Fyra (First Draft)

Sixteen

Thoughts swirled around Cirian's head at a rapid rate, questioning and denying what had just happened. His eyes widened in shock, still processing not only that there had been an open attempt at his life, but how he had survived it.

Fyra stood feet away, hair tousled and cheeks flushed. A wild determination was set in her gaze, and she looked as if she would burn the world in a thought. Somehow, it seemed fitting that she had a literal fire inside of her.

The hue of the flame matched her hair as it flew from her fingertips, engulfing the deadly ice and burning bright blue before they faded. 

Symbols of her magic decorated her right wrist, and on the other...

Chills ran down his spine when he recognized the brand that marred her skin in a no doubt painful scar. The Acerian crest. She had once been, or was still, a slave.

He hated that she hadn't told the truth, but couldn't blame her, feeling that the fault was rooted in himself rather than her. She hadn't thought him trustworthy enough to tell. He respected that, and understood her reasons for holding onto her secrets. He was the son of the man who persecuted those like her. The very pinnacle of everything she should hate, should burn to the ground with the fire inside of her. She probably believed he hated magic as much as the king.

If he had known of her gifts he could have told her why he saved her in the first place. How in attempt to solidify his sons character, his father had forced him to watch as children his age were drowned, burned, or hanged. He had heard their screams, and they rattled him to the core. Opposite of his intention, King Henry had only made him want to reach out to what people called "abominations". He had been physically restrained when he had tried to save others then, and Cirian had vowed not to let anything like that happen again if it was in his power to prevent it. He would not ignore the cries he could hear.

While fear had overtaken him in the moments the arrow was consumed, he was not as struck by the revelation of her power as some would be.

No matter what strange magic she was gifted with, underneath all the secrets that stung, was Fyra. The girl who's stubbornness was balanced by her kindness, the girl who didn't let her pain hold back her smile. The girl who was still a mystery, despite the feeling he knew her well.

She looked away, a pained expression decorating her face. Before he could stop her, she ran into the hall. He stood for a moment, unable to put one foot in front of the other.

As Fyra rushed out the doors into the hall, he finally found himself, and ran after, despite the uproar and chaos caused by confused nobles. Awe mixed with a dash of fear filled him as he looked down at the footprints she had seared into the ground.

Urgency filled him like water a glass, and he sped up, hoping that Fyra did nothing rash. If she ran into the wrong person, or attempted to flee, he would have no way to stop her from being crushed by the prejudice of those who hated her for her gifts.

She didn't look back as he followed her from a distance, unable to cry her name. She rounded a corner, and by the time Cirian reached it, she was far across the hall, and someone, swathed in darkness, stepped out of the shadows.

The two figures stared at each other, no words passing between them, and Cirian didn't dare move. Before the man, who Cirian recognized as Athan, the soldier, could find the words to fill his opening mouth, she slapped him with more force he would have believed she could muster, if he hadn't seen the same arm hurl objects across the room when her temper rose.

Foolish words fell from his lips, a weak attempt at humor, and Cirian wanted to shake his head at his stupidity. Could he not see how her shoulders shook ever so slightly, how her hands turned white as she clenched them tighter at her sides? Cirian didn't need to be told that Athan, however he may have know her, had hurt her deeply.

"Leave me alone." Her voice was heavy with unspoken pain and emotion, and though he couldn't see from afar, he knew tears lined her eyes. She stalked off, making a right at the end of the hall, still not looking back, and Athan, who seemed like a different man from the one who had bested him at swordplay, stared after her, unmoving.

At least he wasn't foolish enough to follow her. She looked almost as if she was holding herself back from tearing him apart with her flames.

Not knowing if he should follow after her, he didn't move as Athan looked his way, registering that Cirian had seen the exchange. He didn't say a word, but a bitter smile rose to his face. He turned in the direction Fyra had went, but branched away from the ash footprints that marked her path, leaving Cirian to wonder if he should follow the girl who wove flame with her fingertips.

A/N: Quick Question: Should I put this chapter before the previous one or does it work where it is?

Also: What do you think Athan and Fyra's relationship was like? Romantic? Platonic? Sibling?

Thanks for reading; don't forget to vote! <3