The snow in Solara never melted, not even in the spring. It clung to the cobblestones like memory—cold, white, and unforgiving. It coated the eaves of the palace with a deceptive purity, softening the sharp edges of the grim architecture, but doing nothing to warm the stone hearts within.
Emery stood barefoot in the courtyard, her feet numb beneath the weight of winter, the biting chill creeping up her calves. Her hands, raw and cracked from endless chores, trembled as she scrubbed the dark, clotted blood from the stone basin where the hounds fed. The stench of iron and wet fur clung to her, a constant companion. The wind whispered through the tall, intricate iron gates, tugging at her threadbare cloak like curious, icy fingers, promising no warmth.
"Faster," barked a voice behind her, sharp as a whip-crack.
Emery flinched, a spasm of dread tightening her stomach. Veronica.
The princess stood above her, a silhouette of privilege against the grey sky, cloaked in black velvet so fine it seemed to absorb the light. Her golden hair, the color of forbidden sunlight, was tucked neatly beneath a gleaming silver circlet, its points sharp as daggers. Her pale lips curled into a smile that never quite reached her cold, unseeing eyes.
"You missed a spot, wretch. There—" She pointed with the gleaming tip of her meticulously polished boot, nudging Emery's arm. "Do you want them to think you enjoy their filth?"
Emery didn't answer. She had learned silence long ago—how it protected, how it hid things no one wanted to see, least of all the fragile humanity still flickering inside her. Words were snares, and silence was a shield, albeit a brittle one.
Veronica stepped closer, her scent – a cloying mix of jasmine and expensive fear – filling Emery's meager air. "Look at me when I speak to you."
Slowly, reluctantly, Emery lifted her gaze. Their eyes locked—ice blue meeting storm grey. For a heartbeat, the air thickened between them, a strange current of static electricity. Something shifted, something cold and old and deeply unsettling, as if an unseen entity was suddenly watching, its breath a chilling tendril against Emery's neck.
Veronica's smile faltered, a flicker of something unreadable – uncertainty? recognition? – crossing her face before it was replaced by a familiar sneer.
"You really are pathetic, aren't you?" she muttered, as if convincing herself. With a dismissive flick of her wrist, she turned and walked away, her velvet cloak whispering against the snowy cobblestones.
The sound of Veronica's footsteps, surprisingly light for such a heavy presence, echoed off the courtyard walls, growing fainter until only the biting wind remained. Emery remained still, breath caught in her chest, the cold seeping deeper into her bones. Her fingers brushed the stone Veronica had pointed at. It wasn't just dried blood – it was burnt, scorched black and brittle, a strange pattern seared into the rough basin. It looked like the mark of a tiny, silent explosion.
That hadn't been there before.
A prickle of alarm, cold and sharp, traced its way up her arm. She looked down at her hand. Her fingertips, where they had touched the mark, were singed, the skin discolored and slightly raised. She hadn't even felt it. No pain. Only the pervasive chill that never left her.
Later that night, the cold in the orphan's hall beneath the castle kitchens was a familiar shroud. Emery huddled on her straw pallet, the scratchy wool blanket offering little comfort. The air was thick with the smells of stale grease, unwashed bodies, and the distant, clanking symphony of the busy kitchens. Above her, through the thin ceiling, she could hear the muted sounds of the palace – laughter, music, the clink of silverware, a stark contrast to the grim silence that usually filled her world.
Sleep, when it came, was restless. Emery dreamt of fire.
Not the kind that warmed or danced or soothed—but a wild, consuming fire, black and violet, spiraling through endless corridors, devouring everything it touched. It was a hungry, living thing, coiling and striking. She stood in the very center of it, untouched, as stone melted into viscous slag and grand tapestries shriveled to ash. The air around her shimmered with heat, yet she felt no burn, only an inexplicable pull, a profound connection. And then, screams echoed from far away, chilling her even amidst the inferno. Screams of terror, of pain, of utter despair, that were not part of the fire, but consequences of it.
She awoke with a jolt, the phantom scent of smoke filling her nostrils. Her eyes flew open, the last tendrils of the nightmare clinging to her mind. A faint, acrid smell of burning filled the air. She lifted her head, and her breath hitched.
Her pillow was smoldering.
A perfectly circular patch in the center was blackened, wisps of smoke curling lazily upwards. The straw beneath it was charred, reduced to fine ash. There was no flame now, only the faint, ominous smell. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Her fingers, which had been beneath the pillow in her sleep, felt strangely tingly, a deep thrumming sensation that had nothing to do with the lingering cold.
For the first time in her seventeen years, the deep, pervasive cold in her bones began to feel... afraid.
A shiver, not of cold, but of pure terror, ran down her spine. This wasn't just a dream. This was real. The burnt mark on the basin, the singed fingertips, the smoldering pillow. It was her. What was happening to her? She pulled her hand back, scrutinizing her fingers in the dim light filtering from a distant lamp. The faint discoloration was still there, but now, a subtle, almost imperceptible warmth radiated from them. It was a heat that didn't belong, a foreign sensation in a body accustomed only to the gnawing chill of Solara.
She forced herself to breathe, shallow, ragged gasps. The other orphans, restless sleepers for the most part, lay undisturbed around her, their soft snores a comforting, if fleeting, reminder of normalcy.
She couldn't let them see. She couldn't let anyone see. If the headmistress of the orphans, Mistress Elara—a woman whose eyes missed nothing and whose punishments were swift and brutal—found out, Emery didn't know what would happen. Banishment? Worse?
But the fear of discovery was quickly overtaken by a more profound dread. This raw, untamed power, this destructive force, was inside her. It was part of her, and it was dangerous. It manifested with her emotions, her terror, her rage.
She thought of Veronica. The princess, whose every word was designed to chip away at Emery's spirit. The new cruelty she'd inflicted today, the humiliation of scrubbing dog filth, the casual dismissal that cut deeper than any whip. A fresh wave of anger, cold and righteous, surged through Emery. And with it, a faint flicker, a tiny spark of heat, pulsed in her palms. She quickly clenched her fists, pressing her nails into her skin, trying to suppress it, to push it down, deep, deep inside where no one could ever find it.
Her parents. The dark forces. Untainted power. The words, fragments of whispers she'd overheard years ago, now resonated with a chilling new meaning. Was this connected to them? To the reason she was an orphan, abandoned to the mercy of Solara's frigid indifference?
A floorboard creaked in the corridor outside. Emery froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Was someone coming? Had the smell of smoke reached beyond their small, dank hall? She listened, straining her ears. The sound of muffled footsteps receded. She let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
She looked at the smoldering pillow again, then at her hands. The terror remained, but something else, something new and fragile, began to stir alongside it. A terrifying curiosity. A desperate need to understand. How much of this power was inside her? And what would it do if she couldn't control it?
With trembling fingers, Emery pulled her blanket tighter, but it offered no warmth, no comfort against the cold dread and the terrifying, burgeoning power now awakening within her. The long night stretched ahead, filled not with the promise of rest, but with the terrifying question of what else might burn before dawn. Her life in Solara, already a fragile existence, had just irrevocably changed.