The Cost of Fire

I don’t remember the moment it broke.

One second, the orb was stable—glowing in sync with my step.

The next… there was heat.

Not warmth.

Heat.

Blinding, breath-stealing heat that surged from my hand like it had a will of its own.

I didn’t mean to cast it.

I didn’t even think.

And when it was over, the edge of the training tree was burning.

Just the lower bark. Just the roots.

But enough for the smoke to curl upward.

Enough for the air to sting.

Enough to scare me.

My father didn’t shout.

He moved quickly—grabbed the old water pail from the training post, dashed it across the flames, and stomped out the embers that scattered near the base.

The bark hissed. Smoke rose. But the fire died fast.

Then he turned to me.

“You cast without control,” he said.

I opened my mouth to defend myself. I didn’t mean to— but the words caught in my throat.

Because he was right.

I didn’t control it.

It wasn’t magic.

It was panic.

That night, I sat alone by the stream.

No sword.

No orb.

Just silence.

I stared at my hands—hands that had held light so gently, so carefully. Now they just felt dangerous.

It didn’t feel like power anymore.

It felt like a warning.

Like something I wasn’t ready for.

The next day, I didn’t try to cast.

Not even once.

I trained with my father instead.

Footwork. Stances. Breathing drills.

No sparks.

No glow.

Just the weight of repetition and the dull ache in my legs.

It felt safer.

But emptier.

That evening, my mother sat beside me.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, gently, she said, “You’re not broken.”

I didn’t reply.

“You just have more to carry than most. That doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone.”

I didn’t say anything.

But that night, before I fell asleep, I held my hand out into the dark.

I didn’t cast.

I just… felt.

And deep beneath the skin—faint, patient, waiting—I could still feel it.

Fire.