Page 40 of The Filigree Key

It’s not a serpent, just like the wight isn’t a dog. It is fire. And fire must be smothered.

Abandoning the thorny club, I channeled my battle magic into the canopy. The branches grew longer and supple, wide razor-edged leaves emerging from every bud. Where the flame serpent struck, the thicker leaves sizzled and smoldered longer before turning into ash.

Acutely aware that my real body was still suffering from the effects of the half-heart, I gave my canopy one last surge to fortify it. Then I struck.

The razor-edged leaves shot off their branches like a flock of starlings. They chased after the flame serpent, cutting through its tail and body. Each cut was a sacrifice, but each cut released a tongue of flame that never returned to the main body. The leaves ignited into cinders, but the canopy at my command shot wave after wave of leaves to replenish the swarm, sacrificing its own branches to become spade-shaped arrowheads of glittering green light. They were so thick and numerous there was not a single place in this prison that the serpent could find peace.

And when it finally slowed, enough of those leaves having nibbled away its strength, I released my hold on what remained of the canopy.

Millions of fleshy green leaves engulfed the flame serpent. No matter how many it scorched, dozens more smothered the hole it created. The flame serpent screamed, jettisoning fire, but the leaves clamped down tight around its jaws. They followed it as it tried to break free and escape, always layering and layering. They were bees swarming around an intruding hornet and smothering it with their body heat.

Finally, the flame serpent resembled something a spider had caught and trussed up in a cocoon of silk, though this one was made of leaf-like scales. It writhed like a worm, but the millions of leaves held fast.

I gave the leaves their final command: Snuff. It. OUT.

A scream like that of a steaming tea kettle lifted from the writing mass as the leaves obeyed. They fused together into a seamless sphere, smothering the flame serpent’s cry. Like the containment field I’d used on the wight, this one, too, began to shrink.

The half-heart fought, but my will was indomitable. My power, infallible.

There was a crack, and the sphere shuddered. Orange light appeared in the seams I thought it had sealed away, glowing brighter and brighter, but the malevolent creature was gone. Only true fire remained, and only one who understood it could contain it.

Lunging forward, I seized the cracking sphere before it could shatter altogether.

A new kind of heat brought sweat to my skin. It trickled down the furrows of my frown and made my scalp itch. It even pooled in my ears, which had to be one of the most insufferable sensations I’ve ever felt.

Ignoring it all, I focused on the fire that was destroying its containment sphere in my hands.

It wanted out, if fire could be called sentient. It wanted freedom, to burst in every direction in an explosion of light. It was reaching, always seeking more, never satisfied.

It was like Violet’s one rule about Nature in that regard—it sought growth. It knew no temperance, only ambition. It was selfish, but also purposeful. It stripped away anything that didn’t matter—leaves, chaff, bark—and fed from what would sustain itself most—the heartwood. Destruction wasn’t its purpose, that was only one of its results.

Its essence was refinement. Purity of purpose.

Ore became gold from its heat; fevers burned through infection to restore the body; sequoias only opened their cones to reseed after drying out from the intense temperature left behind by a wildfire.

The heart of the oak tree kindled with red light like a dormant coal stoked to life. Its light and power grew the more I allowed the green containment sphere to melt away. It was akin to finally taking the leash off a dog you’d been working with for months to see if the mutual respect and training would pay off. Would the dog bolt at the first sign of a squirrel, or would it stay because it trusted you?

The leash and containment sphere gone now gone, a yellow flame that flickered and pulsed like a little heartbeat remained in my hands.

“Hello there,” I murmured.

The flame gave a little wiggle in reply. With a little snap and a pop, the yellow flame turned a vibrant green. It wiggled again as if to ask if I liked its new color. The color of a true hearth witch’s fire.

I laughed, delighted.

It didn’t scorch me, and I was no longer sweating. The flame was no longer curbed, but it wasn’t allowed to rampage, either. The little fire could exist peacefully in the presence of someone who understood it.

And just like that, the green flame vanished.

I blinked, abandoning my magical perception for the physical world.

In my hand, the filigree key shone in parody of a Yule tree: red and green lights and silver tinsel. I didn’t have more than a moment to marvel at my accomplishment before the Stag Man plucked the key from my fingers and squirreled it away into his pouch.

While that was unsurprising, it still hurt. The fire had been alive in a way different from the earth. Almost . . . personable. I felt as if I’d just made a new friend only for them to be taken away.

“Meadow, love, how do you feel?” Ossian asked, his voice sounding soft and faraway after the conflagration I’d endured.

Swallowing thickly, I turned my attention back to the tree. My hand was still pressed against the half-heart, but it was black and lifeless. Nothing but a lump of glass embedded in the trunk. I yanked my hand away and found them both scalded. They were healing slowly, but I paused the process and high-stepped stumbled over the moonflowers. The Stag Man caught me, supporting me against his chest.