Chapter 23. Ghosts of the First Life

Stormfang’s sky was gray with low clouds, thick enough to muffle the sun.

All morning, the air tasted like snow. Neriah felt it in the aching pull of her bones and the restless jitter of the flame beneath her skin. She walked the ridge trail alone, boots squelching through mud, the cold wind combing through her white-blonde hair and biting her cheeks until they stung. Each step was careful, deliberate—she needed the rhythm, the illusion of order. Out here, it was only her breath, the scent of pine and rot, the quiet watchfulness of the forest.

She’d returned from training changed. Calmer. Sharper. The flame inside her had stopped lashing out at every slight, now purring beneath her skin, a sleeping creature that might stir at any wrong step. She wondered if this was what growing up was supposed to feel like: not peace, but a constant negotiation between what you wanted to do and what you knew you must never, ever do.

But the past hadn’t changed with her. It was wai