Growing up I was told breathing fire did not make me special.
I was told nothing lay beyond our walled garden worth seeing, that intruders deserved only death. The firemoon, as my father called it, shone overhead, lighting runes etched into stone walls that he claimed kept evil out. Our family, our home, our rules—that was all I was meant to know.
The Wyrd Interlude:
In a wyrd realm, a garden stands walled and rune-bound, its caretakers weaving gentle lies into the minds they rear. Flames breathe without command, truths linger behind illusions, and destinies wait to be unmasked. Here, fear and comfort share the same soil, and a child’s questions press against stone boundaries. This—is wyrd fiction.
It was on the first night of summer, Sumarsdag, of my fourteenth year that I learned the truth.
At dinner, the five of us ate as usual: myself, my father, and my three sisters. Afterward, my father sent the girls to water the ‘night-breed,’ a peculiar crop that thrived only in moonlight. I offered to help, but he insisted I stay. He was pleased with my sisters’ compliance. I remember how he smiled at them, then took me aside to his library.
There was a cold draft in that room, and a whistle in the chimney. My father wrapped a blanket around himself and said, “Warm it up.” I breathed fire as he’d taught me, and a spark caught the tinder. We sat before the crackling flames, his skin looking more withered than ever. He’d been aging rapidly these past months, greying and stooping as if time pressed heavily on him.
“I’m dying,” he said, eyes on the embers.
“Don’t speak like—” I began, but he raised a hand to silence me. I’d seen that gesture a thousand times.
“Don’t speak,” he repeated softly. “I know I haven’t been the best father. I know you wonder about the world outside. About why I vanish for weeks. About these walls and their runes.” He paused, listening to the night’s hush. “Half of what you know is fiction. And once I tell you the truth, there’s no magic that can wash it from your mind.”
My heart tightened. I stayed quiet, as he had taught me. When you know the least, listen the most.
“You aren’t my bloodborn,” he said, voice low. “Nor are your sisters. Men don’t breathe fire. I can cast flame, sure, but you… you create it. You’re one of a kind.” He almost smiled. “I am a garden keeper, of sorts. I’ve tended many such gardens over many years. The runes, the plants, the walls—this is a carefully crafted illusion.”
I felt tears at the edges of my eyes but held them back. “Why tell me now?”
“Because I am dying. A debt is owed for my longevity and power. And they will come to collect. Demons.” He said it so plainly, as if discussing the weather.
“Demons?” My voice cracked.
He nodded. “I’ve done this many times. I find expecting parents with problems—an illness, a desperate need—and I promise a cure if they give me their unborn child. I feed the mother magic vegetation, changing the baby in unexpected ways. That’s how I got you. How I got your sisters. All of this—” he swept a hand at the garden beyond the wall, “—is staged. I needed your fire, your uniqueness. But now I’m weak. They come for payment.”
Confusion crushed me. My legs numbed. My father—no, this stranger—was proud of his con. He mentioned “magic cabbages” and “harvested children” as though it were a clever trick. I stared at him, tears now rolling freely.
“You’re the first child to have magic of your own,” he mused. “That puzzles me. Perhaps that’s why I feel something for you. A mirror of myself, or maybe I’m just old and sentimental.” He coughed. “If we had more time, I’d explain better. Ask quickly.”
“Why?” I blurted. “Why do all this?”
“For power,” he shrugged. “For life extended beyond natural bounds. Your sisters—everyone before—used and eventually discarded. Now the debt calls. They want pure souls. Young ones.”
I wanted to stand, to run, but my body wouldn’t move. Night wind howled. Screams pierced the silence—my sisters’ voices twisting into terror. A black mist leaked under the door, the sound of demon shrieks filling my ears. I drew a blade instinctively, but my father raised a palm and froze me in place.
The door blasted inward. The whirlwind of shadows took form: horned, transparent wraiths hungering for life. My father huffed, “You got three pure,” he told them. “Two souls owed, and one down payment.” His hair darkened, wrinkles fading as he spoke. His spine straightened, youth flooding back into his limbs. The garden’s keeper renewed himself with their lives.
“If we meet again,” said the young man who once called himself my father, “remember I gave you freedom.”
He waved a hand, and icy darkness engulfed me. In an instant, I broke through a cold surface into rushing river water.
Cold and soaked, I hauled myself onto the riverbank, coughing out bitter water beneath unfamiliar stars. The garden was gone—no rune-marked walls, no sisters’ laughter, no father’s commanding voice. Only me, alone and confused, kneeling under a moon whose light felt different now.
My limbs shivered from more than the chill. Fear and grief coiled tight in my chest, and I tried to summon the comfort of warmth. Since infancy, I’d conjured flame, always to serve his will. Now, there were no orders, only my own needs.
I inhaled. Usually a quick exhale and spark of intent would conjure orange lashes of heat. This time, I released a breath both hesitant and hopeful—smoke curled in my nostrils, then flame leapt forth, brighter than I remembered. Its hue held a slight, uncanny blue, as if the moonlight itself had tangled in the fire’s heart. It burned hotter, steadier. Before, I’d only ever conjured what I’d been taught was normal. Now I stood, dripping and barefoot, and found I could shape it—a gentle roar, a flicker along my fingertips.
Here I was, beyond the prison of illusion, still breathing fire—my own fire. A magic unbound by rules, untainted by his purpose.
I closed my hand, extinguishing the flames, feeling the warmth lingering in my palm. My sisters were gone, their screams a haunting echo. The man who raised me had shed his final mask and vanished into youth and shadow, left me adrift. But I still lived.
I took a step away from the river, my footprints pressing into unknown soil. No runes guarded me, no walls defined my horizon. Ahead lay forests, plains, mountains I had never seen.
I had reasons to return, questions to ask, revenge to take… but not yet.
I tilted my head up, letting the moon’s glow settle over me. In that quiet moment, the air tasted of unseen wonders. I swallowed hard, feeling a sting of apprehension, then inhaled deeply.
I conjured a flame that danced with subtle blues, a promise woven into its glow. I had no idea where I would go next, but I knew I would keep moving forward. Understanding could wait. For now, this new flame would light the path.
The Wyrd Curtain:
When old masks crumble and stolen futures slip from calloused hands, the path opens toward uncertain promise. Lost kin and broken vows softens, yielding a quiet where truth can find its voice—and Wyrd Worlds yet await.