Chapter 130: Special - 3 - Maelin’s Life

The morning after her restless night, Maelin slipped out of the house before the sun fully rose. The village still slumbered, smoke just beginning to rise from a few chimneys. She carried no basket, no tools, nothing that would explain where she was going. Only her secret burned in her chest, urging her toward the dark slopes beyond the edge of the village.

The path to the volcano wound between hardened rivers of black rock, cracked and sharp like frozen waves. Thin streams of steam hissed through fissures, carrying the scent of sulfur and earth. The closer she walked, the warmer the ground became, until it buzzed through her feet like a hidden heartbeat.

Maelin finally stopped at a small hollow sheltered by jagged stones. Here the land was quiet, save for the occasional pop of steam. She glanced around to make sure no one had followed. The village roofs were far behind, barely visible through the haze. She grinned, excitement buzzing in her veins.

"Perfect," she whispered, dropping to sit cross-legged on the warm stone.

Her hands trembled as she lifted them in front of her. Last night’s spark still lingered in her mind—the thrill, the glow, the warmth. She wanted to feel it again. She needed to.

"Alright," she muttered, trying to sound serious though her smile betrayed her. "Just... flame. Come on." She spread her fingers wide, then clenched them into a fist. Nothing. Only the wind hissing through the cracks.

She tried again, this time narrowing her eyes, furrowing her brow as if forcing the fire out with sheer will. Her face reddened, her teeth clenched... but her palm remained empty.

Maelin let out a loud groan and flopped backward against the rock. "Ugh! Come on! I know you’re in there!" Her laughter burst out right after her frustration, echoing off the stones. Even failure couldn’t dampen her energy for long.

She sat up quickly, bouncing back onto her knees. "Okay, again!" She pressed her palms together, imagining the heat of the volcano rising into her hands, filling her veins. She whispered, "Flame. Fire. Light."

A faint warmth stirred. She gasped, staring hard at her palms. For an instant, there it was—the tiniest flicker of orange, gone as quickly as it came.

"Yes! I saw it! I knew it!" She hopped to her feet, spinning in a circle in pure excitement before dropping down again to try once more.

Time passed in bursts of effort. Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes a shimmer of light flickered and died. But each time, Maelin grew more determined, more curious. She shifted her posture, tried holding her hands high, then low, tried clapping them together, even tried shouting at them.

At last, when her arms ached and her voice was hoarse from laughing at herself, it happened. A flame the size of her thumb blossomed in her palm. Not fleeting, not faint but a steady, living fire, dancing and alive.

Her breath caught. She cradled it, staring with wide eyes. The fire didn’t burn her; it tickled, warm and comforting, like holding a piece of the sun itself. Her whole body thrummed with joy.

"I did it," she whispered, then shouted, "I DID IT!" Her laughter rang out, bright and wild, echoing across the rocks. She spun in circles with the fire dancing in her hand, as though she had caught a star.

Only when the flame faded, leaving only a curl of smoke, did she sink back onto the warm ground, panting and smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. "This is mine," she whispered to the sky, to the mountain, to herself. "This is me."

The volcano loomed above her, silent but glowing faintly red at its peaks. For the first time in her life, Maelin felt that the land was not just her home, it was her kin.

Over the next several days, Maelin made excuses to slip away from home. Sometimes she told her mother she was gathering herbs. Other times she claimed she was fetching water from the deeper wells, where the springs bubbled warm from the mountain’s belly. In truth, she always ended up at her secret hollow of black stone and steam.

The place became her second home. She even gave it a name—"Fire’s Nest"—because the rocks there seemed to hum with a rhythm that matched her own heartbeat.

Each day, she experimented. At first, the fire only came as a spark, a stubborn flicker that teased her before vanishing. She laughed at her failures, scolding her hands as though they were naughty children.

"Don’t fizzle out on me! We’re supposed to be a team!"

Her laughter echoed in the steaming cracks, a sound far too bright for such a scorched, lonely place.

But slowly, with each attempt, the sparks grew into flames that lasted longer. Sometimes she held a steady fire the size of a candle, sometimes a flame that licked up her wrist like a hungry tongue.

Once, she got too excited and clapped her hands together while the flame still burned. The burst of heat singed her eyebrow and sent her tumbling backward into the ash. She lay there, coughing and laughing so hard tears ran down her cheeks.

"Okay, okay, note to self: don’t squash fire."

Another day, she tried throwing the flame, imagining it leaping like a stone tossed across a pond. The first time, it fizzled mid-air. The second time, it smacked against a rock and sputtered into smoke. By the fifth attempt, the flame actually stuck, scorching a black mark onto the stone. She squealed so loud she startled a flock of birds into the air.

Each discovery, each failure, fueled her more. She was tireless. Even when her arms ached and her fingers tingled with exhaustion, she felt more alive than ever before.

But Maelin was not careless. She knew the village could never see her practicing, not yet. So before returning home, she always rubbed dirt on her palms to hide the warmth still clinging to her skin, always washed her face in the hot springs to mask her soot-smudged cheeks.

At night, when her siblings asked why she looked so tired, she just shrugged. "Ran around too much," she’d say with a grin. And they believed her, because Maelin always ran around too much.

Still, she couldn’t hide the glow in her eyes. It wasn’t just the fire she was learning to hold in her hands, it was something brighter, something she carried inside her.

And though she didn’t say it aloud, each time she looked up at the looming volcano, she whispered to herself:

I belong to the fire. And the fire belongs to me.

Two weeks had passed since Maelin’s fire had first leapt to life in the village square. Life in the village had returned to its rhythm, fathers to their work, mothers to their crafts, children chasing coin and chores, but under the surface, something had shifted. Whenever Maelin walked through the streets, she caught whispers. Some people smiled at her with pride, others with unease. The elder’s calming words had kept fear at bay, but curiosity hung thick in the air.

Then, one warm afternoon, a stranger came.

The emissary arrived on a horse the color of ash, cloaked in robes woven with symbols that shimmered faintly in the sun. His presence alone drew eyes; the villagers gathered as he dismounted before the elder’s house. His face was kind, his smile easy, but there was something about him, an air of strength like the hum of the earth before a storm.

Maelin, crouched on a fence rail, watched as Elder Thoren greeted him. She couldn’t hear all their words, but she saw the way the emissary bowed his head respectfully, the way the elder’s eyes softened with relief. Whatever they were discussing, she knew it was about her.

By evening, her suspicion was confirmed.

The emissary, guided by the elder, came to her family’s home. Her brothers crowded at the doorway, her sisters pressed together on the bench, her mother set aside her weaving, and her father returned early from work, face lined with curiosity and worry. Maelin stood in the center of it all, her hair like fire in the fading light, heart beating faster than ever.

The emissary bowed lightly to her parents before speaking. His voice was smooth and warm, carrying both confidence and gentleness.

"My name is Seran Valis," he said. "I come on behalf of the Sanctum of Elements. Word has reached us that your daughter carries the gift of flame." His gaze shifted to Maelin, eyes kind but piercing. "Such gifts are rare, and precious. The Sanctum is a place where she can learn to master it, grow stronger, and remain safe from dangers she cannot yet imagine. Grandmaster Elion himself oversees the training of those chosen."

Maelin’s father’s brows furrowed. "Safe? Do you mean she is in danger here?"

"Not yet," Seran replied gently. "But fire is not a tame companion. It can protect, it can destroy. Without guidance, it often turns against its bearer. At the Sanctum, Maelin will not only be taught control, she will be given the chance to rise to her full potential."

Her mother’s hands trembled as she clasped them together. "And she must go? Now?"

Seran shook his head. "Nothing will be forced. She may take with her only what she wishes. She may decide freely. I offer the invitation, not a command."

The room was heavy with silence. Maelin’s siblings stared at her with wide eyes. Her little brother tugged at her sleeve, whispering, "Does this mean you’ll be leaving us?"

Maelin’s smile wavered. She looked at her family, at their faces lit by the flickering hearth. Pride, sadness, fear, and wonder all mingled in their expressions. She felt both enormous and impossibly small in that moment.

"I..." she began, then bit her lip. Her usual bubbly words failed her. She forced a grin, though her eyes burned. "I think I need to talk to my family more before I can decide."

Seran inclined his head, as if he’d expected this. "Of course. You will have one day to decide. By tomorrow evening, I will await your answer." He bowed once more to her parents. "Thank you for welcoming me. Elder Thoren has offered me lodging in the village hall. Until then, I wish you peace."

With that, he and the elder withdrew, leaving the family cloaked in silence again.

Maelin’s heart thumped like a drum. She had dreamed of adventure, of fire, of being more than just a village girl with a restless smile. And now, suddenly, it was within reach. But looking at her family, their warm, worn faces, she wondered what it would cost.