Aric stared at his blackened hands. He had never touched magic before—magic was for nobles and scholars in the capital, not farmers.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered.
Edran studied him, grave. "The Crown is waking through you. It will grant you power, but it will also consume you, if you let it."
Mira knelt, brushing ash from his arms. "You saved us. Don't let him twist it into something else."
But Aric saw the fear in her eyes, hidden beneath her words. He felt it himself—the fire had not obeyed him. It had wanted to burn more.
That night he dreamed again of the Fang splitting open, but this time he saw himself upon a throne of molten stone, wearing a crown of shards. The people bowed not in loyalty, but in terror.
He woke gasping, swearing the heat still clung to his skin.