Burn Them All

Elyse Pov I stood by the door, tracing the grain of the wood with my fingertips. Three months. Three months since Jason left for the border war. The morning sun caught the dust motes in the air, and for a moment I imagined they were him, scattered pieces of his presence, floating just out of reach. I pressed my palm against the door frame, willing him to walk through it. Safe. Whole. Mine. The nausea hit me like a wave. I stumbled back inside, one hand clutching my stomach, the other reaching for the nearest chair. The sickness had been relentless these past two weeks. Everything I ate came back up within the hour. Even water sometimes. I made my way to the kitchen, searching through the cupboards for something, anything that might stay down. Dry bread. Perhaps some ginger root, if we still had any left. My hands trembled as I reached for the bread basket. Jason would be so happy. The thought came unbidden, and with it, tears I couldn’t quite hold back. He’d always wanted a family. Always talked about children with that soft smile of his, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “When the time is right,” he’d say, pulling me close. “When you’re ready.” I was ready now. But he wasn’t here. I bit into the bread, forcing myself to chew slowly. To keep it down this time. Jason had been the first person to look at me and see something other than a monster, the first person since Mama. Mama. The bread turned to ash in my mouth. I could still see her face sometimes, when I closed my eyes. Still hear the sound of her heart being cut from her chest. Still remember the words of the man who killed her, casual as discussing the weather. “I never knew it was going to be this easy to find a witch near the border without going into the city. I hope we get enough hearts without getting caught.” Crystal Pack. The words on their clothes had been burned into my memory like a brand. I was fifteen. Fifteen and alone with Mama’s body, her blood soaking into the earth of our garden. The garden where she’d taught me the names of herbs. Where she’d shown me how to coax life from the soil with gentle magic, not the destructive kind that lived inside me like a caged beast. The binding spell she’d cast had held, even then. My power stayed locked away, hidden. Safe. I’d taken her bicycle, the one she used for trips to the city, and pedaled until my legs burned. I’d gone for help. For justice. Instead, I’d found an accusation. “She killed her own mother,” they’d whispered, loud enough for me to hear. “Ate her heart for power. That’s what monsters do.” The dungeon had been cold. Dark. Three years of cold and dark, of hunger that gnawed at my bones and torture that taught me new definitions of pain. Three years of watching hatred build in my chest like sediment, layer upon layer, until I wasn’t sure where the monster ended and I began. Then came Jason. I hadn’t believed him at first, when he’d said he was buying my freedom. Buying me. Like I was something worth saving. “Your mother helped me once,” he’d told me, his voice gentle despite the chains on my wrists. “She healed my sister when no one else could. I owe her this.” But it had taken him time to gather the money. Time I’d spent wondering what fresh hell awaited me. Time I’d spent learning that hope could be more painful than despair. The bread stayed down. I counted it as a small victory. Jason had taken me to his home, a small house on the edge of the village, far enough from the center that curious eyes couldn’t find us easily. He’d given me a room of my own. Food. Clothes that weren’t rags. Patience. It had taken months before I could sleep without nightmares. Longer still before I could meet his eyes without flinching. But he never rushed me. Never demanded anything. He just… existed beside me. Steady as a heartbeat. “You’re not a monster,” he’d say, when the fear got too loud in my head. “You’re someone who’s been hurt. There’s a difference.” I hadn’t believed him then either. But slowly, carefully, I’d learned to trust the warmth in his voice. The way he smiled when he saw me each morning. The way he never once looked at me with fear, even though he knew what I could do. A year after he’d brought me home, he’d asked me to marry him. We’d had no guests at our wedding. His parents were long dead, and mine… Well. Papa had made his choice when I was a child. Mama was gone. We’d stood before a priest who’d taken Jason’s coin without asking questions, and we’d spoken our vows with only each other as witnesses. It had been enough. More than enough. Jason had made me a disguise necklace, a simple spell, but effective. With it, I could walk through the village without being recognized. Without seeing the fear and hatred I’d grown so accustomed to. For the first time in years, I’d felt almost normal. Then the war came. Two months of marriage, and then the call to arms. The werewolves at the border were pushing forward, they said. All able-bodied witches were needed to defend our territory. Jason had kissed me goodbye at this very door. “I’ll come back,” he’d promised, his forehead pressed against mine. “I swear to you, I’ll come back.” “You’d better,” I’d whispered, trying to smile through the tears. “I’ll be waiting.” He’d pressed the disguise necklace into my hands. “If you need to go out. If anything happens. Use this.” Two weeks after he’d left, the sickness started. I’d tried to ignore it at first. Tried to tell myself it was just worry, just fear for Jason’s safety manifesting in physical symptoms. But when I couldn’t keep down water for three days straight, when the dizziness got so bad I could barely stand, I knew I needed help. The disguise necklace had felt heavy around my neck as I’d walked to the healer’s cottage. Every person I’d passed had felt like a threat. Every glance in my direction had set my heart racing. The healer had been an old woman with kind eyes and gentle hands. She’d asked her questions, done her examination, and then she’d smiled. “You’re with child, dear. About six weeks along, I’d say.” The world had tilted. A child. Jason’s child. Growing inside me even as he fought at the border. I’d walked home in a daze, one hand pressed protectively over my still-flat stomach. I’d wanted to laugh. To cry. To scream his name until he somehow heard me across the distance and came home. Instead, I’d come back to this empty house and started praying. Please let him come home. Please let him be safe. Please let me tell him about the baby. Please. The bread sat heavy in my stomach, but it stayed down. That was something. I moved to the window, looking out at the road that led to the border. The road Jason had taken. The road he’d return on. When, not if. I had to believe when. My hand drifted to my stomach again, to the secret growing there. To the life we’d created together. “Your papa is going to come home,” I whispered. “He promised. And Jason keeps his promises.” The road stayed empty. I pulled the disguise necklace from beneath my collar, running my thumb over the smooth stone. Jason’s magic hummed in it, warm and familiar. A piece of him, left behind to keep me safe. Outside, someone shouted. Then another voice joined in. I froze. The shouts grew louder, more urgent. Not angry, excited. Celebratory, maybe? My heart hammered against my ribs as I moved back to the door, pressing my ear against the wood. “They’re coming back!” someone yelled. “The soldiers are coming back from the border!” Jason. My hand was on the door handle before I could think, before I could remember all the reasons I should stay hidden. He was coming home. He had to be coming home.