Of Princes and Poisons (Book 2, The Culled Crown Series)

Chapter 3

At the contact, my ability leapt inside me, the heat of it pressing against my skin in eager anticipation of what I was about to do. Again, I hesitated. Up until I'd gone to the Culling, the fire I produced had been a secret. Even though it was now common knowledge, that old insecurity lingered in the pit of my stomach, an ever-present reminder that I was different—I was wrong.

I didn't want to show Callahan. I didn't know him and I didn't trust him anymore than he trusted me. I didn't understand what he was trying to do, what the point was, if there even was one.

Was this some sort of test?

There was the faint sound of boots crunching against gravel and I glanced behind me. He'd stepped closer and was now peering over my shoulder into the still cold firepit. Callahan sighed, his breath coming out in a puff of hot air.

"Hurry it up, kid. We've got other places to go."

I snapped my fingers, calling fire to my flesh. Heat blossomed warm and inviting against my skin. Behind me, Callahan cursed. I smiled and slid my hand along the closest log. I eased the fire forward, letting it leech into the dry wood and feast.

It had been days since I'd last conjured it and I'd missed it. I'd missed the easy comfort of it being so close—just an instant away. A week ago, I hadn't been ashamed of it. The fire in my blood and the mark on my skin had been things that would protect me, keep me alive when nothing else could.

Now things were different and I felt out of place. I was no longer different within a group of different people. I'd once again become strange. An anomaly. The shame I now felt wasn't something I knew how to easily dismiss, not when I'd tasted the shadow of acceptance.

When I was certain that the fire was strong enough to last on its own, I stood. Callahan stepped back to give me space and, for a second, we both just stood there looking at what I'd done. His hands were still in his pockets, but his hood had slid back just enough to give me a view of the surprise on his face. He was impressed with the smallest of actions. I wondered what he must have thought of my trial.

I turned and started walking further down the path. When he didn't move away from the fire pit, I turned to look at him over my shoulder. "I thought you said we had other places to go?" The words were sharp, a bit more confident now that I'd found some footing with him.

He nodded and hurried to catch up with me. We still didn't talk, and Callahan still stayed at least a yard away from me, but there was a different feel to the silence—a sort of quiet awe I hadn't expected from him.

My fire was so normal to me and had been treated so normally by everyone at the palace, that it was easy to forget that the majority of the world knew nothing about what I could do. To some people, I was little more than a children's story—a myth.

We walked to another fire pit and then another.

Callahan led me through camp, taking me past the mess hall, the medical tent, the soldier barracks, the officer's tents, the canteen, the makeshift refugee housing, and a small lean-to that served as a school. Even as the sun began to rise and more and more people stumbled out of their tents and into the bright morning sunshine, I continued to light the fires.

Callahan stayed next to me, his expression stoic and unchanging. He didn't flinch at the stares and whispers, and he didn't comment on it when I did. Soldiers hurried past us on their way to drills, their boots quickening at the sight of me and the fire that licked its way along my bare skin. Children on their way to the schoolhouse pointed and whispered about the "fire girl."

People huddled together and spoke in hushed voices as we passed and, although there were plenty of people staring and pointing at me, I got the feeling that the attention was also directed at Callahan. He never acknowledged anyone, didn't wave or nod good morning. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his gaze locked on the line of mountains that butted up against the campsite.