The Spark and the Sandstorm

Cera closed her locker with a contented crack after taking her books out one last time.

"Are you coming?" Mya, her friend, called her.

"Yeah, I will definitely be there." Cera stumbled, her thoughts somewhere else.

She kept thinking that she would be able to see those flames again if she closed her eyes tightly enough and went into a certain kind of meditative state. Although she was unsure of the reason behind the fire's pull, she was aware that it was terrible and genuine, making her time in school seem like a dream in contrast.

She drew her eyes away from the arch carved on the side of her locker—a mystery she longed to unravel—and pushed away the memories of a Rhone, a long-gone Sparda, a flowerless garden of green grass, and an arch surrounded by two ramshackle red brick towers.

"So, graduation was something my buddies and I were considering. Let's go huge.

Cera murmured, "Mya, it's just primary school. Parties aren't really my thing." She questioned her friend's true motivation because she was certain Mya was aware of this.

"And the seventh grade is next year!" Mya shot back, but the comments only made Cera feel hopeless.

Cera was afraid of middle school, but she hadn't told anyone. She recalled her homeroom teacher telling the class bully, Morana, that she wouldn't be allowed to be there for even a moment. The woman had warned that larger bullies wouldn't put up with Morana's shit if she tried to use violence. Although Cera was unaware of the elderly teacher's intentions, it seemed inappropriate to warn a class full of youngsters that they will face vicious bullies in the future.

But Cera didn't share her concerns because Mya wasn't easily intimidated. She did give herself permission to make a lighthearted joke about her best friend. "All right, bringing Julian along?"

You know I couldn't do that, Cera. My parents would murder me.

Cera felt she had struck a social sweet spot and raised an eyebrow. "You are aware of what people say. Don't do it now or you'll regret it forever.

"My grandmother, what are you doing?"

"Just letting you know!" Suddenly, the visions subsided. Cera forced a tiny smile, but her joy was dotted with anxiety like angry sunspots. Was she making the correct decision? Or the incorrect delusion?

She was aware of the crunching rocks beneath her feet as she followed Mya out of the school. She had barely ventured into the expansive, forested-like foliage of her neighborhood—which her father never bothered to prune—when she felt sick to her stomach. A searing heat blazed inside her chest, causing her hands to grasp at it as she staggered back.

She caught a glimpse of an orange spark out of the corner of her eye.

She managed to scream, "M-Mya!" as the vomit rose in her throat. Her hair fell into her eyes as she leaned down to throw out the bile. Mya cowered behind a scarlet vehicle as the approaching sandstorm swept up the wild plants, but she was blind to everything.

Cera was too weak to aim and was unable to breathe as she vomited onto her shoes. The light orange and green stains on her once-clean white canvas shoes seemed to be a jab at the green hoodie she was wearing. Now, when the sand pounded against it, the spark remained a solid, pure flame.

Cera would have seen an almost ceremonial dance between the wind and the flame, one feeding the other until the fire grew larger than a house, seething with heat, if she had been able to see it from above the sidewalk.

But the world had forgotten about her. She fell headlong into her own vomit after her legs failed. As the flames spread out, embracing her as though she were their own, her eyes closed.

Then she was in the air, looking down at her own writhing, bile-soaked body with a detached gaze. After a few more flickers, the fire suddenly went out. Mya shouted as she crawled out from under the car a few moments later, but it felt like a lifetime to Cera.

Cera, feeling oddly distant, observed her pal, held in the air by laws beyond human comprehension. She was aware that the usual her would be screaming in terror since none of it made sense. Rather, a calmness swept over her. She reasoned that she would at least avoid becoming one of those eerie, haunting ghosts.

She was suddenly angry. Thus, she would not be able to enjoy her middle school years, which she had not been anticipating otherwise. However, dreading something was one thing; being completely denied the opportunity was quite another. Regret poured through Cera as she shuddered.

The winds changed. Her soul was blown away from the houses and the remains of her body by a strong gust. The speed was alarming, her surroundings becoming unrecognizable as they faded into gray and color streaks.

As though fate itself were being erratic, she was jolted to a halt. The grass in front of her was covered in gray stones.

If she could have, she would have gasped. For what was likely the first time in a week, her reticent father, complete with scruffy beard, came out of the home. He held a handful of frayed flowers in a trembling hand.

He was in tears. It was the first time she had ever seen him weep.

His remarks, muffled by tears, were hardly audible to her.

"Cera..." was the low scream. "Daddy apologizes for the last thing he said to you, which was." He cried once more. "Your failure in science is irrelevant to Daddy; all he wants is for you to return alive."

Cera let out a loud whimper now. She was mistaken. She would turn into a ghoul that haunts the world. The deep vibrations of grief and remorse that suddenly tore at her essence had no explanation.

Then, as swiftly as it had all started, her spirit vanished into emptiness and her vision dimmed.

The soil settled as though it had been smoothed by unseen hands beneath the tombs Cera had been studying.

"Cy, you're a complete idiot," Perla made a frustrated noise in her throat, but her younger brother, who had purple hair, realized she didn't mean it. "I have a serious question for you."

Cy's focus was elsewhere. "Mhm." With his hands outstretched for the typical stray, he hurried to the kitchen's back door. "Will you please hand me the scraps?"

Perla gave him a stone bowl of cold tofu without saying anything. He dipped his hand into the remnants and then yelled as he took it, ruffling the fur of a silver cat that didn't seem very happy.

"Perla, the fish. He tossed the tofu back to her and repeated, "The fish." Perla realized she had messed up when he looked cross now.

With the knowledge that her words were ignored, she complained, "If you would just stop and listen for a second."

Ignoring her, Cy went to the tiny kitchen counter and got the fish for himself. After giving the cat a quick meal, he put the bowl back.

"Tonight's dinner is tofu," he muttered. "Or did you also forget that?"

"No, nothing was forgotten by me." Perla's gaze was far away. She touched the tattoo of Ignis, the ancient word for fire, on her right forearm, which pledged her to their tribe.

Without glancing at her, he continued, "Spiced tofu." "A classic. From the Northlands.

"The chef is becoming more ambitious these days," she remarked contemptuously. “When will you let me fight alongside you?” she exclaimed after swallowing.

Cy let go of the pot he was carrying across the room and placed it on the floor. His bright gray eyes narrowed as he turned to face her.

"How often..." he whispered.

Abruptly embarrassed, she bowed her head.

She struggled with it every day. However, Perla felt particularly constrained on days like these, when nothing occurred, as though she couldn't breathe with her brother keeping watch over her. She felt his soul was older than hers, as though he had lessons from a previous life to guide him, even though she was fifteen years old and three years his senior. She was moved when he gave her instructions because no one else was willing to protect her, but she also realized she had abilities to contribute to the tribe.

Although she couldn't recall her parents clearly, Cy's reluctance to allow her near the training grounds was partly due to the absurdly high number of deaths in previous conflicts that had left them both orphaned. She also had no chance in combat without access to the grounds. Or so he believed.

Since taking up the chef's exclusive hunting responsibilities a few years prior, Perla had been putting her skills to the test. She was actually in the woods, using her bare hands to singe critters, when her brother assumed she was out in the market gathering herbs and uncommon items. Although she felt guilty about the lie, she knew it was essential. She had her own demanding senses, but she wasn't Cy's priceless treasure to be kept concealed. She was certain that she had a warrior's instinct from birth, one that was more profound than her brother's. She reveled in the clash of metal and the excitement of the chase on a level that was ingrained in her bones, while he raced into battle with the zeal of a kid.

She now expressed her wish to battle for the clan's sake as well as her own. If the political climate in Reverie deteriorated, she had the talent to live, but she wasn't sure about the others. She needed the additional training as much as they needed her.

Her covert actions seemed like a profound betrayal because Cy had shielded them for years. The orange flames that frequently lighted up clearings in the woods had been difficult to hide, but as her power increased, so did her ability to blend in.

Because she didn't like how piercing Cy's gaze might be, she pulled her apron tighter.

Then, before she could stop herself, the words fell out of her mouth. "Don't remember my words."

Cy blinked. "All right, big sister. Before supper, I had to go fishing for a little. See you?

Perla nodded, keeping her uneasiness to herself until he had disappeared from view.

Cy of the Ignis Clan was, as anyone else would remark, one of the most approachable and honest people.

Unfortunately, Perla thought, not to me. Maybe things had been different once, but something had happened between them when neither of them was looking, and it was too late to get back what might never have been theirs in the first place.