“Oh my. Someone isn’t in good shape,” she says, clicking her tongue as she steps toward me. The train of her black gown has caught fire, dragging flames behind her with every step she takes, but she doesn’t seem concerned by it. “Are you tired?” she asks, her voice saccharine, the way one might speak to a child.
She reaches out to touch my cheek, her fingers scalding hot. I bat away her hand and—lacking any weapon—do the first thing that comes to mind. I ball my hand into a fist and punch her as hard as I can. The movement feels heavy and weak, but it’s enough to elicit a nauseating crack when my knuckles collide with her nose.
Dagmær stumbles back a few steps, bringing her hand up to touch her broken nose. She pulls her fingers back, and with a distant sort of fascination examines the blood that coats them, before turning her gaze back to me. The blood gushing down her face makes her look even more frightful than she did earlier.
“I suppose there’s still a bit of fight left in you after all,” she says, her mouth curling into a vicious smile. “Good. That’ll make this fun.”
She summons fire to her fingertips, and the two girls behind her do the same. Then they advance toward me, each step agonizingly slow.
I push through my aching bones, my burning lungs, my dizziness, and I force myself to focus, calling on my own power to draw fire. That, at least, doesn’t cost much effort. Here, surrounded by so much of it, my magic is one thing that is strong. It feels like I have an unlimited supply of it.
Dagmær eyes the fire in my hands thoughtfully. “Not bad,” she says. “I’ll be sure to tell Cress that you died well.”
“We aren’t supposed to kill her,” one of the other girls says.
“Hush, Maeve,” Dagmær hisses at her. “Of course we’ll try to capture her alive but…well…accidents do happen, don’t they?” She turns toward me. “And I can’t imagine you’ll come with us peacefully.”
For an instant, I consider what would happen if I did. I could get back into the palace, face to face with Cress in reality this time, not in dreams, not wearing someone else’s face, and…and I would be there alone, with no plan, no allies, nothing but myself and my power. And it wouldn’t be enough. Even if I managed to kill her, I would still be trapped in a palace surrounded by enemies, with no way out.
No. I can’t do this alone. I thought I could through our dreams, but that was a mistake—one that cost so many lives. I need to get back to the others, I need to make a plan, I need to do this right.
Instead of answering, I throw the fire in my hand at Dagmær, who sidesteps it with ease.
“Fine, then,” she says with a smile. “I’d hoped you’d make this difficult.”
She throws fire at me, and I try to duck out of the way, but it hits my hip, causing the nerves there to explode in pain. Luckily, my nightgown is still soaked through and the fire dies quickly. I pause, doubled over.
“Is that all you have, Dagmær?” I ask her, straightening up. “I suppose I’m not as easy to kill as your six-year-old stepson. Did that make you feel strong and powerful?”
She doesn’t flinch. “You know nothing about power, Thora,” she says. “How could you? With your crown of ashes, always relying on others to help you. First it was Cress, then whatever rebels you had. Then it was Prinz Søren, wasn’t it? All of your power is secondhand, given by others on their terms. Even this—what you are—was given to you by Cress. You didn’t want it, didn’t even try to take it.”
She conjures more fire, throws three small flames at me. I dodge two of them, but the third one hits my shoulder, and I cry out in pain.
Somewhere in the distance, someone calls my name, but I can barely hear it, barely hear anything besides the blood pounding in my ears.
“Cress did not give me this,” I tell Dagmær, each word coming out sharp and sure. “If you see Cress again, you tell her that. The power she gave me was nothing, a shadow of a shadow, barely enough to light a match. I chose this power as I was meant to, in the Fire Mine. I fought for it. I earned it.”
Dagmær laughs, advancing on me again, flames in both of her hands.
“Well. We’ll see if that makes a difference, won’t we?” she taunts, eyes bright, the flames around us reflecting in her pupils.
I steel myself, summoning my own fire and preparing to attack. But before either of us can strike, there’s a loud cry behind me and a blast of water that hits Dagmær in the chest, knocking her backward and into the other two girls, extinguishing the fires in their hands.
The three of them splutter, clambering to their feet and looking around, bewildered, as Artemisia steps out of the flames, appearing at my side with her sword in one hand and the other hand poised and ready for another blast.
“You were taking too long,” she tells me. “I thought you could use a bit of help.”
“Perfect timing,” I say.
“Someone else coming to your rescue, I see,” Dagmær snarls, her mocking smile washed away entirely. She’s no longer smug—she’s angry, and seeing her fury only ignites mine.
“I’m sorry, I can’t properly explain the concept of friendship,” I say, throwing a ball of fire at her. It hits her in the stomach, sizzling against her wet gown, and she lets out an ear-piercing scream before charging toward us, the other two at her heels.
Artemisia throws another gust of water at them, but this time they’re ready for it and it only knocks them back a step; Artemisia is ready, charging forward with her sword.
It’s all I can do to stay out of her way, though I try to work a few blasts of fire in as well, when I’m sure they won’t hit her. Most of them go wide, serving to frighten more than anything else, but a few hit true, sizzling against their wet gowns and, on occasion, finding a patch of bare skin.
But for every strike we make, it feels like they make two. There is a never-ending barrage of fire coming toward Artemisia and me, and her use of her Water Gift manages to block only most of the fireballs. Many still make it through, burning skin and singeing clothing.
A larger flame, thrown by Dagmær, hits me so hard in the shoulder that I fall backward and land on the ground with a thud. Sensing weakness, one of the other girls—Maeve—advances on me, her grin feral and hungry, knowing that I am a sitting target. Artemisia is busy with the other two girls; I don’t even think she notices me.
“Always relying on others to help you.” Dagmær’s words echo in my mind. It’s true, I can call on fire, but so can Maeve, and right now Maeve has the upper hand. The flames behind Maeve shift, ever so slightly, and in that instant an idea comes to me.