Page 53 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
A weightless shape began to form above my palm—semi-transparent, made of magic and intent. Fingers stretched, glowing faintly violet and gold.
I gasped.
Mage Hand.
My lips parted in awe as I raised my arm toward the bookshelf across the room. Go, I thought, not commanding it—but inviting it. Like a friend.
The Mage Hand drifted forward with fluid grace, plucked the candle from the table, and floated it gently back into my grasp.
I gasped. “Oh… oh, gods.”
It moved before I could think—lifting strands of my hair and weaving them into a braid down my back with more skill than I had on my best day. I laughed softly in disbelief. “Well, aren’t you clever,” I whispered.
Then it grabbed a dress from the armoire and draped it over the chair. I stood and walked over, stripping from my robe and sliding the dress on. Mage Hand moved behind me,sliding up the back of my dress, and zipped it closed with elegant precision.
Power hummed beneath my skin, alive and curious, as if I’d stepped through a doorway I hadn’t even known existed. The Mage Hand curled in the air for a moment—like it was waiting for a goodbye—and with a simple breath from me, it vanished in a swirl of light.
Gone.
But not really. I could still feel it. Magic called to magic. It was me.
I stood motionless in the center of my room, fingers flexing slightly, still tingling from the magic. My heart beat wildly in my chest. I picked up the book from my bed. Only Mages can wield Mage Hand. That’s what the text said. I flipped back to the page again, my eyes scanning the line over and over, as if it might change:
Mage Hand is a sacred extension of a true magical gift. It cannot be summoned. It awakens only in those of pure lineage—those touched by the first arcane flame.
But I wasn’t a Mage. I was Royal Fae.
Suddenly, the words my mother had whispered to me as she lay dying, echoed like a ghost against the walls of my mind, creeping in before I could stop them.
Blood pooled from her lips as she mouthed for me to lean in closer. So close, her lips touched my ear as her voice broke,“Your mo-mother and father… were m-more than just Royal Fae.”
I closed my eyes. The memory hit hard—no longer a gentle ache, but a knife twisting deep into my ribs.
I was back there again, kneeling in the ashes of our home. Her blood on my hands. Her body was so small and fragile in my arms. Her eyes, once brilliant, were dimming fast, the last flicker of life like a dying ember.
“More than just Royal Fae,” I repeated out loud.
What had she meant?
I exhaled sharply, forcing the memory back into its cage, though the edges still burned. I had read enough since then—torn through books on Warlocks, Mages, Fae courts, even whispered legends of the Dragons. I knew enough to understand that even Royal Fae didn’t have access to all four elements like Warlocks did. And they certainly didn’t possess Magecraft.
So if I had fire, earth, air… and now Mage Hand… then what was I?
What was I becoming?
I needed answers. And I needed them yesterday.
I knew the only person I could ask was Father. I planned on seeing him later tonight.
But for now—before my thoughts spiraled too far—I needed food. And a little company.
The kitchen was already a flurry of motion when I arrived. Cendrin was elbow-deep in flour, muttering curses under his breath, while Sivka danced around him with a ladle, humming an off-key tune that may or may not have been a war chant.
“There she is,” Sivka announced the moment I stepped in, raising her tawny, exposed arms like I was the Queen herself. “Elara, I hope you enjoyed your night with the prince the other day. You left the gardens in such a rush,” she smirked.
My cheeks flushed.
“You put those herbs in my tea! I knew it!” I shouted. I wasn’t mad about it.
