Touch The Fire

9 : Inheritance Of Dust

" Some truths do not set you free. They tether you tighter. "

***

We walk.

The forest fades behind us, but its weight clings to my skin like smoke.

None of us say much. Jake leads, jaw clenched and hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. Justine keeps a careful pace beside me, every so often glancing over, like she's trying to figure out how close I am to falling apart. Dylan trails behind us, silent as always, his gaze drifting too far ahead, like he's already watching something we haven't caught up to yet. Tate brings up the rear, humming something tuneless and flipping that stupid dagger again like we didn't just fight off something straight out of a nightmare.

I don't know how long we walk. Time's stopped making sense.

I'm cold. My body aches. The edges of my vision keep blurring. I think there's blood on my sleeve, mine, it's too dark to be mine. It doesn't matter. Everything from the bonfire to the fight feels layered on top of itself, stitched together by panic and adrenaline and way too many questions.

By the time we reach the edge of town, my legs are shaking. Justine's house is only a few blocks more, perched quietly near the water, porch lights glowing like a beacon. I don't realise I've stopped walking until Justine gently takes my elbow and guides me the last few steps.

The minute the door opens, warm light spills out, and her mum is there, kind eyes, long braids, a soft pink robe. "Oh good, you're back," she says, already turning into the kitchen. "I've got cocoa and cinnamon buns on."

"Thanks, Mum," Justine says like it's the most normal thing in the world. Like we didn't just survive an actual monster attack in the woods.

And then it gets weirder.

Because instead of coming up with a cover story, like any sane person would, Jake says flatly, "It was another Nulvane. Exactly where Dylan said it would be."

Justine's mum pauses as she leads us into a large living room. "How close did it get to town?"

"Too close," Dylan answers. "We killed it before it could get to anyone."

Killed it.

Killed. It.

He says it like they just squashed a spider or took out the trash, not fought a demon straight out of hell.

"Was anyone hurt?" Justine's dad appears in the hallway, arms crossed, a smudge of engine grease on his jaw.

Tate grins. "Aside from Clara nearly getting flattened? Nah, we're good."

My stomach lurches. Flattened.

"Oh," her dad says, and gives me a once over like I'm a car he's assessing for damage. "Well. First kill always shakes you up. You did better than I expected."

"I didn't kill it," I say, still standing awkwardly just inside the door, wet sand on my boots and blood buzzing beneath my skin. "I—I tried, but—"

"Still," he says with a small nod, "you stood your ground. That matters."

I glance between them all, trying to catch up. They speak about death and monsters like it's normal. Like it's routine.

And worse, like I'm supposed to be part of it.

Tate flops dramatically onto the couch and kicks his feet up. "So, are we doing this now?" he asks, twirling the oddly marked dagger between his fingers again. "You know, group therapy, Curse Edition?"

"Give her a second," Justine says softly, and pulls me toward the couch opposite Tate.

I sit. Mostly because I'm afraid if I don't, my knees will give out.

"You all just—talk about this? With your parents? Like it's nothing?" I ask, my voice barely rising over the crackle of the fire.

The door creaks as Justine's dad disappears, murmuring something about sharpening blades, like that's a totally normal Saturday night activity. Justine's mum remains standing, her soft robe wrapped around her like a second skin, hands loosely clasped.

She watches me with quiet curiosity.

"We haven't officially met, but we've heard a lot about you." She says at last, stepping fully into the room.

I blink. "You have?"

Justine nudges me. "She means she knows your dad. Small town. Long history."

"And a long list of things he's refused to talk about," her mum adds gently, her eyes sharp behind her reading glasses. She walks over to Tate and raises an eyebrow. "Get your boots off my table, Nathaniel."

Tate's lounging sideways across the couch, feet planted confidently on the coffee table like he owns the place. He grins, not even pretending to be ashamed. "Technically, they're on a coaster."

"They're on a placemat, and that's not remotely the same thing," she says, arms crossed. "Off. Now."

With an exaggerated sigh, Tate swings his legs off the table and flops back dramatically. "Therapists and their control issues. Unbelievable."

Justine's mum raises a brow. "And teenage boys with boundary issues. Also unbelievable."

Jake mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "She's got you there," and Tate tosses a cushion at his head without looking.

I let out a half choked laugh before I can help it. It's the first sound that doesn't feel like it's caught in my throat since the woods. Since the monster. Since the blood and magic and sharp edges of a reality I didn't know I'd been sleepwalking through.

Justine's mum turns back to me, and the warmth in her expression settles something in my chest. "Clara, I know this is... a lot. And I imagine you're questioning everything right now. You don't need to understand it all tonight."

I nod, though my hands are clenched in my lap, knuckles pale.

"But you deserve the truth," she adds. "And it should come from the ones who've lived it. The ones sitting in this room."

The room falls quiet again, save for the low crackle of the fireplace and the thump of Tate's boot bouncing rhythmically against the couch.

Jake hasn't looked at me since we walked in. His jaw is tense, arms crossed, eyes locked on the flames like they're safer than me. Like if he looks, something might c***k open.

I turn back to the others. "What is the curse?" I ask again, louder this time. "And what does it have to do with me?"

"That depends," Tate stretches like he's getting ready for a nap. "Do you want the whole thing, full on backstory as to why we're cursed, or just the curse itself?"

I contemplate, it may be ten at night, but I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep any time soon. I want answers. I want the truth. I want everything I've been denied. And if there's a curse that needs to be broken, then I need the whole picture.

"From the beginning." I look at each of them, daring for them to deny me. "Nothing gets left out."

"I'll go check on the food and bring out hot chocolate," Justine's mum makes her way to the kitchen. "You all need to get some sugar into you and lord knows this is going to be a long night."

Once she leaves the room, the air shifts, silencing falling over us again as everyone looks to Dylan.

"Why me?" He groans.

"You're the vision guy, you remember everything." Tate sinks deeper into the couch, hands resting behind his head. I seriously think he's going to fall asleep.

Dylan sighs and runs a hand down his face as he sits next to Tate on the couch. He looks at me for a moment, eyes cautious, like he doesn't want to say the wrong thing. But he lifts a brow. A silent question, are you ready?

I nod.

"The founding families weren't from this realm," Dylan says, his voice low but steady. "They came from a place called Anatheriam, a world filled with magic, with creatures both beautiful and hellish. And more importantly... with Fae."

My mouth drops open. The words sound ridiculous coming from him, like he's quoting some fantasy novel we all forgot to read. But the look in his eyes says he's not kidding.

Before I can speak, he continues.

"According to the journals we've found, there was a war, a brutal one. It tore Anatheriam apart. And at the center of it was a fallen Celestial Fae named Morvenya. She once held divine power, god like magic. But something happened. She was cast down, her powers stripped, and she was exiled to a realm without magic."

His gaze flicks toward me. Toward all of us.

"Earth?" I whisper.

He nods. "She hated it. Thought it was a barren, dying place. A prison. But she didn't stay buried. Over centuries, she clawed her way back to Anatheriam, using blood sacrifices and stolen magic to rebuild herself."

The couch creaks as Justine shifts beside me, putting her hand over mine, I internally flinch, doing my best not to physically react.

"She built something called the Crimson Court," Dylan goes on. "Corrupted fae, soulbound monsters, loyalists twisted by her promises. She infiltrated the royal court from the inside. Planted spies, turned noble houses, siphoned ancient magic from forgotten sources."

He takes a breath, his eyes flickering to the fire like it might burn away what he's about to say.

"When the moment was right, she launched an attack on the palace. But the worst part... it wasn't her who struck the final blow against the King and Queen."

I feel my chest tighten. "What do you mean?"

Dylan looks at me, his expression heavier than I've ever seen. "It was their own son. The Prince."

I blink. "What?"

"He was supposed to be the heir, but he betrayed them. He fell for Morvenya, had the same taste for power as her. Didn't just want to rule Anatheriam, but all magical realms. He stood beside Morvenya as she took the throne. Together, they crowned him king."

Silence falls over the room, thick as smoke. Mourning fills the air, not just for the past, but for everything that was stolen from us before we ever had a chance to live it.

Dylan's voice lowers. "After that, she hunted the Godmarked Houses, the ancient bloodlines who had once followed her twin sister, Serenya, and the First Circle. She declared them traitors. Rounded them up. And at the edge of the realm, before the Veil... she cursed them."

My heart pounds. "She cursed us."

He nods. "She stripped them of their connection to Anatheriam, cut them off from the magic that anchored their bloodlines. Then she exiled them to Earth, the same world that nearly unmade her."

Justine's fingers tighten into the couch cushions. Tate is completely still. Scratch that, asleep.

"In one of the journals," Dylan adds, glancing toward me, "your ancestor described the moment. How Morvenya stood before the gathered families, her monsters behind her, her false court watching, and bestowed a curse that would stretch down through the centuries."

He swallows.

"She made sure that each firstborn child of the five bloodlines would hold the spark of magic, even after exile. But she bound it in time, eighteen years, no more. If they didn't return to Anatheriam before then... they'd vanish. Fade from the world like dust."

I feel the heat flicker to life beneath my skin, my hands curling into fists. My power responds to my emotions, and right now, I don't trust either of them.

Dylan pauses again, like what he's about to say will push me over the edge.

"And when one firstborn vanished," he says softly, "the power didn't die. It passed to the youngest living member of the bloodline."

My lungs squeeze. My thoughts scatter.

"Margot."

The word leaves my lips before I can stop it. If I don't make it to this fae world, Margot will inherit the curse. The very thing she's terrified of. The thing I can barely survive myself.

My voice cracks. "She'll be next."

The room tilts.

It's like the ground beneath me gives way, and I'm just floating. Untethered. Airless. I don't even realise I'm standing until Justine's hand slips from mine, until the heat under my skin spikes hard enough to sting.

"She'll be next," I repeat, barely above a whisper. "Margot will—she'll—"

My voice fractures. The lights flicker.

I clench my fists. Power pulses at my fingertips, wild and trembling, begging to be released. I can't hold it. Not when it feels like the entire world is collapsing beneath my feet.

"She's just a kid," I snap, louder now. "She still sleeps with the stupid nightlight I gave her. She's scared of the dark. She's scared of me, and now I'm supposed to believe she's next in line to die?"

The window behind me rattles. A picture frame on the mantel shatters.

"Clara," Dylan warns. "Breathe."

"Don't tell me to breathe!"

There's a sharp rush of pressure in the air, like a storm rolling in too fast, and I feel it breaking, like a thread pulled too tight in my chest.

And then—

"Hey."

His voice slices through everything.

Jake.

He moves quickly, faster than I can react, and suddenly his hand is closing around my wrist. Not harsh, but firm, grounding. His other hand rises slowly, like he's calming a wild animal.

"You're spiraling," he says, low and rough. "Pull it back."

I shake my head. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can."

His eyes lock onto mine. Green, unreadable, intense. And for a split second, the buzzing in my head dulls. The pressure softens.

"You think you're the only one scared?" he murmurs. "We're all cursed, Clara. But if you lose control every time someone says something real, you're gonna take us all down with you."

I flinch. His words are harsh, but it's the way he says them. Like a challenge. Like a tether.

My breathing stutters, shaky and uneven. I want to push him away. Want to scream. But his grip doesn't falter, and his eyes don't leave mine.

"You're not the only one who's powerful," he says. "But you are the only one who doesn't trust herself."

The fire behind him cracks and spits.

I swallow hard. "Why do you care?"

He's quiet for a beat. Something sharp flickers across his expression before he masks it.

"Because if you fall apart," he says, "she dies."

His words hit like ice water to the chest.

He lets go of my wrist, steps back just enough to break the contact. But the impression of his hand stays.

Jake turns away before I can speak, returning to the fireplace like the moment never happened.

Justine touches my arm gently. I nod, numb. Barely holding myself together.

Mrs Hallewell comes back into the room, bringing along with her a tray of cinnamon buns and hot chocolate. Filling the space with a sugary aroma.

"Sit down," She comes over to Justine and I, passing us some hot chocolate before kicking Tate in shin, waking him up. "Like I said earlier, you don't need to understand everything tonight."

Her hand finds my shoulder. The touch warm and gentle, motherly comfort I have long since forgotten.

I relax slightly, pushing the thoughts of Margot and what may become of her, into a neat little box in the back of my mind.

Because even though I hate to admit it, Jake is right. If I let my emotions get the better of me, her fate, my fate, are sealed.

"So, when did all your powers manifest?" The porcelain burns my palms, the pain a welcome distraction.

I see Jake tense by the fire, eyes hardening.

"Most of us don't remember," Tate says through a mouthful of food, earning a scowl from Justine's mum, "Especially for me, it was hard to figure out if it was the power or just my natural charm."

Justine throws a pillow at him.

"I was two," she mutters. "Mum said I bent the metal frame of my cot in my sleep."

Dylan adds, voice soft, "Mine started with dreams when I was little. I didn't realise they were vision until they started coming true."

They all look to Jake.

He doesn't move for a moment. Then, barely louder than the fire—

"Fourteen."

Just that. No explanation. No embellishment. Just the number, dropped like a stone into a silent lake.

Justine shifts awkwardly, Tate suddenly finds something fascinating about his mug, Dylan's watching Jake like he's trying to read hieroglyphics.

Fourteen.

I swallow, "That's... late."

Jake doesn't respond. He stares into the flames like he's waiting for them to answer for him.

I glance around the room. No one questions it. No one asks why. Which means they already know who vanished in order for the curse to jump to him.

But if the curse always chooses the youngest living relative...

Then why didn't it go to his sister? She's younger isn't she?

My mind snags on that fact, unsettled.

Jake was never supposed to be one of the cursed.

And yet, somehow, he is.

The fire crackles louder, like it wants to cover the silence that follows. No one speaks. Not even me.

But the question lodges deep, sharp and stubborn, and it doesn't let go.