Ember's Requiem: The Witch of the Ashen Wastes

The church’s roof gaped like a broken jaw, letting the last light of dusk bleed onto Ember’s hands. Dust motes swirled in the slanting rays, catching on her fingertips as she worked. She pressed a poultice of burdock and wild mint to Lila’s scraped knee, her fingers brushing the girl’s palm—a flicker of pale gold flared there, brief as a struck match. The warmth lingered for a heartbeat too long, like sunlight caught under glass. Ember froze. "Does it hurt?" Lila asked, her voice a thread frayed by wind and worry. "No." Ember’s throat tightened, the word rough with dust and unspoken fear. She smoothed the bandage over the glow, burying it beneath linen and shadow. "We leave at dawn. Silvermoon’s walls are safer than this ruin." Lila nodded, trusting. Ember’s chest ached. Trust was a blade; she’d learned that at seven, when her village burned because she’d misread the stars. Old Marius met them at the edge of the woods, his lantern swinging like a dying moth, casting jerky shadows against the trunks. The scent of damp earth and old pine needles clung to the air. "Silvermoon’s gone sour," he said, spitting into the leaves. "Saw a pack of fallens slinking through the east gate at noon. No fire’ll keep ’em out tonight—not with the ash mist rising." Ember’s grip on her satchel tightened. Beneath the worn leather, she felt the outline of the scroll tied with black silk—the last thing her mother had pressed into her hands before the villagers dragged her to the pyre. "Read the stars, not the fear," her mother had whispered. Ember hadn’t read either right. Lila coughed. A dry, rattle-thin sound, like paper tearing in a hollow room. By midday, her cheeks were flushed scarlet, her breath coming in gasps—hot, uneven puffs against Ember’s neck. They moved slowly along the cracked road, past skeletal trees and crumbling stone fences, until they neared Silvermoon’s crumbling outer walls. "Too hot," she whimpered, curling into Ember’s side like a child chasing sleep. Ember’s pulse quickened. Her hand found the hilt of her knife, more from habit than hope. The apothecary on the south end—she’d raided it once, two years back, for feverfew. "Stay here," she told Lila, tucking the girl into a hollow under a half-collapsed cart. "I’ll be back. Ten minutes." The apothecary’s shelves were stripped, but Ember found a jar of willow bark at the back, its label smudged by time and water. She crushed it between her fingers, the scent sharp and bitter. Feverfew, willow, a pinch of poppy—she mixed them in her palm, her hands shaking. "Measure twice," her father used to chide. "A witch’s mistake is a life’s mistake." She’d measured once. Lila retched after the first dose, her body writhing like a bowstring pulled too tight. Her fever spiked. Her skin burned like coals buried under cloth. Ember’s vision blurred. She saw her parents again: her father, gagged, as the mob tied him to the stake; her mother, screaming "It’s not her fault!" before the torch hit the wood. Ember had "seen" a plague, warned the village—only it was a lie. The plague was a storm, and her parents had taken the blame to save her. "Emmy?" Lila’s voice was a whimper, barely audible over the distant howl of wind slipping through cracks. "Tell me the story. About the star-ember." Ember swallowed. She’d told it a hundred times, to calm the girl on cold nights. "Long ago," she began, "the stars wept for the world. One tear fell, a seed of light. It’ll burn the ash mist away. But to wake it… you have to let it burn you, too." "Can you see the future?" Lila asked, her eyes glassy, pupils dilated. Ember said nothing. Her fingers found the scroll in her sleeve, its edges frayed from a decade of hiding. The ash mist came at dusk, rolling in like a tide of gray smoke, thick and sour-smelling. The fallens followed—twitching, snarling, their eyes black pits that reflected no light. Ember lit a fire with her flint, its flames leaping to form a wall. Sparks danced like embers torn from a dying sun. She tossed a bundle of nightshade into the embers; the smoke billowed, acrid and green, making the fallens recoil with guttural shrieks. Lila whimpered. Ember pulled her closer. Then— A voice, low, in her ear: "Star’s seed will burn your past." She spun. No one there. Just the hiss of the fire, the growl of the fallens. Dawn broke ragged, the mist retreating like a defeated army. Birds called faintly in the distance. Lila’s palm glowed brighter now, a steady pulse of gold. Ember’s scroll, forgotten in the chaos, lay open on the ground. New words had bled onto the old parchment: "Blood’s soul lights the star-ember’s flame." Her breath hitched. Blood’s soul—her parents. The villagers had been wrong. They’d chosen the pyre. A clatter of armor cut through the silence. "Witch!" Ember looked up. Three knights, their tabards torn, swords drawn. "We saw you summoning the mist! You’re one of them—" "No!" Lila tried to stand, stumbled. Ember grabbed her, sprinting for the ruins. The knights’ shouts echoed behind them. She didn’t stop until they reached the shattered remains of Silvermoon’s library, its shelves crumbling, its windows empty. A low, rumbling growl. Behind her, the air thickened, heavy with something unseen. The fallens didn’t snarl now. They waited. And a voice, familiar, rasping with static: "Ember." She turned. There, in the shadows, stood a man. His armor was cracked, his skin streaked with ash. His eyes—still blue, but edged in black—locked on hers. Caelen. Her childhood friend. The knight who’d become a lord of the fallens. And he was smiling. ---