Page 58 of Lost in Fire

“I need my mother!”

The words shatter what’s left of my composure. I pull her into my arms, breathing in the scent of her hair—lavender shampoo and something that’s been a part of my world since that day I first held her in my arms. My daughter. The brightest thing in my world.

“I know,” I whisper against her temple. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

She sobs against my shoulder, almost a woman now, but feeling like the five-year-old who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms. When I could fix everything with hot chocolate and stories.

“I can’t do this without you,” she whispers.

“Yes, you can. You’re stronger than you know. Stronger than I ever was.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is.” I pull back enough to look at her face. “Do you know what I was doing at your age? Following orders. Parroting my bloodline’s hatred. Believing that purity mattered more than compassion.”

“You changed.”

“Because I met your father. Because I carried you. Because love taught me what strength really means.” I cup her face in my hands. “You were born knowing what took me decades to learn.”

“Then stay and learn more!” Her voice rises. “Learn what it means to choose your family over your duty!”

Family over duty. Such a simple concept. Such an impossible choice.

“Ma’am.” The team leader’s voice cuts through our goodbye. “I really must insist. We have a narrow extraction window, and every second—”

“I understand the risks,” I snap, my Shadowhand persona bleeding through. The woman who commands fear and respect in equal measure. “You’ll wait.”

She steps back, properly chastened. Good. Let them see what they’re asking me to leave behind.

I turn back to Ember, but she’s looking past me at Hargen. Something passes between them—understanding, perhaps. Recognition of shared helplessness.

“Will you keep her safe?” I ask him, my voice steadier now.

“With my life,” he promises.

Ember looks back at me. “This isn’t forever, is it? You’ll find a way to come to us?”

Lies would be kinder. False hope easier than brutal truth. But I’ve spent too many years lying to my daughter already.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “The work I do… the position I hold… It’s not something you walk away from.”

“Then I’ll come back for you.”

“No!” I say too sharply, but I can’t help myself. “Promise me, Ember. Promise me you’ll never come back here. Never try to find me.”

“I won’t promise that.”

“Then promise me you’ll wait. Give yourself time to build a life first. To understand what safety feels like. To become who you’re meant to be without my shadows following you.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

Her face hardens with resolve. “A year. I’ll give you a year to figure out how to leave. After that, I’m coming back whether you like it or not.”

A year. It might as well be forever, but I see the determination in her expression—my stubborn streak looking back at me.

“A year,” I agree, because sometimes hope is all you have.

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