The Spark and the Sandstorm

With a definitive clap of finality, Cera slammed her locker shut, clutching a stack of books under her arm for the very last time.

“Are you coming or not?” her friend Mya called from down the hallway.

“Yeah, one second,” Cera answered, her voice sounding faint and detached even to her own ears. Her mind was already a world away, a distraction that caused her to falter and nearly lose her balance as she turned.

She held a private conviction that if she could only concentrate hard enough, squeezing her eyes shut and descending into a particular meditative quiet, she could summon the flames once more. The nature of the fire’s allure was a mystery to her; she knew only that its pull was as undeniable as it was terrifying, a visceral reality that rendered the mundane rhythm of her school days into a blurry, insignificant dream.

With a conscious effort, she wrenched her eyes away from the little arch etched into the metal of her locker door—an enigma that constantly picked at the edges of her curiosity. She forcefully banished the intrusive images that followed: the face of a man called Rhone, a long-departed figure named Sparda, a desolate garden where no flowers grew, and a matching archway framed by two dilapidated towers of red brick.

“So, about graduation,” Mya started, her eyes alight with excitement. “Some of us were thinking we should do something huge to celebrate.”

“Mya, we’re finishing elementary school,” Cera pointed out softly. “Besides, parties have never really been my scene.” A sliver of suspicion pricked at her; Mya was perfectly aware of this fact.

“And then it’s middle school!” Mya countered, but the very notion sent a familiar wave of dread washing over Cera.

Cera nursed a secret terror of middle school, a deep-seated anxiety she had never confessed to anyone. She vividly recalled her homeroom teacher taking the class tormentor, Morana, aside one afternoon. The teacher had issued a stark warning, explaining that in middle school, the older and more formidable bullies would have no patience for Morana’s brand of petty cruelty. Cera hadn’t grasped the teacher’s motive then, but the exchange had struck her as a profoundly strange and awful thing to say to a child—a dark prophecy of the escalating viciousness that awaited them all.

She kept these fears locked away. Mya, ever-courageous and composed, would never be able to relate. Instead, Cera shifted the focus, allowing herself a gentle prod at her best friend. “So, are you planning on bringing Julian?”

“I can’t do that, and you know it. My parents would literally murder me.”

Sensing she had struck a chord, Cera arched an eyebrow. “You know how the saying goes. Do it now, or you’ll regret it forever.”

“What are you, my grandmother all of a sudden?”

“I’m just saying!” The disruptive visions began to fade, creating enough mental space for Cera to muster a weak smile. Yet her fleeting moment of lightheartedness was marred by a disquieting undercurrent of anxiety, like furious sunspots erupting on an otherwise placid surface. Was she pursuing the right path? Or was she just chasing a dangerous delusion?

The steady crunch of gravel under her sneakers provided a grounding rhythm as she trailed Mya away from the school grounds. They had just arrived at the border of her neighborhood, where the unkempt foliage grew into a wild, forest-like thicket that her father never bothered to tame, when a sudden, violent wave of nausea overwhelmed her. A searing heat ignited in her chest. She gasped, her hands instinctively flying to the epicenter of the pain as she stumbled backward.

From the periphery of her vision, she caught a glimpse of flickering orange.

“M-Mya!” she managed to gasp as acidic bile climbed up her throat. Her hair whipped across her face as she doubled over, heaving. Oblivious to Cera’s crisis, Mya only perceived the abrupt, ferocious gust of wind that churned up dust and leaves, thrashing the overgrown bushes into a wild dance. She dove for safety behind the polished fender of a nearby scarlet car.

Too disoriented to even aim, Cera fought for breath as she vomited all over her own shoes. The nauseating mixture of orange and green staining the once-immaculate white canvas of her sneakers felt like a grotesque parody of her green hoodie. The wind howled around her, yet the spark she had seen did not waver. It held its ground, intensifying and solidifying into a pure, unwavering flame.

Had she been an observer watching from above, Cera would have seen a ceremonial ballet of wind and fire. The gale acted as a bellows, feeding and nurturing the flame until it swelled to the size of a house, pulsing with an impossible, shimmering heat.

But Cera witnessed none of this. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed, falling headfirst into the mess she had created. As her eyelids fluttered and closed, the inferno reached out, enveloping her in an embrace as tender as a reunion with a long-lost child.

One instant she was on the pavement, and the next she was weightless, suspended in the air. With a strange and placid detachment, she looked down upon her own writhing, bile-spattered body. The fire danced for a few more moments before it vanished as suddenly as it had materialized. An eternity later—though it was only a few seconds—Mya scrambled out from behind the car, screaming her name.

Held aloft by forces that defied all human understanding, Cera observed her friend, an unnerving sense of emotional distance separating them. She knew that the girl she had once been would be shrieking in terror. None of it was logical. Yet, a profound tranquility settled over her. At least, she thought with a peculiar sense of reason, she wouldn't become one of those sorrowful, lingering ghosts.

Then, a sharp, sudden spike of anger pierced through the calm. So, this was it. She wasn’t even going to get to live through the middle school years she had so intensely dreaded. It was one thing to be afraid of what was to come, but it was another thing entirely to have that future stolen from you. A wave of regret, potent and bitter, surged through her, and her spectral form trembled.

The wind shifted direction. A powerful gust seized her soul, yanking her away from the quiet suburban street and the empty shell of her body. The velocity was dizzying, her surroundings dissolving into blurred streaks of gray and muted color.

She was brought to a halt with the same jarring abruptness with which she had started, as if destiny itself had stuttered. Before her lay a familiar expanse of lawn dotted with gray paving stones.

She would have gasped, had she possessed lungs. Her reclusive father was emerging from the house, his features half-hidden by a scruffy beard she hadn't seen him wear in a week. He was clutching a small, frayed bouquet of flowers in his trembling hand.

He was weeping. She had never, not once in her life, seen him cry.

His words were garbled by his sobs, barely intelligible as they drifted up to her.

“Cera…” The name was a raw, broken sound torn from his throat. “Daddy is so, so sorry. The last thing I ever said to you…” Another sob wracked his frame. “I don’t care about the science test. I just want you to come back.”

A whimper escaped her own formless lips. She had been mistaken. She was destined to be a ghost after all, a ghoul condemned to haunt this world. There could be no other explanation for the profound vibrations of grief and remorse that were tearing at the very fabric of her being.

Then, as swiftly as it had all begun, her vision dissolved into blackness, and her spirit unraveled into the void.

Far away, deep beneath a tomb of ancient stones, the earth settled, as though smoothed by an invisible hand.

“Cy, you’re such an idiot,” Perla grumbled, though her purple-haired younger brother knew there was no real malice in her tone.

Cy’s focus was already elsewhere. “Mhm,” he hummed, drifting toward the kitchen’s back door with his hands outstretched to greet the customary stray. “Can you pass me the scraps?”

Without a word, Perla handed him a stone bowl filled with cold tofu. He plunged his hand in, then recoiled with a yelp as his fingers made contact with the fur of a silver cat that regarded him with an expression of profound indifference.

“Perla, the fish.” He tossed the bowl back to her. “The fish,” he reiterated, his features hardening into a cross expression. Perla recognized immediately that she had made a mistake.

“If you would just stop and listen to me for one second,” she began to complain, though she knew her words were already lost on him.

Ignoring her completely, Cy retrieved the fish himself from the small kitchen counter. He fed a few morsels to the cat before setting the bowl aside.

“Dinner is tofu this evening,” he muttered, his back still turned to her. “Or did you manage to forget that, too?”

“No, I didn’t forget anything.” Perla’s gaze drifted past him, unfocused. Her fingers began to instinctively trace the tattoo on her right forearm—Ignis, the ancient word for fire, the emblem that bound her to their clan.

“Spiced tofu,” he added. “It’s a classic dish. From the Northlands.”

“The chef is getting ambitious,” she observed, a note of derision coloring her voice. She swallowed hard, and then the words she had been suppressing finally erupted. “When are you going to let me fight alongside you?”

The pot Cy had been holding slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly against the stone floor. He spun around to face her, his brilliant gray eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

“How many times…” he started, his voice a menacing whisper.

A tide of shame washed over her, and she immediately dropped her gaze to the floor.

It was a daily battle. But on quiet days like this one, the sense of confinement became suffocating, making it feel as if she couldn't draw a complete breath under her brother’s relentless watch. Although she was fifteen, a full three years his senior, she often felt he was the one with the older soul, as if he carried the weight of lessons from a previous life that informed his every action. His protectiveness touched her—no one else had ever cared enough to try—but it also chafed against her spirit, because she was acutely aware that she possessed skills the clan desperately needed.

Her memories of their parents were faint and fragmented, but she understood that Cy’s refusal to allow her anywhere near the training grounds was rooted in the catastrophic losses their clan had endured in past wars—the very wars that had made them orphans. Without access to those grounds, she had no chance of ever fighting. Or so he believed.

For the last several years, under the pretense of taking over the chef’s hunting responsibilities, Perla had been secretly honing her own abilities. While her brother imagined she was at the market haggling over herbs and exotic spices, she was deep in the woods, charring small game with flames summoned from her bare hands. The deception sat like a stone in her stomach, but it was a necessary burden. She was not some fragile treasure to be locked away for safekeeping. She had her own keen senses, a warrior’s instinct that she felt certain ran deeper and truer than her brother’s. While he rushed into battle with a kind of boyish enthusiasm, she felt the primal thrill of the chase and the resonant clang of steel deep in her bones.

She yearned to fight for her own sake, but for the clan’s as well. If the political climate in Reverie were to deteriorate further, she had the skills to endure. She wasn't nearly as confident about the others. They needed her just as much as she needed the formal training.

Cy had been their shield for so long that her clandestine practice felt like a profound betrayal. Concealing the orange flashes that illuminated the forest clearings had been a challenge at first, but as her power had intensified, so too had her command over it.

She pulled the strings of her apron tighter, unwilling to meet the piercing gaze she knew was fixed upon her.

Then, before she could check the impulse, the words tumbled out. “Just… forget I brought it up.”

Cy blinked. “Alright, big sister. I have to go check on the fishing lines before supper. I’ll see you in a bit?”

Perla simply nodded, corking the bottle on her roiling unease until he was safely out of view.

Anyone in the clan would tell you that Cy of Ignis was one of the most transparent and candid people you could ever hope to meet.

Not with me, Perla thought, a sharp pang of sorrow striking her heart. Perhaps things had been different between them once. But somewhere along the journey, when neither of them had been paying attention, a chasm had silently opened, and now it was far too late to reclaim what might never have truly been theirs to begin with.