Before he could, Frye did a quick pirouette and the embers died instantly. The dancer walked forward and took the lute from the wood and ashes. He gently placed it on the floor, as if it were a sick child being put to bed. His fingers wiped at the body, removing bits of ash. The strings were gone. The gut had burned up first. But the body looked whole. The fire hadn’t damaged it completely.
“Denying who you are doesn’t solve anything,” Frye said, his gaze still on the lute. “I didn’t tell you this to make you hate yourself. I did this because I want you to realize your potential. You’re powerful, so powerful that most of my spells don’t work on you. If you trained up, you’d be even stronger.”
Markle’s throat felt raw as he said, “I don’t want to be stronger. I don’t want anything to do with magic.”