CHAPTER 49: THE EMBER THAT WAITS

The morning broke pale and cool, the kind of stillness that carried its own weight. Dew clung to the grass in fine beads, and the air was sharp enough to wake the skin. Beyond the eastern walls of the castle lay an expanse of flat stone ringed by trees whose branches still held the hush of night. The place felt half-forgotten, yet purposeful, as though it had been waiting for this very hour.

Anneliese drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she followed Vincenzo and stepped onto the stones. Her breath rose faint in the cold, her pulse quick beneath her ribs. The silence pressed close, broken only by the faint stir of wings overhead.

Elowyn was already there, standing at the far end of the clearing, black leather catching the dim light. Hands clasped loosely behind her back, she looked as though she belonged not to the moment but to something carved deeper, older. When her gaze lifted, it was as sharp as the chill in the air.

Anneliese swallowed and stepped closer, boots brushing against the damp stone. She inclined her head in greeting, though her voice felt frozen in her throat.

Elowyn tilted her head, studying her as one might a blade fresh from the forge.

A faint smile curved her mouth—though it lingered only an instant. She stepped forward, and the air seemed to sharpen with her.

"Power," Elowyn began without wasting time, "is both gift and weapon. But a weapon without control will cut its wielder first. That is why we begin with awareness. Understanding your own magic is one of the most crucial parts of training. There are many branches of magic, but we will begin with elemental. And in your case, the element is fire."

Anneliese’s stomach tightened at the words, anticipation and unease knotting in her chest.

The witch paced slowly as she spoke, her tone both precise and resolute. "Training in an environment tied to your element can create a deeper connection—but using any natural element recklessly will disrupt its balance. That disruption leads to destruction. At times, it can even turn inward, destroying the source itself—the wielder."

Her gaze flicked back to Anneliese, sharpened like a blade edge. "Magic is not always in what you cast. Often, it lies in what you withhold—in knowing that the world observes, and moving accordingly."

She let the words hang for a moment before continuing. "Learning to command magic—any kind of magic—takes time, effort, discipline, and willpower."

Elowyn shifted her stance, one hand lifting as though to pull the air taut. "We begin with stillness. You must feel the fire before you call it. Reach for it as you would reach for your own heartbeat—not to command, but to listen."

"Close your eyes," Elowyn instructed. "The element responds to will. To will without clarity is to invite chaos. So breathe. Draw the air deep, and listen beneath it. Focus on every beat of your heart, so that you can even feel the blood flowing in your vessels."

Anneliese obeyed. The air was crisp in her lungs, stinging faintly, grounding and yet elusive. She felt the weight of the world pressing close—the dew, the trees, the stone beneath her boot. Somewhere under it all and within herself, a pulse waited, warm and aching. Fire. She reached for it, but her chest tightened, and the ember slipped away. Her breath hitched, and she opened her eyes.

"Once more." Elowyn’s voice cut sharp.

Her heartbeat thundered, but she tried again. The warmth came closer this time, slower, softer—yet no spark. Her breath came shorter. Her eyes flew open.

"Again."

Nothing.

"Again."

Anneliese’s brow furrowed, her breaths growing sharp as frustration coiled in her chest. Dawn edged the treetops in silver. The harder she reached, the farther the warmth seemed to slip—like embers smothered by ash.

Elowyn’s voice cut through the silence, calm but unyielding. "You are forcing. Fire is not summoned by desperation. Learning to command any kind of magic demands patience. When you feel it, try to reach for it as if you are moving toward it—not only in thought, but in being, like it is a part of you."

Anneliese swallowed and tried once more. She let the tension ease from her shoulders, drew another breath, slower this time, settling it deep within her ribs. Beneath the thrum of her heart, she felt it again—that faint hum, the warmth coiling low like an ember refusing to die. Her mind sharpened, her focus turning inward.

Her fingers twitched. A shimmer flickered across the tips, fragile and fleeting, a spark of light that guttered as quickly as it came. Anneliese gasped; smoke slipped from her lips, curling into the cold air before vanishing.

Elowyn’s mouth curved faintly, approval so slight it might have been imagined. "Better," she said firmly.

Anneliese’s breath came fast, but she nodded, the knot of unease in her chest loosening—just a little.

Behind them, a quiet air marked another presence. Vincenzo stood at the edge of the clearing, arms at his sides as though holding himself back, his gaze steady on Anneliese. He did not speak, did not interrupt—only watched. His eyes caught the fragile glow cupped in Anneliese’s fingertips. They lingered on the wisp of smoke, narrowing, something unreadable flickering across his face—something Elowyn did not miss.

She gave a single, decisive nod. "That is enough for today. Fire does not grow stronger by force. Push beyond its rhythm, and it will burn you before it bends. You touched it—that is progress. Let the ember rest."

Anneliese drew her cloak tighter and inclined her head, though the ember inside her still hummed faintly, fragile as breath.

By the time they left, the sun had risen over the treetops, spilling gold across the stones. The clearing no longer felt forgotten. It had been marked—etched with the first trace of power that had finally answered her call.

As they turned from the clearing, the dew was lifting, threads of light breaking across the branches as though the forest itself were stirring awake.

They walked on. The castle walls rose, the stone catching the morning gold. Anneliese drew a slow breath, the knot in her chest easing just a fraction. She had failed and failed again—but she had touched the spark.

Now on the secluded floor, Anneliese walked beside Vincenzo in silence, her boots whispering against the marble as they walked toward her chamber. The air still tasted faintly of smoke, though she knew it was only her imagination.

Her fingers twitched inside her cloak, restless, as though the ember she had touched still lingered somewhere beneath her skin. It had been only a flicker, nothing more—yet enough to set her heart racing. Enough to remind her that the warmth inside her is real and it’s hers.

Vincenzo’s stride was measured, his silence carrying its own weight. He did not look at her, though his presence at her side was firm, rooting. Only when they reached her chamber did he speak.

"Fire," he said quietly, as though the word itself needed restraint. "It answers quickly, but it consumes just as quickly, if you do not learn to bend it to your will. So do not mistake its warmth for safety. Yet once you can command it, it will become your sanctuary."

Anneliese nodded, the warning curling inside her chest, mingling with the fragile pride she carried.

"I understand," she whispered, though the truth was more complicated. She understood the danger—yet part of her feared she would never be strong enough to wield it at all.

Vincenzo glanced at her then, and read it. His gaze lingered just long enough to steady the doubt gnawing at her. His eyes, sharp and unreadable moments ago, softened almost imperceptibly.

Anneliese’s brow furrowed as she spoke. "We don’t know anything about Bridgehallow yet. But in the dungeon—my hands... they erupted in flames." She drew a sharp breath, the memory still burning in her eyes. "And in Haselburg—it glowed with such heat that the glass shattered beneath my touch. I didn’t even intend it, but it happened." Her voice wavered, softer now. "Yet today... it took so many trials just to summon a flicker. Why?"

Vincenzo’s gaze darkened, his voice low. "You didn’t realize it then, but in your town’s library—when I..." His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek. "When I tried to strangle you, your palms burned against my wrist."

For a moment, something raw crossed his face—anger, but not at her. At himself. The memory seemed to cut deeper than the words.

"In the dungeon, it was the same. Your magic felt danger pressing too close. It lashed out—not because you called it, but because it sought to shield you." His eyes searched hers, steady now, though the edge of that self-directed fury lingered.

"And though we cannot yet name the calling—the otherworldly whispers you heard—your magic must have sensed danger even from them that day. It rose against it, the only way it knew how."

His voice dropped further, the words almost binding themselves with certainty. "Even buried as it is, your magic knows when to rise. Whenever you are threatened, it will find its way to the surface—to protect you, to save you."

Anneliese drew a breath that steadied her, thin but certain. The ember she had touched today was small—but not an accident, not a fluke.

She turned her hand over, staring at the pale skin of her palm. Nothing marked it now, no flame, no heat. Only silence. Yet she could still feel it lurking, waiting.

Silence lingered in the chamber, stretched taut between them. Vincenzo’s presence steadied her even as his words unsettled her.

Her eyes lifted to his, and for a heartbeat the fear inside her softened—like flame cupped in a steady hand.

Outside, the wind stirred faintly against the glass, carrying with it the scent of ash that wasn’t there.