In a dead forest of reflective leaves, Naia waited.
One of the Blackglass Hunters had found her. He wore a cloak of mirrors, each shard stolen from someone else's life.
"You're her fire," he hissed.
"If I break you, her light dims."
Naia grinned.
"Then try."
The fight was ugly. No finesse. Just explosions, claws, screams.
The hunter showed her visions—her worst regrets, her darkest days.
Naia burned them all.
"I'm not her fire," she whispered. "I'm mine."
She left him shattered. And walked away with ash in her hair.