Page 5 of King of Flames and Shadows

But it’s just Lyra.

She steps inside, her slight frame outlined by the fading light outside. She looks out of place here in my cramped, cluttered space—a girl made of sunshine and silk stepping into a world of shadow and bone. Her dress is far too fine for Essenborn’s rough village life: pale yellow muslin, belted with delicate ivory ribbons. A shade that’ll be ruined by the slightest stain of mud or sap.

“Callie?” Her voice is a soft whisper, barely louder than the rustle of leaves outside. “You’re here. Thank the Gods.”

“Of course I’m here,” I murmur, turning back to my workbench. “Where else would I be?”

She steps further in, her gaze darting nervously about the small room. The shelves are lined with jars of dried herbs, bundles of roots hanging from hooks in the rafters. All the oddments of a healer’s life—though most here would see me as a poisoner, a witch. I can feel her staring at the herbs as if they might leap off their strings and bite her.

“I thought—” She swallows hard. “I thought you might have left. There’s … there’s talk in the village.”

“When isn’t there?” I snort, though my voice comes out rougher than I intend. Her presence here reminds me too much of what I’ve lost. Of whom I’ll never be. “People always need something to whisper about. I’m a convenient subject. I don’t exactly make it difficult for them to behave like that.”

Lyra frowns, her delicate brow creasing. She opens her mouth, then seems to think better of whatever she was about to say. Instead, she glances down at the small pouch clutched in her hands, filled with hard-earned coppers from the market.

“Is it ready?” she asks softly.

I nod and slide a small, neatly wrapped bundle across the rough wooden table toward her. “Ginger and elderflower.” For her sister’s sickness. “It’ll help with the fever, too.”

“Thank you.” She looks up at me, her wide, blue eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and … something else. Pity, maybe? I can’t stand that look.

“Just take it,” I mutter, turning away. “And tell her to rest. If she can.”

Lyra hesitates for a moment, as if she wants to say something more, then sighs and tucks the bundle carefully into the crook of her arm. “You should come to the village sometime, Callie. To visit. You know … we miss you. And everyone’s getting sick all the time now, since the Blight … well. We could use your help.”

I laugh, a bitter, hollow sound. “We? You mean the same people who spat on my doorstep the day my grandmother died, threw stones at me in the streets? The ones who whisper about my ‘cursed blood’ whenever I pass?”

She winces, and for a moment, I regret my words.

It’s not Lyra’s fault. She’s always been kind to me, even when the rest of the village wasn’t. Even when they hurled rocks and stones at me the day I buried my grandmother. They had called it a cleansing, a way to keep the “witch’s poison” from spreading any further.

I have the scars to prove I’ll never forget that day. It’s all clear across my face.

Lyra was the only one who cried for me. But that doesn’t change what the others did. What they still do.

“I know it’s hard,” she whispers. “But you’re not alone. Not really.”

I turn to face her fully, meeting her gaze head-on. “Aren’t I? You’ll leave this place one day, Lyra. Marry some rich merchant or minor lord, and Essenborn will be nothing but a memory. But I’ll still be here. Just like my grandmother was. Alone, unwanted … a ghost.”

Lyra’s eyes shimmer, and she reaches out, as if to touch my arm. I step back, avoiding her hand.

“Just—” She shakes her head, a small, helpless gesture. “Be careful, Callie. That’s all I’m saying. People are … talking more than usual. There’s been news from the capital. Soldiers have been seen in the outlying villages.”

“Let them come,” I say, more fiercely than I intend. “I’ve nothing they want.”

Lyra doesn’t mention the obvious: that to the Dragon King, any young human woman is a potential bride, a potential bedmate. She just nods slowly, then glances back toward the door. The light outside has faded to a murky gray, and the wind picks up, rattling the shutters.

“I should go,” she murmurs, stepping back toward the entrance. “But … thank you, Callie. For everything.”

Before I can respond, she’s gone, the door closing softly behind her.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the place where she’d stood, then let out a long breath. What did she think would happen? That a few kind words would erase years of isolation?

“You’re a fool, Lyra,” I mutter under my breath, then turn back to the cluttered workbench.

I find myself crying harder, now, as I recall my shortness with her, my cruelty. I was so abrupt. I didn’t say goodbye properly.

Now, I am alone in this world.

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