Fire and Ice - 5

The cracked mirror sat propped on Mira's small table, its jagged edges catching the candlelight in her room.

She kept it despite its flaws, a stubborn relic of her wandering years as a pyromancer, its fractured surface as much a part of her as her fire.

Tonight, it showed too much—her bronze skin, still marked by faint rope lines from the night before, her full breasts rising with each breath, her thighs sticky with lingering arousal.

But it was her eyes that held her—red-rimmed, vulnerable, soft in a way she hated. Until now.

Mira sat before it, nude, her red hair spilling wild over her shoulders, the air heavy with the scent of wax and the faint smokiness of her own heat.

The tavern below was hushed, its hearth cold, the silence broken only by the distant creak of settling wood.

Her chest bore the faint imprint of silk ribbons, her body alive with the memory of Kio's ropes, but it was her own reflection that made her shudder.

"I thought I'd killed her," she said, the words slipping out, unbidden, her voice thin and raw.

Kio stood behind her, his presence silent but steady, a tide that didn't need to announce itself.

She didn't flinch, her amber eyes fixed on the mirror, her confession spilling into the quiet.

"A little girl," she continued, her throat tightening.

"Seven, maybe. She ran out during a fire circle—a training rite. I warned them to stay back." Her voice cracked, her hands clenching on her thighs.

"I overdid it. My fire jumped. She screamed. Her arm caught flame."

Kio said nothing, his dark eyes watching her in the mirror, his silence a space for her to breathe.

"It didn't scar," Mira said, swallowing hard. "A healer reached her in time. But I—" She shook her head, her hair brushing her shoulders. "I never stayed long after that. Not anywhere."

Her gaze dropped, her voice softening. "Until here."

Kio stepped into view behind her, his reflection joining hers in the cracked mirror.

He knelt, his movements unhurried, and drew a small shard from his coat—jagged, silvered glass, etched with intricate patterns, cool to the touch.

"This," he said, his voice low, steady, "was once used to temper wild flame."

He held it up, its surface glinting in the candlelight. "Touch it."

Mira's fingers brushed the shard, its chill spreading from her fingertips to her chest, slowing her heart, her breath, like a balm against her fireblood's heat.

Kio turned the shard, and it reflected her face—not the fractured, guilt-ridden pyromancer, but steady, still, clear-eyed. Not perfect, but not ruined.

"You carry too many versions of yourself," Kio said quietly, his voice a gentle anchor. "This one," he tapped the shard, "is the one I see."

Mira didn't cry, her eyes glistening but holding fast.

She leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his chest, and kissed his wrist, her lips soft, trembling.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice raw, her fire banked for the first time in years.

Kio set the shard beside the mirror, its cool surface catching the candle's glow.

Then, only then, he tilted her chin, his fingers steady, and kissed her mouth—slow, unrushed, his cool lips meeting her flame, a quiet union of opposites.

For once, Mira didn't feel the need to burn.

The tavern's silence wrapped around them, the candlelight flickering, holding them in a fragile, intimate haven.