The Road of Charred Lullabies

The mountain wind carried the scent of pine and damp earth, a stark contrast to the acrid smoke still clinging to Ru's clothes. His small fingers trembled around the flute, its polished surface slick with sweat. Vena's grip on his other hand was firm, her nails—chipped and stained with potion ingredients—digging into his skin just enough to ground him.

"You're shaking," she observed, not unkindly.

"I'm cold," Ru lied. The truth coiled in his throat: The fire is inside me now. It's licking at my ribs, tasting my heart.

Vena snorted, her red braid unraveling in the wind. "Witches know when children lie, brat. Here." She shrugged off her tattered cloak and draped it over his shoulders. The fabric smelled of bitter herbs and burnt sugar.

Ru clutched the edges, suddenly aware of the scars peeking from beneath Vena's sleeves—old, twisted things that mirrored his own. "Did demons do that to you too?"