Chapter 2 - Uncontrolled

"Spontaneous combustion incidents among civilians remain statistically negligible. No correlation with genetic markers has been established. Testing continues."

�" Authority Medical Research Division, Annual Summary 214 ANW

The dream came with heat.

 

Lavender stood in a field she didn't recognize, surrounded by tall grass that swayed without wind. The sky above held no color. Grey pressed down from horizon to horizon, flat and featureless.

 

The grass caught fire.

 

It started at the edges of her vision, orange tongues licking up the stalks, spreading inward with terrible patience. She tried to move. Her legs refused. The fire crept closer, smoke rising in thin spirals that tasted like copper on her tongue.

 

She looked down at her hands.

 

Light pulsed beneath her skin. Red and gold, tracing the lines of her veins, climbing her wrists toward her elbows. Heat built in her chest, pressure behind her ribs that demanded release. The fire in the grass reached her feet. Climbed her boots. Wrapped her calves.

 

She opened her mouth to scream.

 

The heat erupted outward.

 

Lavender woke with her hands already raised, palms turned toward the ceiling. Light flickered between her fingers, orange and unstable, casting wild shadows across the hut's walls. The blankets smoldered beneath her. Smoke rose from the wool.

 

She clamped down.

 

The effort sent pain lancing through her skull, a spike driven between her eyes. The light guttered, flickered, died. Darkness crashed back. Her hands trembled in front of her face, shaking so hard her wrists ached.

 

The blankets still smoked.

 

She threw them off, kicking free of the singed wool, and scrambled to her feet. Cold air hit her sweat-damp skin and raised goosebumps along her arms. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

 

Brute lifted his head from his place by the dying fire. His eyes reflected the embers, twin points of amber in the dark.

 

"I'm fine." The words came out cracked. Hollow.

 

The dog didn't move. He watched her the way he always watched when the magic surfaced: calm, patient, unafraid.

 

Lavender crossed to the water bucket and plunged her hands in. Ice-cold liquid closed over her wrists. Steam hissed up. Her skin still burned, phantom heat that had nothing to do with temperature. She held her hands under until the burning faded, until her fingers went numb, until she could breathe without her chest hitching.

 

The dreams were getting worse.

 

Three years of hiding. Three years of clamping down, of burying the heat before it could surface, of learning to recognize the warning signs and strangle them in their cradle. The magic had always been there, sleeping beneath her skin like coals banked in ash. But lately it stirred more often. Burned hotter. Pushed harder against the walls she'd built.

 

She pulled her hands from the water and pressed them against her face. Cold dripped down her wrists, soaked into the collar of her shirt. Her pulse still raced.

 

The first time the magic surfaced, she'd been twelve years old. A boy in the Market had grabbed her, hand closing around her wrist, trying to steal the rabbit she'd just traded for. Heat had exploded outward. The boy had screamed. The skin of his palm had blistered and peeled before he could let go.

 

Her father had gotten her out of there before anyone could identify her. They'd stayed away from the Market for two seasons, hunting and foraging in the deep Barrens until the rumors faded.

 

He'd taught her to hide it after that. To recognize the warmth before it built to heat. To breathe through the pressure, to visualize walls and barriers and boxes with locks. The techniques worked. Mostly. When she was awake and alert and paying attention.

 

Sleep was another matter.

 

Lavender lowered her hands and stared at her palms. The skin looked normal. No burns, no blisters, no evidence of what had almost happened. She curled her fingers into fists.

 

Brute rose from his spot by the fire and padded across the floor. His warmth pressed against her legs as he leaned into her, solid and steady. She dropped one hand to his head, fingers finding the familiar groove behind his ear.

 

"One of these nights, I'm going to burn this place down with both of us inside."

 

The dog's tail swept once across the floor. A slow wag. Unconcerned.

 

"You should be afraid of me."

 

He tilted his head, looking up at her with eyes that held no fear. The scar on his chest caught the faint light from the embers. A pale line against dark fur.

 

Lavender sank to the floor beside him. Her back found the wall, rough stucco scraping through her shirt. Brute settled against her side, his bulk a warm weight that anchored her to the present. The trembling in her hands began to ease.

 

Outside, wind moaned around the corners of the hut. Hiemal's cold pressed against the walls, patient and eternal. The fire had burned down to coals, barely enough heat to keep the room above freezing. She should rebuild it. Should add wood, stoke the flames back to life.

 

She couldn't make herself move toward the hearth.

 

The Authority had detection equipment. She'd never seen it herself, but the traders at the Market whispered about it. Devices that could sense magic signatures from miles away. Patrols that swept the Barrens quarterly, hunting for manifestations. The equipment picked up large flares, the traders said. Sustained use. Anything big enough to be dangerous.

 

A woman burning alive in her sleep would probably qualify.

 

The camps waited for magic users who got caught. No one talked about what happened there, but no one ever came back. Lavender had met a woman once, years ago, who'd escaped before they could process her. She'd been missing three fingers and walked with a limp that suggested damage beyond the physical. She'd warned Lavender's father about the signs.

 

Detection squads travel in pairs. Black fatigues, black armor. They don't arrest you in public. They take you somewhere quiet first.

 

The woman had disappeared two weeks later. Authority patrol, the traders said. Recaptured.

 

Lavender closed her eyes. Her head fell back against the wall. The cold seeped through her skull, grounding her, pulling her back from the edge of panic.

 

Three years of hiding. Three years of close calls and near misses and waking up gasping while smoke rose from her bedding. The magic wasn't getting better with time. The walls she'd built weren't growing stronger.

 

They were crumbling.

 

Brute's weight shifted against her. He settled his head on her thigh, a warm pressure that demanded nothing. His breathing slowed into the easy rhythm of sleep. Trusting. Untroubled.

 

"How can you sleep?" The words barely rose above a whisper. "I could have killed us both."

 

The dog's ear twitched. He didn't wake.

 

Lavender sat in the dark with her hands pressed flat against the cold floor and waited for dawn. Sleep wouldn't come again tonight. The fear was too fresh, too sharp, lodged beneath her ribs like a splinter she couldn't dig out.

 

The magic pulsed in her chest, quiet now, dormant. Waiting.

 

She pressed her palms harder against the floor and felt the cold seep into her bones.

 

It would have to be enough.