Emery's Ashes
“Careful, child," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones, barely audible over the hiss of the wash and the rhythmic slap of water.
Emery paused, her hands still. "Careful of what?"
The old man stepped closer, his eyes, dark and piercing, finally meeting hers. They held a strange depth, ancient and knowing. "Of the palace. Of what lurks here." He glanced over his shoulder, a swift, almost imperceptible movement, as if ensuring they were alone. "The King... he seeks to snuff out all light. All difference."
Emery's blood ran cold. She knew what he meant. The white magic.
"Your emotions, child," he continued, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, "they are seen. They are felt. Especially now. The walls have ears, and the shadows have eyes, placed there by the King's own hand. Evils lurk, seeking any sign of defiance, any flicker of what they tried to destroy."
He took another step closer, his eyes intense. "You carry something precious, something dangerous. Keep it hidden. Control your fear, your anger, your sorrow. Let no one see the flame within. For if they do..." He paused, his gaze hardening. "The King will finish what he started."
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he turned and melted back into the fading light and the rising steam, leaving Emery alone in the humid silence of the washhouse. Her breath hitched. The old man knew. He knew about her. He knew about the magic.
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Emery, without any helping hands, must brave the storm that gets to her. She wonders why she must live up to a cruel fate, despite being an orphan. Or so she thought.