CHAPTER ONE
— the girl with fire in her mouth —
The rains came hard that year.
They fell like fists, like grief that had waited too long. They tore the dirt roads
to pieces, sank the bones of cattle deep into mud, and made the village of Rensfall
smell like blood and wet leaves. I was seventeen when the storms started. Old
enough to be quiet. Old enough to see too much.
My name’s Kira. I was born with a scream in my chest and smoke on my tongue. Mama
said the gods must’ve kissed me too long in the womb. Said I came out red-eyed and
boiling. No one ever called me pretty. No one dared.
The day this all began—the day I stopped being a girl and started being something
else—I woke before the sun. The wind had howled all night, pulling at the roof like
it wanted to peel the house open and eat what was inside. And still, I rose. I
braided my hair with quick fingers, lit the stove with the last match, and made tea
from bitterroot leaves that curled black in the water like secrets.
Outside, the world was the color of smoke.
My brother lay snoring under a pile of stitched-up blankets. Mama’s chair rocked
empty, as always. She’d vanished five winters ago with a pack of travelers that
promised bread, shelter, and salvation. All liars. All dead now.
I slipped out without a sound. Boots sucking in the mud. My blade tied at my back.
The river was high, swollen like a bruise. It had taken down half the fence line
last week, and the chickens were still hiding in the trees, clucking like they knew
something. And maybe they did. Animals feel things. They feel the turning of the
world.
I walked the ridge path above the old temple. That’s where I saw the smoke.
Not fire-smoke. Not cooking. This was black. Wet. It curled up from the broken
stones like it came from under the earth.
I froze. My stomach clenched.
Then—sound. Not a scream, exactly. Not a growl either. Just... *wrong*. A sound
that didn’t belong in this world.
I ran toward it.
I don’t remember deciding. My body just moved, like it knew something I didn’t.
The temple had been abandoned for generations. No roof. No doors. Just cracked
walls, carved with names that the elders said were too old to speak aloud. But
someone was there. Someone had lit a fire at the base of the altar. And around that
fire knelt three people.
They wore no cloaks. No sigils. Just bone rings. And masks made from wood and ash.
I should have run.
But I didn’t.
Because in the center, tied to the altar by chains that hissed when they touched
skin, was a boy.
He wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t even moving. Just lying there, eyes open, mouth red
with blood.
I stepped closer, silent. My blade stayed sheathed.
One of the masked ones turned. Their face was blank wood, carved with a sunburst.
They looked at me like they’d known I was coming. Like they’d been waiting.
“She’s here,” they said.
The others rose.
My breath caught. Not from fear. From something else. A pull.
The boy on the altar blinked. His lips moved.
“Run.”
But I couldn’t. I was already caught. Not by chains. Not by magic. By fate.
Because I recognized him.
Not from life. From dream.
I’d seen his face before. Every night for the last year.
Always the same eyes. Always the same voice, whispering one word I could never
remember when I woke.
And now he was here. Real. Bleeding.
Alive.
I took a step forward.
And everything burned.
