Fire and Ice - 6
Dawn broke gray and heavy, mist cloaking the tavern in a quiet shroud.
Mira stood at the tavern's notice board, her morning tea steaming in her hand, her bronze skin flushed beneath a loose tunic.
A hawk-etched parchment, seared into the wood with a pyromancer's brand, crackled faintly, its edges curling as if still smoldering.
Her amber eyes narrowed, her fingers trembling just slightly—a Guild writ, a summons for judgment.
Kio stood at the bar, pouring her tea with steady hands, the air rich with the scent of herbs and smoldering embers from the hearth.
His dark eyes watched her, noting the flame flickering at her fingertip, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
He said nothing, his silence a steady anchor.
"I thought they forgot me," Mira muttered, her voice low, edged with heat.
"They don't forget power they can't tame," Kio replied, his tone calm, his gaze unyielding.
Her grip tightened, nearly dropping the cup.
Kio took it gently from her hands, his fingers brushing hers, grounding her fire.
"You'll go," he said, his voice soft but firm. "And you'll return. Clean."
Mira exhaled, her chest tight.
"I'm not ready."
"You will be," he said, his words a promise, his eyes warm with quiet faith.
The Guild tent stood outside town, a portable, imposing structure of taut canvas and iron stakes, its presence official, intimidating.
Inside, three figures waited: a robed examiner, his face stern; a scribe, quill poised; and an enforcer, her eyes cold.
Mira recognized two—the scribe had once flirted with her, the enforcer had reported her after the child's accident years ago.
The air was thick with parchment and sweat, the tent's canvas walls muffling the morning's wind.
Mira stood still, her red hair tied back, her curvy frame cloaked in dark wool, her hands bound beneath it with silk ropes—Kio's doing, hidden from view, their soft bite a secret anchor.
The examiner recited charges, his voice flat but piercing.
"Unauthorized flame surge during a fire circle rite," he read. "Uncontrolled pyromantic flare under emotional duress. Suspected instability."
Mira said nothing, her jaw tight, her fireblood simmering beneath her skin.
They demanded proof of recovery—a demonstration of control, a dual-elemental flare channeled through a fire chant alone, no tools, no aids, just voice and will.
The task was cruel, designed to expose weakness.
Kio stood at the tent's edge, uninvited, unacknowledged, his presence a quiet tide.
His dark eyes met hers once, a steady command in their depths.
His hand moved—a single signal.
Breathe.
Mira lifted her hands beneath her cloak, the silk ropes grounding her, their hidden embrace a reminder of Kio's trust.
She began her pyromancer's chant, a rhythmic mantra to harness her natural fire, her voice steady, the syllables clean.
The tent's air grew warm, her fire stirring, controlled.
Kio tapped two fingers against his thigh, a subtle cue.
Mira's breath synced, her chant flowing smoother.
Midway, guilt clawed at her chest—the memory of the girl's scream, the flame's leap.
Her voice faltered, a syllable tripping.
Kio's hand closed into a fist, then opened, a silent urging.
Mira matched it, inhaling deeply, steadying her core.
She completed the chant, her voice rising, clear and unbroken.
A flare blossomed above her head—crimson-gold, controlled, clean, no surge, no burn, a testament to her discipline.
Silence fell, heavy and thick.
The examiner's eyes narrowed, the scribe's quill stilled.
"Adequate," the examiner said, his voice clipped, offering no more.
Mira walked out, her steps steady, her fire banked but alive.
Outside, she collapsed into Kio's arms, pressing against his chest, her body trembling with relief, her amber eyes glistening but dry.
He didn't speak, his arms steady, his warmth a balm for her rawness.
He lifted her wrists, still hidden beneath her cloak, and pressed them to his chest, his voice a quiet whisper.
"That's the last time you prove yourself to them."
The mist parted around them, the tavern's silhouette looming in the distance, a haven waiting to claim her back.