Page 30 of The Awakening of Essensia

“There was a pulse,” he said. “Warm at first. That night though…” His gaze dropped. He unbuttoned his shirt halfway and drew it aside, revealing an angry burn at the centre of his chest.

Had she really been so distracted when she had seen him sparring earlier that she hadn’t noticed?

She wanted to apologise, but something stopped her.

“Magic,” she breathed, finally admitting what she couldn’t bring herself to realise before. Her skull felt like it was cracking open with the sheer impossibility of everything. Jon was gone. And magic…

Magic was a whispered word between friends, a bedtime story told to lull children to sleep, a long-lost power used by mages to make objects move or create flame from nothing. A faded myth, and entirely unforgiveable by law. The sentence was death. She had never questioned the necessity for such a law before now and had always presumed it was a way to preserve their history. Not because it may need to be enforced one day. Not because magic still existed.

“I did not know what I was searching for, but now that I’ve found you, returning without you would be impossible.” Eli’s gaze held hers in place. “You can stay here and pretend nothing’s changed. Or you can come with us and start to understand what this is. What you are.”

“You’ve been talking to Freya.”

Eli crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I have?”

Vaelira sat back, her thoughts racing. Had Freya enlisted the help of Eli, or had it been the other way around? She had no doubt Freya wanted what was best for her, but Eli’s intentions remained a mystery. Yet, despite his intentions, she couldn’t deny the capital was her best chance at getting answers to the questions that plagued her.

Eli stood slowly and walked to the door. “I heard the funerals at dawn,” he said.

She nodded once, her mouth dry. “Lysander came by earlier.” He hadn’t stayed long. Words didn’t stretch far enough right now.

“I’ll be there,” Eli said. He left, closing the door behind him.

Vaelira sat alone, the fire crackling softly. The silence pressed in, but this time, it was filled with questions.

The sun cast long shadows across the field beyond the wall. Guards lined the perimeter, keeping watch as townsfolk gathered in hushed whispers, their faces pale in the morning light. The sound of quiet sobbing lingered over them all.

The pyres stood waiting, solemn, and silent. Vaelira didn’t let her gaze wander to the figures laid atop them. Not yet.

A cart off to the side caught her attention. Freya sat on its edge, her leg being carefully positioned by Kili. Vaelira managed a wave, but she didn’t go to her. Instead, she moved through the crowd, unsure of which pyre to approach. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to face the people she’d failed to protect, but she had to find him.

The bodies lay unnaturally still. She let her gaze drift over them, never lingering too long, but then her eyes snagged on a figure, and as much as she wanted to tear her gaze away, she could not.

A woman with dark hair lay motionless. Beside her was a small child, and on her chest, bundled in cloth…

Vaelira sucked in a breath. Tears pricked at her eyes and a scream built in her throat, but she kept her mouth clamped shut, ripping her attention away to a pyre further back.

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew from the sheet they’d placed over the body. She remembered the dark veins. It was better this way. Better to remember him as he was before.

A chill wind swept through the field. Vaelira pulled her cloak tighter and scanned the crowd for Lysander. Panic rose in her chest, but before it could take hold a hand rested gently on her shoulder. She turned, and he was there.

Lysander wrapped her in an embrace. When he drew back, he pulled out something from within his cloak. He placed it into her hand. The joints in her fingers felt stiff as they wrapped around the familiar pale wooden hilt carved with apples and twisting branches. She had given it to Jon on his sixteenth birthday and had carved every detail herself. It had been her first and last attempt to shape anything from wood, and the lines were uneven and clumsy, but he’d carried it with him everywhere, nonetheless.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words lodging in her throat.

In Lysander’s other hand he held a single flower the colour of early morning, soft pale pink, with layers of petals folded so tightly it looked almost too delicate to touch. Its bloom was full and heavy, the edges curling like the thinnest parchment.

She swallowed. “Blushrose.”

Lysander nodded, holding it out to her. She took the rigid stem between two fingers, and cradled it close to her chest, shielding it from the breeze. Her mother’s favourite flower, and Jon’s birthday gift to her for as long as she could remember.

Turning, she stepped towards the pyre and laid the bloom gently between the stacked wood. Then she strapped the dagger at her hip.

Torches moved through the crowd, families taking on the responsibility, and the honour, of sending their loved ones into the next life. A hand extended a torch to her. She didn’t register the face, only focused on wrapping her fingers around the solid wood and turning towards her brother one last time.

Flames rose in her periphery, but she couldn’t move. A strong, calloused hand closed around hers. Lysander stood beside her, a tear running silently down his cheek. “Together,” he said, as someone lit the torch for them.

They stepped forward and the wood caught.