Tides of Fire

The sea never asked which family I belonged to. That’s why I loved it. Salt stung my skin as I stood barefoot at the edge of the cliff, the wind snapping at my coat like it was trying to pull me back from the edge. But I didn’t move. Below, waves clawed at the rocks with wild hands, furious and beautiful. Like me - born of water, burning inside. I come here when I need to breathe. It’s the only place that feels wide enough for my thoughts. At home, even the air feels ceremonial—scripted. Not that anyone in my family understood space. The Aquallis were like icebergs—majestic, ancient, and impossible to shift. Twice a year, like clockwork, we held our family gathering, where everyone sat around telling the same tired stories about honor and betrayal and how the Ember line—them—was cursed by flame and pride. This year, I didn't even try to pretend. I skipped out after the ritual song, the one we sing about "sacred tides" and "unyielding loyalty." I mouthed the words. I didn’t feel them. Not anymore. I’d never met Jack Ember. Not really. But I’d heard his name often enough for it to haunt my dreams. The Ember were the reason my great-grandfather died. The reason my aunt never spoke about the war. The reason we were never allowed to travel to the southern isles where the fire clans lived. My whole life had been shaped by someone I didn’t even know. And tomorrow, I’d walk into Solstice Hall and maybe see him for the first time. The thought curled inside me like steam. I turned from the sea, letting the cold sink in. I didn’t want to go home. Not yet. But there were only so many excuses I could make. The sun had dipped below the horizon, washing the sky in firelight—one of the many ironies I tried not to think about too much. As I walked back along the winding cliff path, I ran my fingers over the necklace I always wore: a silver shell carved with the symbol of our house. It was supposed to keep my magic close. My mother had fastened it around my neck when I turned five. “It will bloom with you,” she had said. “When the tide inside you wakes.” I used to sleep with it clenched in my fist, waiting. But it stayed cold. In the Maris line, water magic should awaken at three years old—some earlier. But I was sixteen and still nothing. Not a flicker. No rain-dancing. No whispers of waves. Just... silence. The only one like me in generations. They called it delayed resonance. I called it broken. When I reached the edge of the forest, I slowed down. The moonlight filtered through the twisted trees like it was sneaking secrets between the branches. That’s when I saw it. A faint flicker of light ahead. Blue. Soft. Too soft for a torch. I crept closer, heart hammering, then stopped. In the clearing stood my cousin Mira, whispering into a pool of water like it could answer her back. Her fingers traced runes across its surface, and the pool glowed in response. Mira had awakened when she was four. Everyone said she’d be the next High Tidemaster. She didn’t know I was watching. I took a step back and snapped a twig. Her head whipped around. "Carla?" I stepped into the clearing. “Just me. Sorry. Didn’t mean to spy.” She tilted her head, curious more than angry. “You always walk alone?” I shrugged. “The sea listens better than people.” Mira hesitated, glancing down at the pool. “I get that. Sometimes I wish I could disappear into the tide, too—just... vanish for a while. No expectations.” I looked at her. That wasn’t the kind of thing Mira usually said. Then she gave me that smile - soft, almost apologetic. “You know, just because your magic hasn’t awakened yet doesn’t mean—” “I’m not here for a pep talk,” I said, too sharply. A pause. Then she nodded, and the light faded from the water. We walked in silence back toward the manor. And for the first time in weeks, I let myself wonder—what if my magic never came? What if I wasn’t broken—just... different? What if I wasn’t meant to follow the tide at all— but to break from it?