The morning sun barely pierced through the dense canopy of thorny branches, casting fragile shards of light that danced on the dirt paths of Thornhollow.
The village stirred slowly to life—children chasing chickens, the clatter of wooden carts on cobblestones, and the faint scent of fresh bread baking in earthen ovens.
But Reed felt none of the warmth that morning, like usual. Her body was hot, but it was not enough to warm her heart.
She moved quietly through the streets, her steps careful, eyes cast low, dready. Even after weeks living among the villagers, she was still a ghost among them—a shadow they whispered about but dared not approach.
Maybe this was better. For them.
'At least, I wouldn't hurt them. Right, this is okay.'
The villagers treated her like a fragile glass doll, afraid she might shatter, or worse, break something far darker within herself.
Or maybe they were the dolls, afraid they will shatter in her sight—forever disappear without a trace.
A group of women gathered near the well, their voices dropping as Reed passed. She caught fragments of their whispered words, sharp as daggers in her ears—painful, scarring.
"The cursed one. . . forsaken by gods."
"A fire born from darkness."
"Mark my words, she'll burn us all someday."
Her chest tightened. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, forcing a smile she didn't feel.
A smile too fake to reach her eyes.
Reed paused near a patch of wildflowers, her hands trembling slightly. She reached out to brush a delicate red blossom with her fingers—and felt a strange warmth bloom there, as if the flower itself flickered with a hidden flame.
"Ley was a liar." She whispered to herself, "This place doesn't welcome second chances. . . at all."
She stayed there for minutes, admiring the flowers, how they got swayed by the air, how nice it smells, and how beautiful it looked no matter its situation.
"Reed," a voice called softly. Ley, the village healer, approached from behind, her eyes kind but wary. "Are you well? You didn't join us this morning."
Reed nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm fine."
Ley hesitated, then laid a gentle hand on Reed's shoulder. "You don't have to be alone. We. . . we want to help."
"I know," Reed said, forcing a laugh that tasted bitter. "But sometimes I wonder if I'm actually the one who needs help the most."
Suddenly, a sharp yelp cut through the quiet. Reed turned to see a small boy, no more than seven, stumbling toward her, clutching his arm.
"Sorry!" he cried. "I didn't mean to—"
Before Reed could respond, the boy's touch grazed her hand. A flicker of heat surged through her palm—barely noticeable, but enough to make her flinch, to waver.
The boy's eyes widened. "Your hand—it's hot!"
A hush fell over the villagers gathering nearby. Their fearful eyes locked on Reed's hands, which glowed faintly with ember-red light.
The boy's mother rushed forward, pulling him close. "Stay away from her!" she hissed. "She's dangerous."
Reed stepped back, heart pounding. She wanted to explain, to say it wasn't her fault. But how could she? How could she convince them when she didn't even understand it herself?
How could she, when they have already found answers that didn't come from her?
She lowered her gaze to her hands, the faint warmth fading, but the fear remained.
I'm sorry.
— —
The day wore on with a heavy weight pressing on Reed's chest. Whispers trailed her like shadows wherever she went, growing louder and more pointed, sharper with every step.
By afternoon, she sought refuge beyond the village limits, in the tangled woods where the ancient oaks stretched their knotted limbs toward the sky. The forest was alive with the hum of cicadas and the rustle of leaves, but to Reed, it was silence—a place where she could breathe without judgment.
The trees are kinder, they are safer.
Her footsteps crunched softly on fallen twigs and dry leaves as she wandered deeper, hoping to lose herself in the embrace of green and shade.
Will the flame die in these endless trees?
Or will this place be ruined by the flames that know no bounds?
Then, a sudden movement caught her eye—a small, scared scruffy dog limping awkwardly between the underbrush. Its fur was matted, and a thin streak of blood stained its flank. It was Ley's puppy.
"Hey, little one," Reed whispered, kneeling slowly, hands outstretched. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."
The dog's ears flicked, eyes wary but curious. It took a cautious step closer, then another, until it was just inches from Reed's trembling hands.
She reached out, barely touching its fur, and a flicker of warmth sparked from her fingertips.
Suddenly, the dog yelped, pulling back sharply, teeth bared. Reed froze.
Fear blossomed inside her like wildfire. The heat in her palms intensified, licking along her skin with a fire she couldn't control. Her heart hammered, and a sudden wave of panic surged through her veins.
Before she could stop it, flames burst from her fingertips, small tongues of fire flickering across the dog's fur. No, no. . no.
The animal screamed and darted away, leaving a smoldering patch of grass in its steps.
Reed's breath hitched. She stared at her hands in horror—the flames danced there as if alive, mocking her, refusing to die out.
"Please… no," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
Please, someone. Anyone. Make this stop.
But the fire was growing, spreading quickly, licking the dry brush like a hungry beast.
She dropped to her knees, trying desperately to smother the flames with dirt and leaves, but the blaze only grew stronger.
Panic turned to terror as the fire spread toward Ley's wooden house—the one place she thought might offer safety. The one place she could rest, with no judgement.
Villagers began to shout from the edge of the forest.
"Fire! Someone help!"
"Get out of the way!"
Reed scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding harder than ever. She tried to will the flames to stop, to calm the inferno she'd unleashed, but it was no use.
The fire roared, swallowing the wooden beams of Ley's roof in a wave of orange and smoke.
"Reed!" Ley's voice pierced through the chaos, tears streaming down her face. "Stop! Please!" She begged, piercing Reed's heart into pieces. The one person who welcomed her, who didn't cast her away.
She had hurt her, she had made her cry.
The villagers gathered, armed with buckets of water and blankets, rushing to fight the blaze, but the fire resisted.
Eyes wide with fear, the elder stepped forward, pointing at Reed.
"You!" he bellowed. "You're the cause of this! The cursed girl! You bring nothing but destruction!"
The crowd's anger surged like a tide, voices rising in accusation and fear.
Reed shrank back, tears spilling freely now. The weight of their hatred crushed her.
"I didn't mean to," she sobbed. "I'm sorry. . .I don't know what's happening to me."
Ley tried to reach for her, perhaps the situation Reed was in now, was more pitiful than the version of her they found in the pile of snow. But, before she could even get near her, the villagers blocked her path.
"Leave her," one shouted. "She's dangerous."
Trapped by fear and misunderstanding, Reed knew she had no choice.
With a final glance at the burning house and the faces she once hoped could be friends, she fled into the forest's dark embrace.
The fire crackled behind her—a furious, unrelenting reminder of the power she could neither control nor understand.
I'm sorry. I am deeply sorry.
Reed's breath came in ragged gasps as she ran deeper into the tangled forest, her heart pounding not just from the exertion but from the terror that clung to her like a shadow. The flames she had ignited back at the village still crackled behind her, sending tongues of orange and smoke spiraling into the sky—a beacon of destruction and fear.
She didn't dare look back. The angry voices of the villagers chased her in her mind, their hatred—a relentless tide threatening to drown her. The boy's frightened eyes, the mother's warning screams, the elder's accusations—all burned into her memory far sharper than the fire consuming Ley's house.
Somewhere beneath it all, there was a spark of kindness, a whisper of hope that refused to die. But it was buried beneath layers of confusion and pain.
She stumbled over a twisted root and nearly fell, but something inside her flared—a sudden surge of heat in her palms that startled her, causing her to clutch her hands tightly to her chest.
"Control," she whispered desperately. "Please… control."
But control was a stranger she did not know.
The forest around her seemed to close in. Branches scraped her skin like cruel fingers, and shadows stretched long and menacing. The once comforting green now felt like a cage.
Her thoughts spiraled. Who am I? What am I? Why does this power burn inside me like a curse?
Why did I survive that ice? Why didn't I just freeze to death?
In the distance, a cold wind swept through the trees, chilling the sweat on her skin. Reed's knees buckled, and she sank down onto a bed of moss, trembling.
Her hands shook as she lifted them, staring at the faint ember glow that lingered on her fingertips.
Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks, carving hot trails through the dirt smudges on her face.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," she whispered brokenly. "I just want to be… normal."
The forest seemed to breathe with her sorrow, and in that moment, Reed knew what she had to do.
Rising with painful determination, she began to search for a place away from the world—somewhere safe to hide the fire raging inside her.
Hours passed in a blur as she wandered through the wilderness, subsisting on wild berries and cold streams. Her skin grew pale, and her eyes haunted.
And then she found something.
A bigger, higher tree planted deep into the mountainside, it had branches that could fit two bodies in it, and leaves dark enough to cover anyone who stayed with it.
The air here was different—sharp, cold, and still.
Reed stepped closer, feeling the bite of the cold air on her bare skin. She climbed on the branches, like it has always been a part of her. She sat on the branch, and pressed her hands against its body.
It did not burn, it did not surrender to her flames.
A strange calm settled over her, as if the tree whispered a promise of peace.
'I can handle you, so take it easy.'
Closing her eyes, as she leaned her head on the tree, as if being given a shoulder to lean on, to cry on.
'You can rest now.'
A tear escaped her eyes, as the moon light above watched the child—alone, shivering in the cold.
But somehow, the child felt more warmth than ever, than when she was where other people resided.
Perhaps, that was the only words she needed to hear.
— —
The fire started as a small spark—a careless flicker born from a moment's panic.
Reed hadn't meant for it to happen.
But when her fingers brushed against the thatched roof of Ley's home, a sudden burst of flame roared forth like a living thing, swallowing the dry wood and igniting the whole side of the building in seconds.
The villagers screamed and ran, pounding on doors and hauling buckets of water, but the fire spread faster than any of them expected—fueled by Reed's uncontrolled power, burning everything in her path.
Reed stood frozen, heart pounding, tears burning her cheeks.
She wanted to stop it. She tried. But her hands blazed, and every step she took left trails of embers. The villagers' frightened faces twisted in horror as they pushed her away, shouting curses and warnings.
"Monster!"
"Devil's flame!"
"Leave! Leave before you burn us all!"
Ley's soft voice pierced through the chaos, but even she could not keep Reed from fleeing.
Then, she saw the puppy, being burned alive. Ley cried as she watched her house burn to ashes. Her lungs that's already weak—got weaker as the smoke engulfed her.
Then, as she tried to reach out to her, to check if Reed was okay,
Ley. . . fell to the ground—
Reed gasped.
Breaths heavier than they should have, hair messy, and sweats all over her warm body.
A dream—no. It was too terrifying to be a dream, and too real to be a nightmare.
It's a memory of yesterday, as if her mind wants to remind her of what she did—of what she ruined.
"Ley," she whispered between her breaths. As if, the bearer of the name would hear.
She looked around and still found herself in the same branch, the tree who was big, and strong enough to keep her.
And, beside her, there stood a bird that stared directly at her. Its color white like the clouds, and the feather is soft and warm like the blanket in Ley's house.
The memory haunted her yet again, like a sting. She flinched.
"Leave," she said to the bird. "Fly away where my flames wouldn't reach you."
The bird simply tilted its head, as if trying to comprehend the words of a person. It didn't leave, it stayed in the same place as her, resting in the branch beside her. She heaved a sigh.
A fool. Just like me.
Reed looked down the tree and saw how high she was up. Anyone who falls from this height would break an ankle or two—or maybe even a bone.
Yet she jumped down, landed swiftly on the ground, like her body remembered the sensation.
Perhaps, even back then, she was always fond of the trees.
She looked up again to see the bird still standing there. It didn't even leave, it did flinch, maybe, but it still stood there, like it was its home.
A smile formed her lips, "Sorry for suddenly intruding. . I must have ruined your rest."
The sunlight pierced the leaves as it reached her forehead, unannounced. She closed her eyes tightly as a reflex, the sun was too blinding.
As she opened her eyes again, a thought suddenly came to her mind.
Ah, so there was another way to not hurt anything.
If you cannot chase it away—
Be the one who walks away.
— —
The forest was thicker than she remembered—brambles clawing at her trousers, leaves whispering secrets above her head. The air tasted like pine and rain, but it couldn't wash the smoke from her memory. Not that she wanted it to.
Smoke was all she saw now.
Reed trudged deeper, away from the gravel path that had once led to Thornhollow. Her boots were caked in mud, her hands blistered from the night she ran—hands that had once glowed with warmth and magic, now little more than kindling.
Ley's house.
The words circled like carrion birds in her mind.
The villagers' voices had rung louder than the fire itself.
"She nearly killed her—"
"Her reckless magic—"
"She's dangerous."
"She's not welcome here."
Reed shoved a low-hanging branch aside, breath sharp. "I didn't mean to," she whispered to no one. "It was just a flicker. A spark."
But it had been enough.
The wooden beams went up like dry grass. Ley shattered as she saw her house burst in flames. Her dog hurt, she didn't even know if it lived.
The image of the puppy's silhouette in the firelight made her chest ache.
She stumbled into a clearing. The forest suddenly opened like it had been waiting. There, nestled among the ferns and stone, was a small lean-to—half-shelter, half-shrine. Smoke coiled lazily from a hollow in the center, where a fire pit glowed with orange coals.
Reed froze. Not alone.
She was not alone.
"You've got loud footsteps," came a voice, low and dry. "Like a bear trying to sneak."
She spun.
A woman stood just off to the side of the clearing. Older than Reed, with brown-streaked hair in a single long braid and a cloak that looked sewn from bark and wind. Her eyes, sharp and pale as ice, studied Reed like a puzzle she half-recognized.
"I didn't think anyone lived this deep," Reed said, instinctively taking a step back.
The woman tilted her head. "Most don't. But I do."
Reed hesitated. "Should I leave?"
"That depends. Did you bring the forest trouble?"
Reed looked down. "No. Just myself."
The woman gave a half-smile. "Same thing, isn't it?"
Reed didn't answer.
"Well, you look like the end of a storm," the woman said. "And I've seen a few."
"Come," the woman said, turning to the fire. "You look half-starved. And the wild's no place to sit alone with your ghosts."
"I didn't come out here to be found."
"No one comes out here for that," the woman replied. "But the forest finds you all the same."
— —
They sat around a modest fire as dusk painted the leaves in orange and gold. The woman's hut was little more than bark, vine, and clever construction, but it was warm. Reed stared into the flames, numb.
She handed her a wooden bowl. "Mushroom stew. Safe ones, don't worry."
Reed took it, sipped, and winced. It was bitter, but hearty. She hadn't tasted anything but guilt for almost two days.
The stew was plain—roots, herbs, maybe wild onion—but Reed ate every bite, except one. "I. . . don't eat mushrooms."
The woman, taken aback, simply laughed. "Ah, I forgot because you seemed mature, but you're still a kid, huh?"
"I am a teen." Reed revolted.
"Same thing."
They sat beside the low-burning fire, the woman poking it now and then with a crooked stick.
"My name's Alexandra," she said. "You?"
Reed hesitated. "Reed."
Alex nodded like she already knew.
"You running from something, Reed?"
"I don't—" Reed's voice caught. ". . . yes."
Alex waited, patiently.
Reed set the bowl down. Her hands trembled. "I hurt someone, I hurt everyone. Not directly. But it's the same."
"Go on."
"There was this house," she said slowly. "Ley's. She let me stay with her after they found me in the pile of snow. She welcomed me."
Alex's eyes didn't leave her face.
"I've been practicing, to live like normal, to fit in. Helping, tending to the poor, going to the market, to festivals. I thought I could bear it, if I was useful enough, maybe I could also live like them. But something—I don't know. It surged. The fire sparked, I just wanted to touch the puppy. . . and it burned, the grass, the whole house caught. Dry timber. Paint oil. It went up before I could stop it."
Alex stirred the coals, quiet.
"She was out of the house, safe, maybe. But her dog wasn't. And the whole house, it's gone." Reed's voice broke. "I didn't even look at her afterward, didn't turn back when she called. Not once. The rest of the village. . . They said I shouldn't have been there. That I was a curse. Dangerous."
"Did you stay?"
Reed shook her head. "I ran before they could throw me out. I ran when their fingers pointed at me, and their eyes wanted me gone."
Alex gave a quiet hum, neither judgment nor comfort.
"I didn't mean to," Reed whispered. "I was just trying to help, to touch it, to comfort it. I thought I could bring a little warmth."
"You did," Alex said. "Too much of it."
Reed winced.
Alex leaned forward. "You know what fire is?"
"Destruction," Reed said bitterly.
"It has already changed," Alex replied. "Fierce, fast, merciless—but not evil. It clears the rot so something new can grow. But only if it's used wisely."
"I don't think I should use it again."
Alex tilted her head. "Then why did you come to the forest?"
Reed blinked. "I—I didn't know where else to go."
"Liar." Alex's tone wasn't cruel, but it cut clean. "You came here because you still feel it burning in your chest. That magic's still alive in you."
Reed lowered her gaze. "I'm afraid I'll hurt someone again."
"You will," Alex said simply. "One day. Maybe not with fire, but with a word, a silence, a mistake. That's part of living. If you want safety, stay stone. But if you want to learn, you stay like that. Soft, dangerous, brave."
Reed looked at the coals. They pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Ley won't forgive me," she murmured.
"Maybe not," Alex said. "But you can't make your life about her forgiveness. You have to make it about the thing you build next."
Reed pulled her knees to her chest. "And if I don't know what that is?"
"Then you learn," Alex said, without hesitation. "From the trees. From the wind. From the knives. From the fire, even. It's all still willing to teach."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Reed whispered, "Can I stay here? Just for a while?"
Alex nodded once. "There's room enough for one more." She spoke, and gave Reed a warm and gentle smile. One that reached her eyes.
That night, Reed sat alone while Alex slept. She drew a tiny spark to her fingertips—not a blaze, just a flicker. It danced like a firefly in the dark.
And for the first time since the night of the fire, she didn't flinch from the warmth.
And as she rested her eyes, under a canopy of whispering leaves and stars, Reed dreamt of fire.
But this time, it did not consume her.
It danced.
— —
Arc I: Embers of the Unknown.