Syraa arrived home late, with a smile on her face and a cut on her shoulder. She had mostly managed to avoid her mother’s attention on these nights, but this time, luck wasn’t on her side. The door creaked loudly as she entered. Her foot caught on the new rug her mother had laid down to catch the dirt, but which refused to sit flat. She stumbled and nearly fell, saved only by a chair she could’ve sworn wasn’t there before.

She sat down with a huff, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Good gods, why tonight…” she muttered with a quiet curse.

Then she heard the floorboards creak overhead. She sighed. Of course. Her mother was awake. The light of Elaina’s oil lamp appeared on the stairs, followed by her mother herself, frown already set in place.

“Hi, mum,” Syraa said quickly, forcing her most conversational smile.

“Where do you think you’re going at this hour?” Elaina asked, no preamble, no softness.

“I’m not going anywhere. I was just… going to bed,” Syraa replied, doing her best to keep her mother’s gaze away from her shoulder.

“Mm-hm. And before that?”

Syraa cleared her throat. “Late customer. Didn’t close early enough. Took the long way home. Sat for a bit in the clearing, lost track of time.” She delivered it all in one breath, too smooth to be entirely believable.

Elaina’s eyes flicked to the torn sleeve. “And that?” Her tone softened, if only slightly.

Syraa glanced down, feigning surprise. “Oh, this? Just a dry branch. Didn’t see it.”

Her mother exhaled slowly, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Wash up, my love. Then to bed. We’ll see Darleena tomorrow about your dress, all right?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before heading back upstairs.

Syraa let out a long, suffering breath and rubbed her face. I have to be more careful, she thought, unbuttoning her shirt on the way to the bath.

The water in the pool was warm but not hot, fed by the spring and kept cozy by the small fire burning underneath. She tossed in a few extra logs – then paused, a thought flickering.

She stretched out her hand. The flames stirred, responding to her movement. They swayed, parted, rose higher, then calmed as she moved her fingers. A grin broke across her face. She let out a small laugh, marvelling at how smoothly fire obeyed now.

Testing the water with her toes, she frowned. Warm, but not enough. Wrapping herself in a linen cloth, she padded into the kitchen. She filled the kettle, sprinkled in herbs, and reached to start the fire – then stopped.

She held her palms around the kettle. The kettle warmed between her hands, the heat spreading evenly. She had to keep her focus and control, but her fire obeyed, soft and exact, a tool now at her command. The air filled with the scent of herbs and spice.

She poured the tea, returned to the bath, and eased into the water with a sigh. It stung when she washed the blood from her shoulder, but she didn’t mind. It’ll probably leave a scar, she thought, but I don’t mind that either.

She let herself sink deeper, the warmth soaking through her bones. And though the water was hot and the tea soothing, there was another kind of heat rising in her: one born of neither.