Finally, when Aurora had told enough of her tale that she decided it was time to hammer home the truth to her mother, to prove once and for all that she would never be the perfect Stormling princess her mother had always desired, she began to unfasten the vest that hid her secret. She laid herself bare in front of her mother, presenting her truth with the light that beat in her breast.

“You see, when I took my first Stormheart, it did not happen for me like the others. The emotions I had been experiencing, the violent bursts when storms were near, they were unintentional uses of spirit magic. The old tribes were right. It is unrestful souls of the dead that truly lie at the heart of a storm, and somehow because I have a natural connection both to souls and to storms, I took the storm’s heart, the lost soul, into myself instead of gaining a talisman for use with magic.”

Aurora’s mother looked at her in wonderment and confusion. She reached out a finger, hesitating before she reached the skin where skyfire streaked underneath. “Does it hurt?” her mother asked.

“Not anymore.”

Her mother’s eyes lifted to hers. “But it did.”

Aurora shrugged. “I took another soul into my own. That kind of conquering comes at a cost.”

“But what does it mean?” Aurora’s mother asked, gesturing at the phenomenon in front of her.

Rora hesitated, unsure how her mother would react to the next piece of news. “You remember what I told you of the Stormlord? How he is said to have the ability to conjure storms at his bidding?”

The queen nodded. “I am still not sure I believe it. He is probably another one of those hunters, using fear to intimidate in my absence.”

“He is not a hunter, Mother.” Aurora flexed her fingers, trying to summon the same feeling of urgency she had felt in the palace when she had shocked the maid into giving them answers. At first, she only got a tiny spark, then the hair on her arms began to stand on end, and bright white light shot from the tip of her forefinger to her thumb in one strong, steady bolt. A few smaller branches arced around her fingers, zigzagging back and forth with a series of crackling pops. “He can call storms, Mother. As can I.”

To rule fire was to be the mediator of all magics—the closest thing to the law in days of endless chaos.

—An Examination of the Original Magics

15

The bed was on fire.