If you've never set breakfast on fire, I highly recommend it—just once.
Preferably not on the same day a mythical bird crashes into your house.
"Grandmaaaa," I called from the kitchen, poking at the pan with a wooden spoon. "I think I burned the eggs. Again."
No response.
I squinted down. My 'cooking' looked less like eggs and more like something exiled from the underworld.
Another loud sizzle.
And that's when I noticed the smell. Not the regular "Oops, I left it too long" smell. This was sharp. Smoky. Like... burning parchment?
I turned.
Outside the window, a shadow flickered through the sky.
"Is that... a bird? No. That's a fireball."
I blinked.
A literal firebird—wreathed in smoke, tail feathers trailing cinders like comets—was hurtling directly toward our cottage.
With a shwoooooooosh, it streaked past the garden, did a loop around our chimney, and landed on the windowsill like it owned the place.
It cocked its head.
I stared at it.
It stared back.
Then it exploded into flames.
"AAHHH—!"
I hit the floor, hands over my head, half-expecting talons or fire or maybe both. But the kitchen didn't catch fire. Nothing did. When I peeked again, the flames were gone.
In their place was something stranger: a single envelope, lying in a pile of warm ash.
Golden edges. Heavy parchment. A wax seal shaped like a thorn-wrapped flame.
I reached out and picked it up carefully.
The paper buzzed faintly under my fingertips, like a heartbeat. As if it knew I was holding it.
On the front, written in smoky, precise handwriting:
To Miss Elira WrenBy Veil, Flame, and Forgotten Right
Well.
That wasn't ominous at all.
✦ ✦ ✦
"You're taking this way too calmly," I said, sitting at the kitchen table twenty minutes later.
Grandma Wren poured tea like she got letters from flaming sky-birds every other week.
"I told you, Elira. It was only a matter of time."
"Only a matter of time? Grandma, a bird made of fire just dive-bombed our house!"
She didn't even look up. "Yes, and it was very polite about it."
She pushed the envelope back toward me. "Go on. Open it."
I hesitated. The seal looked like it might bite me.
But curiosity won out.
Click.
Inside was a letter. Not written, but etched—like the words had been burned into the page by a flame that knew what it was doing.
To Miss Elira Wren,
By ancestral right and awakened flame, you are hereby invited to attend:
EMBERTHORN ACADEMY FOR THE MAGICALLY GIFTED
Your talents, long-dormant, are recognized.The Ember Carriage will arrive at dusk.Pack wisely.
Flame remembers.
—Headmistress Caelara Virel
I stared at it.
"Magic academy?" I whispered. "Me?"
Grandma just sipped her tea.
"But I don't even have magic! I've never levitated anything! I can't even light a candle with my mind!"
"Dear," Grandma said, "you lit breakfast on fire without touching it."
"…Okay, fair point."
I folded the letter slowly. "So, what now?"
She smiled. "Now, you pack. Emberthorn doesn't like to wait."
✦ ✦ ✦
By sunset, I had stuffed my life into a satchel: two changes of clothes, my favorite worn-out storybook (which may or may not contain monster doodles in the margins), a half-broken compass, and a green scarf Grandma knitted me last winter.
And, well… that was about it.
I stood outside, watching the sky shift from gold to indigo.
Then the wind changed.
And the Ember Carriage appeared.
It didn't roll up from the forest.
It manifested—first as smoke, then as metal and shadow and flame. Four spectral horses with burning manes stood at the front. The carriage itself looked like something from a royal nightmare—sleek, blackened silver, with glowing orange runes along the sides. The wheels left trails of sparks in the grass.
A tall figure in a black coat stepped down. Their face was hidden beneath a hood, but when they spoke, their voice was velvet and heat.
"Elira Wren. Emberthorn awaits."
I looked back at our little cottage.
At Grandma, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, her expression tight but proud.
"Go," she said softly. "Before your magic burns a hole in the world."
I swallowed. Turned.
And stepped into the carriage.
The door shut.
The world blurred.
And my story—the one I didn't know I'd been waiting for—
finally began.