Page 39 of Embers of Ruin

“I believe trapping a woman in your palace and ordering her to touch dead flowers does not exactly scream kindness.”

Something dark moves through his expression, gone before I can decipher it. “Kindness will not save this kingdom.”

“And you think by touching a flower, I will?”

He says nothing, and we stand in silence for a moment.

“You are wrong,” I say, but my voice is quieter now.

“I am not, Lyra.”

“And if I did possess magic, then what? You would kill me, because possession is forbidden.”

“I am not going to kill you, Lyra. But if you speak to me the way you did in my throne room again, I might be tempted to.”

I want to test a theory, so I move. I don’t think. I turn toward the dead rosebush because anger needs somewhere to go, and if I do not put my hands on something, I may do something truly foolish, like strike a king who can command shadows and likely end my life before I finish forming the thought.

I grip the brittle stem harshly, and pain bites into my palm as thorns pierce skin. I don’t flinch, using my anger and directing it to the poor flower within my grasp.

“You want to see a trick? Here’s your fucking magic trick.” I say, anger swelling in me by the second. I don’t just unleash my magic—I explode.

Magic rushes through me with such force that I gasp, fingers tightening around the dead branch as light spills beneath my skin. Gold and silver mix, bright enough to shine through my palm. The thorn branch in my palm starts to turn green, but it does not end there. Looking at Thorin with pure hatred in my eyes, I reach toward the ground and the black soil trembles. A sound rises from beneath us, low and deep, like roots stretching after a very long sleep. My magic comes out in a rush from suppressing it for so long that I have absolutely no control over it. The earth begins reacting to me.

I try to pull away, because it’s too much. I’m using too much too fast, and I didn’t let myself start slowly. I feel hot all over, I’m burning, and I feel as if I’m going to explode under the pressure. Thorin is suddenly beside me. His hand closes around my wrist, not crushing or painful, but firm enough to keep me there. It grounds me, in a way.

“Do not let go,” he says through gritted teeth as his shadows coil around my hand. I feel it then—our magic attempting to merge. But I can’t⁠—

“I need to stop. I have to cut it off, I’ll burn out, Thorin!” I’ve never used such an excessive amount of magic before and I know that if I go beyond a reasonable limit, I might not come back from it.

“How do I stop it?” I ask, scrunching my face in pain as I try to focus on his hand, his shadows, anything to ground me. He is behind me now, his front pressed to my back, and I hate that it calms me.

“Command it to stop, Lyra,” he says in a low voice, but I shake my head. It’s too powerful, and I can’t pull it back. I’ve never had to use this much magic at once before, and so suddenly at that. I don’t know how to pull it back.

“Focus. You need to breathe and focus, muya mivanti.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he trails his fingertips slowly up and down my back, his hand never leaving my wrist.

My heart is galloping right now, and a headache blossoms at my temples. I focus, willing my magic to retreat, urging it to come back to me.

Come back to me.

COME BACK.

It feels like I’m almost losing myself—and it stops. The glow that seeped from my skin is now dulling. I feel the exhaustion settling in, ready to pull me down.

We stand in silence for a moment, my chest rising and falling as I fight to force my magic back under control. Thorin doesn't move, he simply watches me. The determined expression that was on his face before has vanished, replaced by softer flickers across his features before his gaze drops to the ground between us. A slow, almost disbelieving smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

My stomach twists.

“What?” I snap.

He doesn't answer, just keeps smiling. I follow his gaze and my breath catches. Nestled between the stones, where only dead vines and brittle earth should exist, a single flower pushes through the soil. Delicate white petals unfold toward the dim sky, impossibly alive.

My pulse stutters. People whisper about magic in fearful voices, and those born with even the smallest gift are hunted. But healing someone standing near Ryza’s domain is impossible. And making something grow where there hasn’t been life in centuries? That should be impossible too. But neither task is impossible for me.

One tiny flower blooms in the Sacred Gardens.

“Rest today,” Thorin says quietly, breaking the silence. “Tomorrow, we begin.”

“I did not agree to training⁠—”