement. Aisara attacked him. She made the first move. Which meant she
gave him permission for what came next. The shadows reacted. Black tendrils
shot forward, wrapping around her wrists, her ankles; before she could dodge.
Her back made contact with the stone pillar. The shadows held her there, tight enough that her pulse kicked against them. Ciaran took his time approaching - a predator with no rush to strike.
"You want to play with
fire? Let's see how you handle the burn." Her wrists snapped upward, bound in
coils of living night, pinned high above her head.
Her feet barely
touched stone. Ciaran approached, shadows writhing around his boots, his
expression carved from fury and silence. "You threw fire at me."
Aisara glared back,
breathing hard. "You invaded my mind."
"You started a war."
"And you just showed
me how dirty you fight."
He stepped closer.
"You wanted to play with power? "Then let's see how you endure it." The
surrounding shadows tightened—then heated. Not immediately scalding. Just hot.
Ciaran watched her, his voice quiet. Controlled.
"Tell me when it
hurts."
"Don't hold your
breath."
The heat grew. Swept
over her arms, across her chest, around her ribs like fire dragged through oil.
"I want to know what
makes the fire stutter," he murmured. "I want to hear where you break."
The heat intensified.
She gasped through her teeth but didn't yield.
"You'll be waiting a
long time, asshole."
He tilted his head,
almost studying her. She bit down on the inside of her cheek but kept her gaze
locked on his as he turned up the heat to searing.
"Still standing."
"Impressive, little
flame."
He reached out—pressed
two fingers against her sternum, right above her heart. "Let's test the next
threshold." The heat vanished. Replaced by ice. Shadows turned frigid in a
breath, wrapping around her like bands of frost. Sharp. Biting. Cruel. They slid
down her spine, across her thighs, up her jaw. Her breath caught—just
once—before she exhaled it through her teeth.
"Scream," Ciaran said.
"I'll stop if you scream."
"No," she whispered.
"I won't give you that satisfaction."
The cold twisted.
Pulled. Cut.
She hissed—but didn't
cry out.
Shadows freezing,
biting—clawing over her ribs, wrapping around her throat, pressing.
"You think silence
makes you strong? Let's see if it makes you bleed."
She gritted her teeth.
Arched against the wall, jaw locked, eyes lit with defiance.
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
he rasped.
"Not even close," she
hissed.
Ciaran's eyes
narrowed. "You're not afraid of pain?"
"Or you're not as good
at inflicting it as you think."
That did it. He
reached up cupping her jaw, not tender, not violent.
Just claiming. His
other hand hovered over her temple, shadows coiling around his fingers.
""You'll continue to
pretend to be strong, right? Still think silence makes you invincible?"
"No," she said through
gritted teeth. "It makes me free."
That nearly broke his
resolve. He pressed his palm to her stomach. Shadows trembling.
"You think you know
pain? "You've only ever danced around the edges of it."
"Then burn me, freeze
me, do your worst—"
"I will." And then he
growled. "You asked for this but remember if you scream, I'll stop."
She leaned forward,
breath brushing his mouth. "I'd rather choke on your shadows than give you the
satisfaction."
His pupils blown wide.
He stared at her—Not as a threat or recruit; as something else. "You won't give
me the truth? Then I'll tear it from your spine and kiss the silence it leaves
behind."
He plunged into her
mind. Aisara's vision flickered—dark shapes, shifting figures, flashes of
memories that weren't supposed to be his. She pushed and struggled against him,
but he was too powerful. The orphanage unfolded around them. A long, dimly lit
hallway. The smell of damp stone, burnt porridge, rusted iron. A girl—her
younger self—curled on the ground, arms locked around her head. The Matron
loomed above her, wooden cane raised, fury twisting her features. The impact
cracked through the air, even now Aisara could smell her hate, the disinfectant
she wore as perfume. Aisara flinched, but the child didn't cry out. She
wouldn't. She never screamed. Not when the Matron snatched the food from her
hands or threw her into the dark room, bruised and bleeding. Not when she took
the beatings meant for the others. Aisara never screamed.
Ciaran's breath came
sharp, jagged. He saw the cold stone floor. Smelled the copper tang of blood.
Aisara could see the memory. She was small. Six? Seven? It didn't matter. The
lash came down again. And again. She didn't scream. Because if she did—they would
come for the others next. So she took it. All of it. Eyes open. Unmoving.
Unyielding. She had no power then. No stone. No voice, just the ability to
endure.
Ciaran staggered back.
He looked shaken. His breathing was unsteady. His hands curled into fists at
his sides, shadows writhing around him because he had seen it. Felt the
lashings and the bruises. Saw the way her small, fragile body had refused to
make a sound. Their connection broke, like a severed tether. Aisara lifted her
head, eyes burning, able to focus on him. "Did you find what you were looking
for?" she rasped.
His jaw tightened.
"You took those beatings for the other kids."
Aisara's throat
tightened. Ciaran stood before her, all stillness, all control. His grey
eyes—merciless and unreadable—watched her, but she refused to flinch. She
lifted her chin, jaw tight, and nodded.
A wind gust swept her
silver-streaked hair across her face, yet she remained still. Didn't move at
all. Neither did he. His fingers brushed her wrist. His thumb traced the line
of her pulse, the place where her power thrummed a caged thing. He tested it;
her stone flared to life beneath his touch. Ciaran's thumb pressed against it,
dragging, watching the colors bloom, shift, ripple ink in water. He did it
again and again. Slow. Fascinated.
Aisara bit down on the
inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay still, forcing herself not to
react.
"You should have
screamed," he murmured.
"Never."
The wind howled
between them, but neither moved. A quiet, dark, and calculating look passed
through his expression. His thumb dragged across her wrist one last time,
pressing over her stone he was marking her. His shadows still wrapped around
them, still pulsing against her skin, waiting. Aisara, fought the trembling in
her limbs. She wouldn't yield, wouldn't let him think he could bend her to his
will. So she pushed back. Lifted her chin.
"If you want me dead,
do it."
Ciaran stilled.
"Go on. Prove that's
all you are. Nothing but a monster."
His fingers twitched.
She sensed the shadows constrict for a moment, then he released her.
Aisara stumbled,
steadying herself on the stone. Ciaran exhaled through his nose, slow and
measured, stepping back, dragging his gaze over her as if he was memorizing
her.
"Stop defying me."
"You should killed
me," she rasped.
"Not yet."
"Yet," she repeated.
"How comforting."
The surrounding
shadows loosened again — but not fully. Still tethered. Still... watching.
"Careful, Vasha." The
way he said it—quiet. Possessive. Like it meant more than she wanted it to.
She glared at him. He
turned, walking away, the shadows curling around his feet. Before he
disappeared into the night, his voice carried back to her.
"Be careful, Vasha.
I'd hate to see you break too soon."
"Go to hell! I have
been through far worse and I'm still standing!"
He had her pinned in a
second.
"Answer me this
Aisara, you hate heights. Why come here?"
She didn't look away.
She should have.
"This is the only spot
where I can see the mainland. Elira could be looking at the same stars tonight
and that's enough."
"What do you want to
say, Ciaran?" she glared at him.
"Don't give out your
weaknesses Aisara. "Fear of heights, attachment to your friend. You give people
too, much to use against you."
He didn't say it
cruelly, but it still landed like a blade in her ribs.
"Noted."
He turned without
another word. The shadows followed him—sliding away like they hadn't just
pinned her to the wall and pressed heat and ice into her spine. He disappeared
as if he had never been there in the first pace.
Aisara moved through
the corridors a ghost, her steps slow, unsteady. Her wrists still ached where
the shadows held her. The icy burn lingered beneath her skin, a phantom pain
she couldn't shake. She hated this place, the people, the power plays, the ruthless
cruelty that ran through its veins. Except Rheyen. Lina. Even Professor Lysara.
Everyone else? Poison. She reached the dorm, slipping inside. Lina was already
asleep, her soft snoring filling the quiet. Aisara exhaled, pressed herself
against the closed door. She moved toward the bed, slipping under the covers,
sleep was impossible. Aisara turned onto her side, gripping the blanket. The
rebels. She never thought of them much before, it was a ghost story. Ciaran
believed she was one. And if he believed it, how many others did? Would they
kill her for it? Would she ever be able to prove them wrong? Whatever was
happening to her, whatever this power meant, it would destroy her before she
even got the chance to understand it. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her
face into the pillow muffling her scream. Tomorrow she would figure it out.