Page 115 of Thunder's Reckoning
My tongue burned with reply, but a sudden press of fingers against my leg stopped me.
The girl with the burned hands. Her touch was brief, firm. A warning.
I lowered my eyes to the soup. Let silence swallow what I wanted to say.
Mother Anara inhaled through her teeth, that sound I’d feared as a girl. It meant you’d already stepped too far. “Still you carry yourself as though the fire owes you understanding.”
“It doesn’t,” Maelis agreed smoothly. “But obedience would’ve been enough. If you’d only stayed in your place, the Flame would have kept you clean. Unspoiled.”
Her words cut deeper than they should have. Becausemy placehad never been the same as theirs. Gabrial had taken me from this hall, from these benches, from the rows of linen dresses and thin bowls. He had lifted me from their world to his estate, into a life none of them could touch. He’d wanted me with him always. And they had never forgiven me for it.
Their envy seeped through every syllable, coated in reverence so no one could call it what it was.
“You were chosen,” Maelis said, her spoon pausing midair. Her eyes lifted then, flinty and unyielding. “He gave you what no one else was given. His home. His voice. His hand.”
Her lip curled, just faint. “And still you ran.”
The words slid into me like hooks. I clenched my hands beneath the table until my nails bit skin.
Sister Anara leaned forward, gnarled hands clasped as if she were blessing me. “Do you think any of us would have refused what you were given?” Her voice rasped like old parchment. “Do you think we wouldn’t have burned gladly for the chance to be near him as you were? And yet you—his favorite—turned away. You spit on the altar. You let the outside touch what was sacred.”
Her eyes flicked over me, lingering on my hair, my skin, my silence. “Defiled.”
The word cracked through me like a whip. My chest tightened, fury clawing hot in my throat.
But I kept still.
Because Gabrial would never let them mark me. And they knew it. Their only power was their verbal poison.
The women rose together, linen sweeping the floor in unison, a practiced motion like a ritual ending.
Mother Maelis lingered just long enough for her shadow to stretch over my bowl. Her voice dropped, soft and final. “Don’t expect us to weep when the Flame takes you. You lit this fire yourself.”
Then they left, their steps folding back into the reverent hush.
The girl with the burned hands stayed. Silent. Eyes forward. Her presence steady, a quiet shield against the venom they left behind. The long, thin burn down her cheek caught the light, pale as chalk where her jaw clenched tight, like even her scar refused to fade, a mark of what fire tried to take but couldn’t.
Later, when we stepped out into the evening air, her sleeve brushed mine. A whisper slipped from her lips, almost lost to the lavender-scented wind. “They’re watching you closely.”
I kept walking, gaze fixed on the path ahead, but I felt the eyes, two guards by the dormitory wall, arms crossed, postures easy but eyes sharp as knives.
“Soon,” she breathed, never breaking stride. “Things will happen. Be ready.”
My pulse jumped.
I didn’t ask. Didn’t dare. I only gave a small nod, careful, measured. Enough.
We walked on, the guards’ presence clinging to my back like hands ready to close.
The breeze shifted, carrying something darker under the herbs and flowers.
Not lavender.
Not rosemary.
Ash.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
