Dawn crept over the frostbitten woods, gray light filtering through pines like smoke through a sieve. The stream where they had stumbled down hours earlier had stilled to a dull mirror, its banks crusted in white that crunched beneath every shift of weight. The world seemed hushed, as though the trees themselves held breath after their flight.
Mira woke to the ache of it all: her lungs raw, muscles knotted, the tang of blood at the back of her throat. She blinked and found herself pressed against the damp earth, Lysa curled close like a child, Brenn propped against a pine trunk a few paces off. His broad frame seemed shrunken now, his chest rising unevenly beneath torn leather.
Kael was already moving. He stood at the edge of the makeshift camp, boots planted, eyes sharp to the tree line. His cloak, travel-stained and torn, hung open as if the cold did not touch him. Every so often he cast a look toward the trail they'd left, as though weighing how long until pursuit found them.
"You should have kept moving," he said without turning, his voice clipped, blade-like in the stillness. "If the soldiers mean to follow, dawn is when they'll track. You've given them hours."
Mira's body tensed. She wanted to answer, to snap that they weren't hounds or horses to be driven without pause. But the words caught in her throat when her gaze found Brenn again. His face was slack with exhaustion, a deep purple swelling over one eye, blood dried at the corner of his mouth.
It was her fault. All of it.
She pushed herself up, fingers trembling, and moved toward him. Lysa stirred, murmuring something half-dreamt, but Mira only tucked the cloak tighter around her before crouching at Brenn's side.
"Brenn," she whispered. "I need you to wake."
He stirred, lids flickering. A groan rolled out of him as he shifted, his hand groping for his hammer though it lay out of reach. Mira caught his wrist before he could strain further.
"You're safe," she murmured. The words felt hollow.
Behind her, Kael scoffed. "Safe? Here? For how long, do you think? You'd do better admitting the truth: you've dragged them out of Ashfen and into exile, and none of you are ready for what waits beyond its hearth."
Mira froze. The guilt was already raw enough; Kael's words sank into it like salt in an open wound.
Lysa stirred more fully now, blinking awake, her face pale and drawn. "Stop," she said hoarsely, her hand finding Mira's sleeve. "She saved us. Don't turn it into blame."
Kael's gaze cut toward them, unreadable. "Blame isn't the word. Consequence is."
Mira bowed her head, her hair falling to shadow her face. She could still hear the shouts from Ashfen, still see the fire collapsing around the emissary. She had never wanted power, only the steady certainty of the forge. But here they were—Brenn broken, Lysa frightened, Kael coiled with contempt—and every road forward was because of her.
Her stomach twisted. She pressed Brenn's wrist more firmly, as if by touch alone she could anchor him here, hold them all together against the tearing pull of what they'd lost.
Mira fumbled at her satchel, the straps stiff with damp. She had packed in haste during the chaos of their flight—tools, a waterskin, a pouch of iron filings for the forge—and precious little else. No salves, no herbs. Ashfen had always been near enough to healers that she had never thought to carry them herself.
Her hands hovered helplessly over Brenn's ribs, where the leather was torn and dark patches spread beneath. Every rise of his chest was shallow, brittle. She bit down on her lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
"We need to bind him," she said finally, her voice too thin.
Kael glanced over, one brow arched in cold disinterest. "Bind him with what? Rags from your cloaks? He needs proper healing, and that means moving. Every hour you waste in pity keeps him one step closer to dying."
Mira's jaw clenched. She pulled at the hem of her own tunic, tearing fabric with shaking fingers until she had a strip, then another. "If we don't bind him, he won't make it to the next step at all."
Kael made a dismissive sound. "You mistake triage for hope."
Before Mira could retort, Lysa pushed herself up, weary but stubborn, and came to kneel opposite her. "Hold him," she told Mira softly. Together, they lifted Brenn just enough to wrap the crude bandages around his torso. He stirred and groaned, but did not wake fully.
Lysa's hands trembled as she tied the knot. "He's strong," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "He's carried worse. He'll carry this."
Kael crouched finally, not to help, but to look at Brenn with an appraiser's eye. "Strength doesn't mend broken ribs. If he slows us, you'll have to choose—him or survival. Don't wait until you're forced."
"Enough," Mira hissed, more harshly than she intended. The words rang through the trees like iron striking stone. Kael's gaze met hers, sharp, testing, as if her anger were a resource he meant to measure.
Mira's chest heaved. She lowered her eyes, returning her hands to Brenn's side. The torn cloth was stained now, seeping dark. She pressed down instinctively, trying to still the bleeding. Her palms burned with heat—not from exertion, but something deeper, something coiled and restless inside her.
The warmth grew, pulsing against her skin. Beneath her hands, it seemed the fabric shifted, the blood thickening into something greenish, resin-like, before her vision blurred. For a moment she swore she saw the wound sprout the faintest thread of moss, glistening as if alive.
She jerked her hands back. The air between her fingers shimmered faintly, like summer heat over stone. Then it was gone. Only Brenn's ragged breathing and the faint seep of blood remained.
Mira's heart pounded. She curled her hands into fists, hiding them against her knees.
Kael had noticed. His eyes narrowed, watching her with an intensity that felt like a blade at her throat.
Lysa reached across, catching Mira's wrist. Her grip was small but steady. "You kept him alive through the night," she whispered. "Don't be afraid of that."
But Mira was afraid—afraid of the heat that came without her will, of the green that should not be in fire, of Kael's silent scrutiny.
Kael stood again, drawing his cloak tighter. "We leave within the hour. If you mean to carry him, then carry him. But don't pretend you've bought more than time."
Mira's gaze lingered on Brenn's still form, the bandages crude and wet, her hands still tingling with the memory of sap and flame. She wondered, sick with dread, if time was all she had given him—or if she had taken something else without knowing it.
The woods seemed endless.
Frost clung to every surface, not in the wild, jagged shards of shardfall, but in a subtler way—creeping along bark, tracing veins in the leaves, shimmering faintly with a crystalline sheen even though the morning sun tried to cut through it. It was as if winter itself had begun to seep southward, thread by thread.
Their group stumbled through a narrow stream-bed, water shallow enough to wade but cold enough to stiffen every limb. Kael pressed them forward at a relentless pace, his boots splashing without hesitation, cloak drawn tight. Lysa trudged after him, her breaths quick, holding Brenn's shoulder to steady him. Mira kept to Brenn's other side, bearing his weight when his steps faltered.
He groaned with each movement, his face pale beneath his beard. Every time he inhaled sharply, Mira winced as though the pain were her own.
"We should stop," she murmured. "At least to rest."
Kael didn't look back. "Stopping will kill him faster than moving. Unless you mean to try again what you did by the fire."
The words snapped across the water like a whip. Mira froze, heart pounding. Lysa shot Kael a glare. "She saved him," she spat.
"He's still dying," Kael replied coolly. "Perhaps she can decide which way he goes."
Brenn's legs buckled. Mira dropped with him, half-sinking into the icy current. She dragged him to the bank, ignoring Kael's curse. Her hands shook as she pushed the wet hair from his face. His breaths came shallow now, ragged.
"Mira," Lysa said, voice soft, frightened.
Mira's palms hovered above Brenn's chest, trembling. That warmth stirred again—unwanted, undeniable. It coiled through her blood, up into her fingertips, until the air itself shimmered. She pressed down, not daring, not wanting, but needing.
Heat bled from her palms into Brenn's flesh. Not fire—something stranger, softer, almost alive. Light spread from her hands, green and gold, curling like tendrils of sapling shoots. The bruises across Brenn's ribs seemed to drink it in, skin dark to pale, swelling receding.
Lysa gasped.
The light flared brighter. Tiny sprigs of living green—roots, vines, leaves the size of a fingernail—sprouted from beneath Mira's palms, threading into Brenn's wounds as if the body itself had become soil. They burned faintly with fire at their edges, sap hissing like resin.
"Enough!" Kael's voice was sharp, urgent. But Mira couldn't stop. The energy flowed through her like floodwaters, unstoppable, terrifying.
Then—silence.
The vines withered as quickly as they had grown, crumbling to ash that drifted on the cold air. Brenn gasped and lurched upright, clutching his chest. The bruises were gone. His breaths came deeper, easier.
Relief surged through Mira, but it died almost instantly. Because when Brenn looked at her, his eyes were strange—distant, unfocused.
"Mira?" His voice was rough. "Where… where are we?"
Lysa grabbed his arm. "We're outside Ashfen, Brenn. Don't you remember? We fled—the feast, the collapse—"
He blinked at her, confusion furrowing his brow. "Feast?" He shook his head. "I… I don't recall." His voice cracked. "I don't even see her face anymore. Gods—who—who did we leave behind?"
Mira's stomach plummeted.
Lysa recoiled as if struck, hand flying to her mouth. "Mira. You—"
"I didn't mean—" Mira's voice shook. She reached toward Brenn, then pulled back as if her own hands were poison. "I was trying to help—"
Brenn looked between them, panic flaring. "Why can't I remember? There was someone—someone I swore I'd protect. It's gone. It's gone from me!" He clutched his head, breath ragged.
Kael stood above them, silent, eyes sharp and cold as frost. He had not drawn a weapon, but the weight of his stare felt heavier than steel. "So," he said at last, voice low, even. "Now we know the price of your fire."
Mira crumpled to her knees. Her palms still tingled with sap-ash, and she wanted nothing more than to tear the skin from them, to erase what she had just done.
Lysa knelt beside her, torn between horror and desperate compassion. She touched Mira's arm but her hand shook violently. "Mira… if that's what your gift does—"
Mira's heart hammered in her chest. The forest around them seemed too quiet, the frost glittering like a thousand watching eyes. She whispered, more to herself than anyone else:
"I didn't save him. I stole something from him."
No one spoke after that. The stream whispered on, carrying their silence downstream, as if even the water knew to mourn.
The fire they managed that night was a poor thing—just a nest of damp sticks in a hollow beneath the roots of an old pine. Smoke curled more than flame, and the bitter smell clung to their clothes. The frost pressed close around the circle, glittering like a wall of knives.
They huddled together anyway, their bodies speaking what their words could not: fear, exhaustion, doubt.
Brenn sat nearest the fire, rubbing his ribs. His skin was unmarked, his breaths steady, yet he stared into the smoke with the hollow look of someone trying to recall a dream that would not return.
Mira sat across from him, knees pulled to her chest, hands clenched in the folds of her cloak. Every time she looked at her palms she saw the vines, the ash, and the flash of panic in Brenn's eyes.
Lysa broke the silence first. Her voice was careful, almost pleading. "You saved him. That matters more than—than anything else."
Brenn gave her a grateful smile, faint but steady. "She did, aye. I'd be bones in that stream without her. That's enough for me." He tried to sound certain, loyal as always.
But Mira couldn't take comfort in his words. "You lost something," she whispered. "I saw it. You said it yourself—you can't remember."
Brenn frowned, rubbed his temple. "Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. Memories slip after battle. I'll manage."
Kael had been silent until then, seated slightly apart, sharpening a blade with calm, steady strokes. His eyes glimmered in the firelight, cold and assessing. When he finally spoke, the words cut cleaner than steel.
"Not slipped," he said flatly. "Taken."
All three of them looked at him.
Kael lifted the knife, catching the ember-glow along its edge. "Life for life. Healing for loss. I've seen it before—in whispers, in records buried deeper than frost. Power that does not create without consuming. Yours, girl, is no blessing. It's a bargain written into your blood."
The air seemed to thicken. Mira's mouth went dry. "You mean… I traded his memory for his life."
Kael's expression didn't change. "Yes. And next time, the cost may be greater."
Brenn bristled. "She saved me. That's all that matters. Don't twist it."
Kael sheathed the knife in a single motion. "It matters because you do not know what else she'll take. Next time, perhaps your sight. Or the name of your father. Or your loyalty." He let the words linger, deliberate, cruel in their precision. "Would you still call it salvation then?"
Brenn's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His hand dropped from his ribs to the dirt, fist closing around a stone as if bracing against the thought.
Mira pressed her hands harder into her cloak, wishing she could hide them forever. The warmth inside her had cooled to a hollow ache, and Kael's words struck with the weight of truth. She had wanted to believe her gift was fire, light, life. But no—this was something darker. A ledger written in ash, where every healing stroke demanded a line crossed out.
Lysa leaned forward, eyes fierce despite the fear trembling in her voice. "Enough. She's not a monster. She didn't choose this."
"No one chooses their curse," Kael said softly. "Only what they do with it."
Silence fell again. The fire hissed, spitting sparks into the dark.
Mira felt the weight settle in her chest—a cold certainty she could not shake. She had not only saved Brenn. She had stolen from him. And though he brushed it aside, though Lysa defended her, the truth remained: her hands were thieves, and the debt they carried would only grow heavier.
She whispered to the night, to herself, to whatever might be listening:
"I'll never use it again."
But even as she spoke the vow, the frost whispered back in the branches above—an echo that sounded almost like laughter.
The fire had burned down to embers, faint orange breathing beneath ash. Shadows stretched long across the clearing, sharp as blades, and the woods pressed close on every side.
No one slept.
Kael leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving Mira. His voice was low, but there was an intensity in it that pressed heavier than shouting.
"You don't understand what you carry. This… power of yours. If it can heal, if it can snatch a man from death, the North won't brand you a witch. They'll crown you."
Mira stiffened. "You saw what it did to Brenn. That wasn't a gift. It was theft."
Kael didn't blink. "And yet he breathes. Tell me, which would you rather—the warmth of a memory, or the pulse of life in your chest?"
Brenn shifted, straightening his back with effort. His voice, hoarse but steady, cut across the cold.
"She's Mira. That's all. Not a crown, not a weapon. Don't twist her into something she's not."
Kael's jaw flexed. "Refusal doesn't erase truth. The frost is creeping south. Villages will fall. Armies will burn through what's left of the harvest. What she carries could change everything."
Lysa wrapped her arms around herself, torn between them, her voice small but urgent.
"I saw Brenn's eyes. I saw him forget. If she can heal thousands but erase who they are piece by piece—what's left of them? What's left of us?"
Silence again, broken only by the crackle of the embers.
Mira drew her cloak tighter, wishing she could vanish inside it. She wanted to be Brenn's Mira, no more and no less. Not a savior, not a curse. But Kael's words had struck deep, and Lysa's tremble echoed the terror in her own chest.
She stared at her hands—scarred from the forge, calloused from work—and remembered how the vines had curled from them like serpents of green fire. Hands that could seal wounds, hands that could steal lives.
Salvation. Erasure. Both nested in her palms, waiting for her choice.
When she finally spoke, it was no louder than the hiss of the dying coals.
"I don't want it."
But the words rang hollow in the cold night. Because want had nothing to do with it.