It’s almost annoying how ignorant I feel. I suppose I should have focused more when Mother tried to teach me the history of our worlds, but it honestly seemed like useless stories.
Especially with a father as a Zenith.
What an idiot for a kid I was.
“So what doIhave to do with this again, exactly?” I ask, facing him, slowly churning it all together. I so badly want to latch on to him for safety, but he still looks like a stranger to me. I can already feel my heart closing off to him. “They wantmeto go to the crypts, or something?”
“Across the Black Sea,” my father begins, speaking quieter and directly to me. “They call people like you a Cinder. Just like they callhima Sensor.” Dad lazily motions to Soren. “Fire mages hold Cinders in high esteem because they’re a dying breed, and as everything is in the Balar Coasts, powers and magic are scarce here. There’s nothing that indicates a Cinder, other than they don’t burn, meaning they’re hard to track. Which is why we didn’t say anything—we figured it was best to just let you avoid fire. Misery currently wants all Cinders that can be found, and so the Fire Isles are rather aggressive in this support. He needs people likeyouto reach Misery’s crypts if he ever wants his power back, so yes, I imagine he’ll use you, one way or another, to get to his crypts. I still don’t honestly know how they found you or your mother–—”
“Didtheykill Mom?” I interrupt, the churning of information spinning so fast the pieces aggressively collide like they’ve been chucked around in a hurricane.
He offers a single, somber nod—the firsttrueemotion deepening the concern in his eyes; something in me breaks a little that his concern didn’t involve me.
I grind the wick near my fingers to extinguish the flame, my breathing deepening with adrenaline. “Momwas a Cinder?”
“Any offspring of the maternal line will be a Cinder. Your grandmother was one, too. They were hunted about a hundred years ago, killed on sight. It’s why your grandmother settled in Skull’s Row. There’s not many of you left.”
I cling to every word like a man lost at sea who has finally been granted a map, although bitter to realize how much I’ve completely missed and can never go back. “But my naprese scar...”
“I thought that was interesting that it burned you,” Dad remarks, looking down at my wrist. “It must be from its magic. I admittedly don’t know much about naprese gold. They guard that very closely…” He tilts his head to the side. “Whatever that magic is doesn’t matter now, though, Jane. You’ve been of interest to fire worshippers for some time. Cinders aren’t from the Fire Isles, but an island obsessed with fire is also highly fascinated with collecting humans that don’t burn. Misery is utilizing their lust for influence and flames to create a minor cult that will support him.” He hesitates before adding, “That awful burning of the woman that you witnessed was probably a burst of power for him. Probably the burning of Coalfell was, too.”
An icy dread settles on my shoulders, clarity striking with brutal force. I search for any emotion in him, but I just don’t see it; I don’t fucking see it. My lips open and close a few times before I manage out, “If they needed Cinders, why did they kill Mom?”
His sigh morphs into a grumble that emanates through his throat, sucking his lower lip to his upper teeth. “I don’t know, and I ask that question nearly every day.”
Blinking rapidly, I try to imagine being taken to reach some crypts to restore a god of misery. “Based on the way you talk, I’m not the only one, right? So why haven’t they restored him already? Surely they don’t needeveryCinder.”
Surely, there is a hole in this plan.
Something massively overlooked.
Therehasto be.
“No. They don’t. But that doesn’t matter for you, since they'll use you,in particular, to get Misery back to his power. It’s what I’ve heard when I’ve managed to get close to them. They’ve been gathering Cinders for a while now, but you’re of particular interest for some reason,” he replies, his expression tightening again to something deadly.
Oh, great. Maybe not.
I’m just ofparticular interest.
If steam could pour out of me, this entire room would be blanketed by the thickest fog. Out of everything I could feel, I’m primarily pissed off. All the suffering, aching loneliness, and excruciating agony of mourning my family… it’s suddenly gaining a name.Motives. The chaos of everything has so much order for the first time in my life, the gravity of what was done to me, my family, and my village now has a name… and I bet a face.
I’m even trying to picture this person in my head, the one thatleadsthe Order of Ash, which leads to me biting my lip all too hard as that ugly ass face of the man who killed my mother persists through it all.
I always thought that what happened to Nora Ritter was a byproduct of living in Skull’s Row and my father having enemies, not actually an execution related to a sophisticated orchestration.
She washunted.
Pure murder and vengeance stain my essence; slaying the man who killed my mother isn’t enough.
Not when I have direction.
Not withunderstanding.
Spreading my fingers out so my hand trails down the candelabra to extinguish the other flames, imagining each one is the beating heart of the Order of Ash, I try to breathe steadier tocontrol myself. “So, in all of this, I was meant to betakenafter what they did to Mom?”
I can nearly hear every heartbeat of mine as I wait for my father to answer.
“Yes. And I dideverythingto avoid that. But Misery is patient. He sees the benefit in properly cultivating the young ones, like Jesper—the leader of Ash. Misery groomed him as a child, promising to make him a fire god in his own right.
