The safehouse smelled of smoke. Not the familiar scent of torches or kitchen fires, but the sharp tang of walls half-charred, of stone that had blistered as though struck by lightning. The air still trembled faintly from the force of Nyasha's last outburst.
Zara kicked away a blackened beam with the tip of her boot. "You could've warned me before turning the place into a forge," she muttered, but her tone was tight—more rattled than sarcastic.
Nyasha sat in the corner, her palms bandaged in rough linen. The wrappings did little to hide the faint glow still seeping through her skin, ember-bright whenever her thoughts turned sharp.
"I didn't mean to," she said, voice low. "It just—happened. I saw the convoy, I thought of him, and—"
Her throat closed. She didn't need to finish. Everyone in the room had seen the surge: fire spilling from her as if the very air had turned against their enemies, consuming wagons and soldiers alike. It had won them the fight. But it had nearly taken Zara's arm and left the safehouse trembling.
Taye, the youngest of their allies, leaned forward, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. "That wasn't normal fire. I swear, Nyasha, it screamed."
Nyasha closed her eyes. He wasn't wrong. In that moment, she had felt her own grief and rage given voice—the fire howling with her mother's death, her father's betrayal, the weight of ten years clawing inside her chest.
Zara crouched before her, forcing Nyasha's gaze upward. "Listen to me. Fire doesn't care if it burns enemy or ally. It answers what you feel. And right now, your feelings are a storm."
Nyasha's hands trembled. For a moment, the bandages smoked. She clenched her fists until her nails dug crescent moons into her skin.
"Then I'll control it," she said. "I have to."
Zara's brow furrowed. "Or it will control you."
The silence stretched. Outside, the city still murmured—the people whispering of their Ashen Heir, the woman who burned soldiers to ash with a single scream. They saw her as savior. But in this room, Nyasha wasn't sure if she was savior or monster.
And in the back of her mind, the Emberheart pulsed faintly, as if listening. Waiting.