ARTHUR

THREE WEEKS LATER

Arthur sits before his daughter in the living room of their home. Fukashi is out. Arthur made sure he’d be out of the house for this conversation. Nora went with him for a special training session. They’d both leapt at the idea when Arthur had suggested it.

They don’t suspect a thing. At least, he hopes they don’t.

A week ago, the younger sister of Councillor General Ouida Arsenault randomly collapsed at school. Allegedly, she’s still in a coma. Her body and brain are functioning normally, according to Ouida, whom Arthur had visited to express sympathy. Ouida had been grateful to see him. Arthur had been greatly interested in the details of her sister’s condition. In the end, she thanked him for caring.

He had not cared, not truly, about the life of her sibling.

Arthur isn’t unaware of the relationship Sylvie shared with Nora. He keeps a close eye on his children, and he has done the math. Over the past few years, he’s done the math many times and come to an unsurprising conclusion.

His viciously curious daughter is keeping a secret from him, or at least she thinks she is. And now she’s caught.

If she were a normal child, part of a normal family, she would bow her head and look contrite, but that’s not who she is. She rebelliously holds his gaze, unashamed of what she’s obviously done.

“When was the first time?” he asks her in an even tone. He won’t scold her. He’s not angry, after all.

She lifts her chin higher. “Shortly after we moved here. I tried it on Nora.”

So young still, yet so well spoken and clever to boot.

Cores, he’s proud of her.

“Any backlash?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

Ah, so it’s sir now. She must really think she’s in trouble.

“How many times since?”

She shrugs. “I don’t keep count.”

“Was Sylvie the worst of it?”

She takes a while to answer, finally nodding.

“Was this the intended outcome?”

Another nod.

“Why?”

Her little nose crinkles. It’s adorable. “She hurt Nora, and she said bad things about our family.”

This riles something in Arthur. He understands her anger. He feels it too, swelling within his chest. This easy rage is part of what they are, and as often as he’s urged her to control it, he also understands why she occasionally chooses fury over logic.

They are firecores. They protect their own. It is an inherent urge.

“You damaged her core,” Arthur says. “You shattered her essence. Even if Sylvie wakes up, she will be lucky to remember her own name, much less her sister’s or Nora’s.”

He knows it well. He’s been practicing too after all.

“I’m not sorry,” Cel snaps, though her voice wavers.

“Don’t be,” he tells her, making her eyes widen with shock. “But keep this a secret from Nora and Fukashi.”

“Nora knows that I can…” She waves a hand. “You know. But she hasn’t guessed about Sylvie.”

“She’s blinded by grief, Little General. I love Nora, but she’s a very emotional person. We are driven by different factors.” He taps his fingers against the soft arm of his chair. “From now on, you and I shall incorporate more of this ability into our lessons, but we must be subtle about it. Fukashi is adamant you shouldn’t know how to do this.”

“Well it’s too late,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’m not good at controlling my fire, but controlling people is easy.”

Arthur thinks of their poolside lessons warily. She’s improved over the years, but progress is slow. He’s spent more time teaching her to withhold her temper than her fire, though the two aren’t unrelated. Fury kindles fire; fire kindles fury. The most Cel can do without losing her temper and going full wildfire is draw flames to one hand...and not for long.

“You’ll need this one day...to lead the Nightburners. Though Cel, this is our dearest secret. More than anything else, no one can know that we can get into their heads.”

Into their cores, technically. But she understands his meaning. It’s their fire-laden voices that allow them control, alongside the intent in their commands, but the effect is essentially corical, not mental, even if it acts that way.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says seriously.

“We have some time now. May as well use it.” He gets up from his chair and crosses the room to tug her to her feet. He squeezes her fingers gently as they head out to the poolside, appreciative of the heat emanating off her skin. There is such fire in her, rippling through her limbs. It tugs at his own core, like recognizing like. The sensation reminds him of the childhood years he spent with his mother and makes him ache for her absence.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Cel says softly, smiling in that way she only ever does for him.

He smiles back. “You never have to thank me, my dear Celosia.”

*

END OF FORMATIVE YEARS