Fen.
She was so small when she came into the world, and yet the moment she opened her mouth to cry, the walls of the birthing chamber shuddered with flame.
Not real fire—at least, not the kind that could be measured by heat or smoke. It was something deeper. An old fire. A soul-fire. The kind that licked the edge of prophecy and named you before you even knew how to breathe.
Astra.
The name had come to Elsbeth in a whisper, long before the birth. A dream, she'd said. Or maybe a warning. I hadn't questioned it. Not when I saw the way her violet eyes softened when she spoke it. Not when the name fell from her lips like a plea for mercy. Not when I touched Elsbeth's belly and felt the child kick like she was impatient to shape the world.
Now, in my arms, our daughter blinked up at me. Green eyes like mine. Fire-red curls already forming along her scalp like sparks from her mother's soul.
