The Spark Ignites

The needle slips, and my world catches fire.

I don't mean to do it—gods above, I don't even know how it happens. One second, I'm bent over the seamstress's table, my back screaming from hours of hunching, my fingers raw and trembling as I tug the thread through a bolt of sapphire silk. The market square of Veyris hums around me, a chaotic symphony of hawkers barking their wares—"Fresh fish, two coppers!"—and the clatter of carts rumbling over cobblestones. Lanterns sway overhead, their oily glow flickering across the gown I'm stitching, a noblewoman's order I've been warned to finish by dawn or feel the sting of a lash across my knuckles. My eyes sting with exhaustion, my blonde hair plastered to my sweaty forehead, but I keep going. Seventeen years of scraping by have drilled one truth into me: you don't stop, not when your next scrap of bread hinges on it.

Then the needle slips. A tiny fumble, a sharp prick against my thumb, a bead of blood welling up—and suddenly, heat surges through me like a beast waking up inside my bones. It roars up my arm, wild and unstoppable, and bursts from my fingertips in a blaze of gold and orange. Flames leap to life, greedy and alive, swallowing the silk in a heartbeat. The fabric twists and blackens, curling into ash as the fire claws its way up the stall's wooden frame. I stumble back, my breath snagging in my throat, my gray eyes wide as the heat washes over me, searing my skin but not burning—not yet.

"Witch!" The word rips through the air, sharp and jagged, and I whip my head toward Harveth, the merchant who owns this stall. His red face twists with terror, his meaty hands flailing as he knocks over a crate of apples in his panic. They roll across the ground, thumping against my boots, but I can't move, can't think. The crowd freezes for a split second, then shatters into chaos. "Magic! She's got magic!" a woman shrieks, clutching her snot-nosed kid and bolting for the square's edge. Others follow, their voices clawing at the night—"Burn her!" "She's cursed!"—as the flames snarl higher, snapping at the stars like they're hungry for them.

This isn't real. It *can't* be real. Magic's a ghost story, a faded whisper from a time before King Theron's iron fist crushed it out of Ardyn. I've grown up on tales of witches and mages, but they're just that—tales. The king's laws are clear: magic is treason, a death sentence. I'm no witch. I'm Elara, just Elara, an orphan who's spent her life threading needles and dodging the landlord's fists when the rent's late. I'm nobody. But the fire doesn't care about that. It dances, wild and mocking, a monster I've somehow unleashed.

"Stop it," I whisper, my voice shaking as I shake my hands, trying to fling the flames off like mud from my skirts. They flicker, teasing me, curling around my fingers before spiraling out again, licking at the stall's sagging roof. My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic thud-thud-thud that drowns out the crowd's screams. I don't understand this—don't want to. Harveth lunges at me, his face a mask of rage, his fist raised like he's going to smash my skull in. "You'll pay for this, you cursed little—" His shout cuts off as a bucket of water slams into me from behind.

The cold hits like a slap, soaking through my threadbare dress, snuffing the flames in a hiss of steam. I gasp, my knees buckling, my hands dripping as the last embers fizzle out on the ground. The air stinks of wet ash and burnt silk, and I'm trembling, half from the chill, half from the terror clawing up my spine. The crowd presses closer, a wall of faces—some spitting curses, some gaping like I'm a freak show. Harveth scrambles to his feet, water dripping from his scraggly beard, and jabs a shaking finger at me. "She's one of them! A mage! The king'll have her head!"

My stomach flips, bile rising in my throat. The king. Theron, the Iron Sovereign, whose decrees choke this kingdom like a noose. I've seen the posters—faded parchment nailed to tavern doors, ink smudged but the words sharp: *Magic is treason. Report it. End it.* The punishment is death, always death, carved out in the town square for all to see. I was twelve when I watched a man hang, accused of hexing a crop. His body swung for days, crows picking at his eyes, a warning I thought I'd never need to heed. Now it's me they're screaming for.

"Please," I choke out, my voice barely a rasp over the crowd's roar. "I didn't mean—" The words die as Harveth grabs my arm, his grip bruising, yanking me toward the square's center. "Someone fetch the guards!" he bellows, his breath hot and sour against my face. "She's a danger to us all!" My boots skid on the wet stone, my free hand clawing at his wrist, but he's too strong, too furious. The crowd parts for him, some cheering him on, others shrinking back like I might set them ablaze just by looking at them.

I'm going to die. The thought hits me like a punch, cold and certain. They'll drag me to the palace, chain me up, and Theron's executioner will take my head—or worse, they'll burn me right here, a twisted irony for the fire I can't explain. My chest tightens, my lungs burning as I twist against Harveth's hold, but then a shadow moves—fast, sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"Back off!" The voice is low, edged with something dangerous, and before I can blink, a boy shoves Harveth hard enough to send him sprawling into the mud. The merchant lands with a wet thud, apples rolling around him, and the boy spins to face me. He's all angles and darkness—cloak billowing like smoke, hair a mess of ink-black waves, eyes a storm-gray that pierce right through me. For a heartbeat, I think he's here to save me, some kind of hero out of a bard's song. Then he steps closer, and those eyes narrow, predatory, sizing me up like I'm prey he hasn't decided to spare or gut.

"Who are you?" I rasp, my throat raw from smoke and fear. He doesn't answer, just grabs my wrist and yanks me into the alley behind the stall. His grip is iron, his pace relentless, and I stumble to keep up, my sodden skirts tangling around my legs as the crowd's shouts fade into a dull roar. "Let go!" I twist, digging my nails into his hand, but he tightens his hold, dragging me deeper into the maze of cobblestone and shadow. The air shifts, heavy with the clang of armor—royal guards, their boots pounding the streets, drawn by the fire. *My fire*.

"They'll kill you if they catch you," he says, his voice a hiss as he slams me against a damp brick wall. My back hits hard, knocking the breath out of me, and he's close—too close—his breath hot against my ear. "You're lucky I got here first." His words drip with something I can't place—threat, promise, maybe both—and my skin prickles under his gaze.

"Lucky?" I snap, shoving at his chest. He doesn't budge, just tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's not sure he wants to solve. His jaw sharp beneath a faint scar that curves along his cheekbone, his lips set in a hard line. Too pretty for a thief, too cold for a rescuer. My hands itch, heat tingling in my fingertips again, and I clench them into fists, terrified it'll happen again, that I'll burn him too.

"You don't even know what you've done, do you?" he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. Before I can spit something back, a shout slices through the dark—"There! The witch!"—and the glint of steel flashes at the alley's mouth. Guards, six of them, their swords drawn, their faces twisted with righteous fury under the crests of Theron's sigil—a crowned wolf, jaws dripping blood.

The boy curses under his breath, a sharp, guttural sound, and then he does the last thing I expect: he pulls me closer, his arm snaking around my waist, pressing me against him like we're lovers caught in a forbidden embrace. "Play along," he hisses, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver racing down my spine that I don't have time to name. My mind screams to run, to fight, but my body freezes, pinned by his warmth, the hard lines of him, and the guards' boots stomping closer.

"Oi! You two!" The lead guard's voice is a snarl, his sword gleaming as he steps into the alley. "Seen a girl—blonde, gray eyes, reeks of ash?" His eyes rake over us, suspicious, hungry for a kill. The others fan out behind him, blocking the exit, their armor clanking like a death knell.

The boy smirks, lazy and defiant, his arm tightening around me. "Just me and my sweetheart here, sir. No witches tonight." His fingers dig into my hip—a warning, a tether—and my pulse thunders, my breath shallow as I try to match his lie. I force my hands to unclench, to rest against his chest like this is normal, like I'm not shaking apart inside. The guard's gaze narrows, sweeping over my dripping hair, my trembling fists, the mud streaked across my dress. He's not buying it—I can see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his hand flexes on his sword.

Then it happens. The pendant—the small, tarnished thing I've worn since I was a baby, a forgotten trinket from a mother I never knew—slips from my collar. It hits the ground with a soft *clink*, and for a heartbeat, it glows. A faint, ember-red pulse flares in the dark, casting a bloody light across the cobblestones. My stomach drops, ice flooding my veins. The guard's eyes snap to it, recognition flaring in his cruel face, and I know—I *know*—I'm done for.

"She's the one!" he roars, lunging forward, sword raised to cleave me in two. The boy swears again, shoves me behind him, and pulls a dagger from nowhere, its blade catching the moonlight in a wicked arc. The alley explodes—metal clashing, my scream ripping free as the guards surge toward us. The boy moves like a shadow, fast and brutal, his dagger slicing through the air, but there are too many, and they're closing in. My hands burn, heat surging again, and I don't know if I'll burn them—or him—or myself.