The wind in the Ashlands had teeth. It gnawed at the frayed edges of Violet’s cloak, a bitter, scouring thing that carried the ghosts of a thousand fires. Here, on the edge of the known world, the sky was a permanent bruise of bruised purple and sullen grey, and the ground was a carpet of soot that had long since choked the life from the soil. Violet had been born to this world of grit and whispers, a place where the past was a raw, unhealing wound.

She kept her head down, her eyes fixed on the treacherous path of cracked flagstones that served as the main thoroughfare of Dusthaven. It wasn’t a town so much as a scar, a collection of leaning, ramshackle buildings cobbled together from the bones of a dead city. The people were much the same—hollowed-out, wary, their faces smudged with the same grime that coated everything. They were survivors, and survival in the Ashlands meant minding your own business. Violet was better at it than most.

Her destination was the Gilded Cage, a tavern that was Dusthaven’s closest thing to a beating heart. Its proprietor, a hulking man named Borin, paid her a few coppers to clear tables and listen to the drunken ramblings of prospectors and traders who thought the Ashlands still had something left to give. It was a miserable job, but it kept a roof over her head and a thin, watery stew in her belly.

As she pushed through the heavy, creaking door, a wave of noise and heat washed over her. The air was thick with the smell of stale ale, sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like old blood. A cheer went up from a corner table where a group of men were arm-wrestling, their faces flushed with drink and exertion. Violet ignored them, her gaze sweeping the room until it landed on Borin, who was polishing a mug with a rag that looked as grey as everything else in their world.

“You’re late,” he grunted, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t look up.

“The wind’s up,” Violet said, pulling her hood back. Her hair, the color of spun copper, was a stark contrast to the muted tones of the tavern. It was the one thing about her that seemed alive, and she often kept it hidden.

Borin grunted again, a sound of grudging acceptance. “Table in the back. Some lordling’s retinue. Don’t dawdle.”

Violet’s stomach tightened. Lordlings meant trouble. They came from the Verdant Lands, the protected heart of the kingdom, where the ash hadn’t fallen. They saw the Ashlands as a place of grim romance, a playground for their entitled games of hunting and exploration. They never stayed long, but they always left a mess.

The table was tucked away in a shadowed alcove, occupied by three men in fine, dark leather that was ridiculously out of place in Dusthaven. Two were soldiers, broad-shouldered and armed, their eyes restlessly scanning the room with a mixture of boredom and contempt. The third was slender and pale, with hair the color of a raven’s wing and eyes so dark they seemed to drink the light. He wore no armor, but a silver signet ring on his finger glinted in the lamplight. He was the lordling.

Violet approached cautiously, her hands empty. “My lord. Can I get you anything?”

The lordling’s dark eyes flickered over her, a slow, appraising look that made her skin crawl. A faint, cruel smile touched his lips. “More wine. And something for my men to eat. Whatever carrion you serve in this hovel.”

Violet’s jaw tightened, but she kept her expression neutral. “Right away, my lord.”

She turned to leave, but his voice, soft and sharp as a shard of obsidian, stopped her. “And girl,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Look at me when I speak to you.”

Slowly, she turned back and met his gaze. It was a mistake. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the tavern faded to a dull roar, and the air crackled with a strange energy. The lordling’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and his smile vanished. He saw something in her, something she didn’t even understand herself. It was a flicker, a spark in the depths of her gaze that mirrored the embers she sometimes felt smoldering in her veins.

A sudden, searing heat flared in her chest, a familiar and terrifying sensation she had spent her life suppressing. It was a wild, untamable thing, a fire that wanted to be free. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, forcing it down, smothering it before it could take hold. The moment passed. The tavern sounds rushed back in, and the lordling was just a man at a table again, though his expression was now one of wary curiosity.

“Get the wine,” he said, his voice clipped.

Shaken, Violet fled to the relative safety of the bar. Borin shot her a questioning look, but she just shook her head and grabbed a dusty bottle and three bowls. Her hands trembled as she filled them with stew. What had just happened? That connection, that jolt of recognition in the lordling’s eyes… it was new. The fire inside her was an old enemy, a secret shame. No one had ever seen it before.

She delivered the food and wine, her eyes fixed on the floor, and retreated to the far side of the room, where she began clearing empty mugs from a table. She tried to lose herself in the mindless work, but she could feel the lordling’s gaze on her, a physical weight on her skin.

Later, as the evening wore on, the tavern grew rowdier. A fight broke out near the hearth, and Borin waded in to break it up. It was the distraction the lordling’s men had apparently been waiting for. They cornered her near the kitchens, their bodies blocking her escape.

“The master wants a word,” one of them sneered, his breath sour with ale. “He’s taken a fancy to your hair.”

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of her anxiety. This was the mess the lordlings always left. She had seen it before, girls with haunted eyes and bruised arms who disappeared from Dusthaven the morning after a lordling’s visit.

“I’m busy,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The second soldier laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Not anymore.” He reached for her arm.

Panic flared, hot and bright, and with it, the fire. This time, it was different. It didn’t just smolder; it roared. It surged up from the depths of her, a tidal wave of heat and power. She didn’t think, she just reacted. As the soldier’s fingers brushed her sleeve, a gout of white-hot flame erupted from her hand.

It wasn’t a large flame, no bigger than her fist, but it was intensely bright and searingly hot. The soldier screamed, snatching his hand back, his leather glove smoking and scorched. The other soldier stared, his mouth agape, his bravado evaporating in the face of impossible magic.

The tavern fell silent. Every eye was on her. Borin stood frozen mid-swing, the brawlers forgotten. The lordling was on his feet, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else… hunger.

Violet stared at her own hand, at the faint wisps of smoke curling from her fingertips. The fire was gone, but the feel of it, the exhilarating, terrifying power of it, still thrummed through her. She had done it. After years of hiding, of fighting it, she had let it out.

And she had just signed her own death warrant.