The air in the Lower Rings of Valebourne always smelled of ash and oil, a grim perfume that clung to the cracked stones and starving alleys like a curse. Eira had grown up in it, breathing it in like truth. The stench was a part of her, as familiar as her own heartbeat. But today, something was different. The smoke whispered.
She crouched in the shadows behind the forge of Master Brannick, her fingertips blackened with soot. The heat from the forge was unbearable, but she had long since grown used to it. Her pulse raced in her ears, the constant rhythm of survival. Her task had been simple, to fetch the discarded metal scraps for Master Brannick's tools. He was a gruff man who ran the fofge where Eira worked in exchange for her room and food at the orphanage. It was a small price to pay for survival, but today, even the simplest task felt heavier.
As she reached for a twisted piece of brass, a flare of heat shot up her arm, as though the metal had a life of its own. She gasped and yanked her hand back.
The metal, molten and trembling, shaped itself to her palm. It was as if her skin had become part of the very thing she had touched. A warmth, not natural, coursed under her skin. Not possible. Not safe.
The heat surged, but it wasn't the forge's fire. It came from within her.
Footsteps echoed nearby, harsh and unyielding. Two Enforcers of the Veil, their obsidian armor glinting in the dim light, stalked the alleyway behind the forge. The silver masks they wore made them seem like living statues, their eyes hidden but their presence suffocating. They were always here, in Valebourne, but they had never come for her. Not yet.
The Enforcers hunted those who broke the First Edict: use of unsanctioned magic.
Magic, in Tenaria, was death.
She tucked the glowing metal under a pile of coal and scrambled to her feet, dusting her hands, trying to calm the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers felt like they were still burning, and her head spun with the sudden rush of everything she'd just discovered. But she had no time for it now.
She had no family. No allies. No one to protect her. If they caught her, there would be no questions asked. Just the cold, impersonal justice of the Veil.
Yet, even as she pressed herself into the shadows, the warmth inside her didn't subside. It pulsed, reminding her of something she couldn't grasp, but feared anyway. The power inside her had awakened. And she didn't know how to stop it.
Later that night, she returned to the orphan's quarters at Saint Mirelle's. The other girls were asleep, curled beneath the tattered, threadbare blankets that never seemed to offer any real warmth. Their breaths were steady, shallow, each one of them, just like Eira, had learned to sleep with their eyes half open. They had learned that the world didn't care, that every day was a struggle, and tomorrow might be worse.
But Eira couldn't rest. She sat upright in bed, her hands trembling. Her skin still felt too warm, too alive. Her thoughts spun in a spiral of fear and confusion. Was this magic inside her a gift, or a curse? Was she the next victim of a cruel world that had never cared for her?
She had heard stories, old ones, whispered between the cracks of the orphanage's walls. The mage-born, they called them. The ones who had power; power that the Veil feared. But power brought nothing but death, or worse, exile beyond the Black Gate, a place no one ever returned from. Eira shuddered.
And Old Man Gerren, he was the one who haunted her mind. His burn scars were always there, a reminder of something he had never spoken about. He had warned her once in hushed tones, his voice raw and desperate. "Don't let them find you, girl. Keep yourhead down." But no one in Valebourne could stay hidden forever. Especially not someone like her.
Could she be like him? Could she be cursed with the same magic that had turned Gerren into a broken man? She pressed her fingers against her chest, as though trying to hold herself together, as though the warmth inside her might tear her apart. She didn't want to be like him. She didn't want to be anything like him.
Just then, a soft knock stirred the door.
Her heart stopped.
No one knocked past curfew. No one dared.
The door creaked open, revealing a cloaked figure. A woman. Slender, with eyes like ice, sharp, calculating, as if she could see right through Eira, all the way to the fear and uncertainty gnawing at her insides. The woman stood there, an unreadable figure in the dim light.
Eira's breath caught in her throat. She could feel the weight of her gaze like a press on her chest, the weight of a thousand untold secrets.
"Eira," the woman said, her voice low but undeniably clear, "You need to leave. Now."
Eira recoiled, a wave of confusion washing over her. "Who are you?"
The woman's lips barely moved, but her words landed with quiet authority. "Someone who knows what you are becoming. And if you stay here, they'll find you. You won't survive the week."
Eira's heart slammed against her ribcage, fear flooding her veins. Why should I trust you? she wanted to ask. But instead, she only managed to stare at the woman. She had no reason to trust her, no reason to believe anything she said. Yet something in the woman's cold eyes made her heart believe, believe that if she stayed, she was as good as dead.
The woman stepped aside, revealing the twisted brass metal that had once burned in Eira's palm. It had cooled now, perfectly shaped like a flame; a sharp, dangerous thing. A thing that belonged to her.
"Because," the woman said, her voice a whisper now, "You're not the only one the Veil fears."