It began with a breath.
Cold, ragged, stolen from silence. Her lungs seized like they'd forgotten how to hold life.
The first thing she tasted was cold.
Not winter's cruelty, but a strange, delicate chill—the kind that slips through old windows and settles in your bones.
Then pain.
The ache, deep, and dull. Like something unknown had curled up beneath her ribs and left suddenly.
And then—fire.
She gasped, drenched in sweat despite the biting cold wind. Her skin steamed. Her hands shook. Her vision blurred from a thousand blinding dreams she couldn't remember.
The air stung like knives. Voices in the distance, sheep bleating, a crackling hearth.
She tried to move, but her limbs felt distant, heavier than they should be. Her breath caught—like her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Faded stone ceiling. A wooden beam with a crack running down its centre. A soft mattress, too modest for royalty, but warmer than the snow.
She turned her head wincing. The room was small and simple. Safe in its simplicity. A round wooden table in the corner, a shelf of dried herbs, and empty mugs hanging by the countertop. A window opened just enough to let the morning sun inside, grey and rain-soaked.
Outside, she could hear the quiet bustle of life. The shuffle of boots in puddles, the faint clatter of a broom sweeping in cold stone, laughter from children chasing butterflies. A city waking up slowly like usual, like it is normal.
But inside, here, the silence pressed too close.
Her hands were wrapped in bandages—clean, soft, slightly scorches at the edges.
A fire.
Huh? Had there been a fire?
She blinked.
And blinked again.
Trying to make sense of something, to summon anything.
Nothing came. Not her name. Not a face. Not a voice.
Only a deep weight in her chest, as though something was forever lost.
She sat up slowly. Her body trembled with the effort to do so.
Then, the door creaked.
A woman entered. Mid-fifties. Perhaps, a little older. A floral apron dusted with flour and ashes, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. hair streaked silver-grey and smoke-black.
Her expression was cautious, but her aura was kind as she spoke. "You're awake." she said gently. "That's good. We were worried you wouldn't survive the night."
The woman crossed the room, kneeling by the bed with a wooden basin of water and a damp cloth. She hesitated for a while, but still spoke.
"You were... half dead when we found you." she scanned her body and continued, "down in the narrow valley by the South Gate. Buried under a sheet pile of snow, like a fallen star. No one knows how long you were there or how you even survived that cold."
Snow. cold.
A sudden flash, the crack of ice, the cold climbing up her arms, a scream failed to come out, a figure—in front of her. Gone. It vanished before she could understand it. She looked at the woman and opened her mouth.
"I. . ." her voice cracked, "I can't seem to remember anything."
"I figured," the woman said. "That can happen, sometimes. With shock, with magic."
"Magic?" The word felt familiar, close even. But also, dangerous.
The woman studied her. "There's something strange about you, child. We all feel it. Something in the air changes when you breathe. The fire flickers angrily around you, and the rain seems to avoid your windows." she gave a slow smile. "But we don't ask questions here in Thornhollow. We just give second chances."
Thornhollow,
So that was the name of this place. A village tucked in the bones beneath a hidden city. One of the last peaceful corners, hiding in plain sight.
"Do you remember your name?" the woman asked.
The girl's lips parted. Tried to speak, but nothing came.
But somewhere deep—beneath the ice, beneath the fire, beneath the ruined shadow of her stolen memories—a word surfaced. Not out of memory.
Out of instinct.
". . . Reed," she said.
The name clung to her like ash on skin.
"Then Reed it is. You have a pretty name, perfectly suits your hair and eyes." The woman gave her a warm look. Reed looked down to her hair, its color shining like it shouldn't be, redder than the blood itself.
She reached over and gently took one of Reed's bandaged hands. "I am Ley. You'll stay with me until you're well enough to walk. There's bed here, food, and warmth. Do not worry about who you were before. Sometimes, the ones who left the past have a greater chance in the future."
Reed nodded. The motion felt like a surrender. Liked breathing for the first time in her life.
The woman smiled, "Well, Reed, you are safe here in Thornhollow." The woman gave her a pat in the head, her hand warm and gentle—as if providing shelter too weak to keep her safe.
Despite the attempt to make her calm and lower her guard, something in her still burned. Something sharp and ancient, pressing against the inside of her skin, as if wanting to to go out—to be free.
She didn't know who she was. She didn't know where she had come from. But, she knew this, she was not safe.
And neither was anyone near her for long.
— — —
Reed didn't belong here.
She could feel it in the way people smiled too tightly when they passed her in the market. The way their eyes lingered just a moment too long. The way children were quietly ushered indoors whenever she walked by—even though she never raised her voice, even when she never did anything to warrant fear.
They didn't say it out loud, but she saw it. She felt it deep inside her bones.
They were afraid of her.
She lived in the smallest edge of Thornhollow, tucked beneath the creaking eaves of Ley's wooden house, close to the boundary where the city ended and the forest began. It was quiet here. The kind of place where lost things went unnoticed.
And perhaps, she was lost.
Reed wanted to change her name, but Ley insisted she keep it that way. For people who knew her, perhaps her family, might only recognize her by her name. Ley said that her name suits her more than she thought. She read the word before, Reed—was like the ones that bend but don't break.
Reed didn't know what to feel by that. Was she even deserving of such a name?
The village of Thornhollow was not unkind—but it was watchful. And watchful places, as she learned quickly, could become a cruel reminder in quiet ways. She often caught whispers at her back when she passed through the narrow lanes. Strange, witch, too quiet, too pale.
She never responded. She never raised her voice. She never asked why their smiles failed to reach their eyes.
Ley told her not to take it seriously, to not take it personally—to heart.
"They're afraid of what they don't understand," she'd said one evening while slicing potatoes near the hearth. "And you, child, came down from the mountain wrapped in cold and silence. That's enough to stir some rumors, to rattle anyone."
Reed had nodded and kept peeling carrots, pretending not to notice how the fire always flickered strangely around her. As if it knew her—as if it wanted something.
She couldn't remember anything before the day she opened her eyes on Ley's house. No parents, no name, no birthday or origin. Just a burning ache beneath her ribs and the sound of wind crying against stone. When she closed her eyes, she sometimes heard other things—distant screams, the crash of waves, voices she didn't know whispering her name like it meant everything to them.
"Reed," they called in her dreams, "Wait here."
She never told Ley about the dreams—no, she barely told her about anything.
The villagers, of course, had begun making their own stories. That she was a curse orphan. That she'd been left behind by raiders. That she was forsaken by gods. That she was a half-fae found in the ice, and one day, she'd melt the whole town with her breath.
Even children whispered it when they thought she couldn't hear. She wished she didn't.
"Mama says she cursed the lake—"
"I saw her stare at a crow and it flew straight into a wall—"
"I bet if you touch her, your hands will turn black."
Reed smiled at them when they said those things, even though her throat hurt when she did. Because what if it was true?
What if there really was something wrong with her?
— —
She kept her hands gloved now. Soft, brown gloves Ley had stitched from old leather. She wore them even inside. Even when it was hot. Even when she sleeps. It gave the villagers one less thing to notice.
Sometimes, she tried to be brave. She'd help at the market, hand bread to the poor, and assist the healer in separating herbs. She never asked for payment, only to be useful. It was easier to bear suspicion when she was doing something good.
But it was always there—kept following her. Just under the surface.
Then that afternoon, while she was carrying a basket of apples through the west quarter, she dropped one by accident. A man nearby, drunk and red-faced, bent to pick it up—but when she reached for it too, their fingers accidentally brushed. Like fate wanted it too, despite how careful she tried to be.
He recoiled like she had struck him. "Your hand's like fire!" he spat, rubbing his finger. "What in damnation—"
She apologized quickly, flinching, backing away—scared. She could already feel the stares gathering like storm clouds. People looked, people whispered. Even the guard nearby narrowed his eyes at the sight of her.
The same night, she didn't eat. How could she? After all that happened?
Ley, of course, noticed. "They're just ignorant, not evil," she spoke gently, placing a bread toast on the table. "But fear is a poison. It spreads fast when no one stops it."
"Maybe, they are right to be afraid," Reed whispered enough for Ley to hear. "Sometimes, I feel. . . strange. Like something inside me keeps fighting to go out."
"Magic is not evil," Ley said. "It's what you do with it that matters."
Reed did no longer reply. She quietly took the bread and filled her stomach with food. Even when it felt uncomfortable, even when it didn't want any.
What if she didn't get a choice?
A week later, she tried to visit the city center for the spring blessings—a ceremony where locals cast flowers into the river to welcome warmth and fertility. She wore her hood up to her head, and kept to the edge of the crowd. But the moment she arrived, the children ran away. One woman even clutched her baby to her chest and crossed the street, away from her.
The priest looked at her like she was a ghost. They stayed away like she was a disease.
So she left. Quietly. Before her presence completely ruins the ceremony for everyone else.
That night, she sat alone beneath the old tree behind Ley's house. She watched the wind toss its dying leaves, and the two moons light the night sky. She pulled off one glove and reached up toward a branch.
The bark under her fingers flaked like ash.
She gasped and yanked her hand back—but the mark remained, a patch of blackened wood where her skin had rested.
She stared down at her palm. Perfect. Unmarked.
And yet—destructive.
She bit her lip, pulling the glove back on with shaking fingers.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," she whispered into the dark.
The wind didn't answer. But something deep inside her did.
A memory. Not a full one—just the feeling of flame. Not warmth, but wrath. And fear.
Not from others. . .
From herself.
— —
The morning mist had not yet lifted when Reed set out for the forest.
Ley had asked for elderberries and nettle root—both grew along the southern ridge, just beyond the edge of the village, where the trees grew tall and shadows came early.
"Take the back trail," Ley had said, slipping the gathering knife into her satchel. "You'll find the plants near the river bend. Stay clear of the marsh."
Reed nodded, grateful for something to do. Something normal.
Her gloves were secured. Her cloak was drawn tight. She kept her head down as she passed through the edge of Thornhollow, ignoring the wary glances from shopkeepers and the quiet hush of gossip that followed in her every step.
It was better in the woods. She felt safer in the woods.
Quieter. Older. Honest.
Birds sang in the higher branches. The wind stirred the trees like a lullaby, the way a mother might hush a child from near, or even from far away. Here, Reed didn't feel strange. She just felt. . . small. And safe.
She took her time, tracing the root paths with careful steps. The basket in her hand was still light, but slowly filling with green nettles and leaves soaked in dew. Her mind wandered as she worked—half hoping she'd remember something. A flash of childhood. A face. A word that mattered.
Nothing came.
Just that same heavy emptiness, pressing into her like a second skin.
Still, she tried to focus on the task.
She was crouching beneath a low tree, gently plucking a cluster of berries, when the forest changed.
No sound. No scent.
Only stillness.
She straightened slowly.
Noticed the birds had gone quiet. The wind no longer stirred. The leaves no longer rustled.
She turned.
And there—emerging from the deeper trees—was a stag.
But not just any stag. A beautiful, terrible thing. Blood streaked its side, where a broken arrow jutted from muscle. Its antlers were cracked at the tips, dark with sap. Its eyes—wild, panicked, too bright—locked onto hers.
It charged.
Reed didn't think. She dropped the basket. Stepped back.
But her foot caught on a root—she fell.
The stag thundered toward her.
And something inside her rose.
Not panic. Not instinct. Not anything human.
It was heat.
Blinding.
Roaring.
Alive.
She threw her hands up.
And the world ignited.
A ring of flame burst from her fingertips, arching like a wave. It struck the stag mid-stride. The creature screamed—an awful, human sound—and veered off, crashing into the underbrush and disappearing in a flash of fur and smoke.
The fire vanished.
Just—gone.
No embers. No scorched wind. Only silence—as if it was never there to begin with.
Reed sat shaking, staring at her gloved hands.
Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her whole body trembled—not from pain, but from the memory of something old and strange waking in her blood.
She looked around.
The trees around her bore blackened marks, small patches where bark had burned away. The grass under her had seared into brittle, dead ash.
And yet she felt nothing. No pain. No burns. Not even heat.
Her gloves—uncut, unmarked.
She pulled one off with shaking fingers.
Her skin glowed faintly for a heartbeat—like a coal that hadn't quite died.
Then… nothing.
Normal.
But she wasn't.
"What did I do. . . ?"
The air around her felt charged, humming with a strange stillness.
"What am I?" She felt scared, trembling at her own shadows.
She knelt there for a long time, staring at the blackened earth, her mind looping back again and again to that single moment of heat—of terror.
It hadn't been intentional. But it had been real.
And the worst part of it—
Some part of her liked it.
The power. The flame.
The feeling of being something other than being helpless.
When Reed returned to Thornhollow hours later, Ley saw her face and said nothing. Just guided her inside and set tea on the fire.
She didn't mention the smell of smoke that clung faintly to Reed's cloak. Or the fact that her gloves, which were always worn so carefully, now hung limp from her pocket.
She simply sat beside her and waited for her to speak. For her to reach out.
Finally, Reed whispered, "I think something's wrong with me." Voice low, eyes dreary.
Ley didn't answer for a long time.
Then she said, with a gentle voice, "Or maybe something's right with you, child—and no one ever taught you what to do with it."
Reed didn't sleep that night.
She sat by the window, staring at her open palm beneath the two moonlights.
She'd felt something inside her answer that moment in the forest.
Not like a memory.
Like a presence.
Fire. Old. Patient. Waiting.
She whispered again, only to herself, faint but almost like a prayer. "Please… don't wake up again."
But it did.
And this time, it wouldn't be so gentle.
— —
Arc I: Embers of the Unknown