Page 46 of Lost in Fire

The door opens.

She stands framed in golden light, pale blonde hair cascading past her shoulders—her mother’s hair, unmistakably. But as she steps inside, I see my eyes looking back at me. Deep brown, assessing, wary. Her face mirrors Vanya’s—high cheekbones, delicate nose, proud chin—but there’s something in her expression, a quiet intensity, that belongs to me.

Ember.

My little girl.

Grown now.

My God.

Neither of us moves. I can’t seem to remember how to speak. Something fierce and protective ignites inside me, an unfamiliar instinct I’ve never experienced in centuries of life.

She breaks the silence first.

“I’ve imagined meeting you my whole life.” Her voice is steady despite the emotion lurking beneath the surface. She maintains her distance, one hand resting on the doorframe.

Smart. Cautious. Another trait she inherited from me.

The tightness in my throat makes it difficult to respond.

“I didn’t know you existed until last week,” I finally reply. “If I had known…”

I let the sentence hang. What would I have done? Abandoned my post as Lila’s handler? Defied the Syndicate’s most sacred laws?

Both, likely.

She studies me with an intensity that reminds me of her mother. “Mom told me you were dead.” A statement, not a question, but I hear the implicit accusation.

“She was protecting you,” I say simply. “And she was right to do so.”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face—perhaps she expected defensiveness. Instead, I offer honesty. It’s all I have.

“She said you were a Syndicate agent,” Ember continues, taking a cautious step forward. “That you died a hero.”

A short laugh escapes me. “I’ve been many things for the Syndicate. A hero was never one of them.”

“Then what were you?”

The weight of centuries presses down as I consider my answer. “I was a handler. I monitored powerful witches who could be valuable to the Syndicate.” I meet her gaze. “But with your mother, I was simply a man. The only time in my life I truly was.”

Something shifts in her expression. She moves closer, stopping just beyond arm’s reach. “Did you love her?”

“Yes.” The word comes instantly, without hesitation. “I loved her beyond reason.” I feel my throat tighten. “I believed she died because of that love.”

She nods. “That must have been hard.”

“Unbearable,” I say, the word barely scraping the surface of what it felt like.

“You’re tall. Like me.” She seems to recognize the need to lighten the tone a little.

“You have her smile,” I say, the observation slipping out before I can stop it.

“Mom says I have your temper,” she replies, challenge flashing in her eyes.

“My temper?” I chuckle because if there’s one thing I’ve never been, it’s hot-headed. “Maybe not that.”

She smiles back at me. “Yeah. I think she may have been projecting a bit.” She pauses. “I think I have your magic, though.”

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