The Ember Girl

SPOILER WARNING – The Tales from Divinia are companion stories best enjoyed after reading the main novel. The Ember Girl takes place between the prologue and chapter one of The Trials of Divinia and therefore contains spoilers.

Blurb:

The Ember Girl follows fourteen-year-old Lyra Drakeforge through a single day that reveals far more than chores and routine. As she tends the creatures of her family farm, navigates the chaotic bustle of Emberholt’s market, and endures the eerie warnings of a fire priest, Lyra begins to sense the widening gap between who she is and who she hopes to become. Through her sharp eyes and stubborn spirit, the story explores ambition, family expectation, and the flicker of destiny long before it fully ignites. Set in the quiet days before the Celestial Trials begin, this tale shows that even the smallest embers can hint at the fire waiting to rise.

---

Dawn was creeping over Emberholt. The sun had not yet truly risen, but the dim light combined with the ever-present glow emanating from the streams of molten lava was enough to light her way as she made the short walk from the Drakeforge home to their family farm.

The village was still quiet – the forges had not yet been fired up for the day, merchants and beast handlers had not made their way out into the streets with their various wares, and fire priests were likely still undertaking their early morning ceremonies and rituals. There were just a small number of soldiers out, finishing their night patrol, and a handful of other villagers going quietly about their business.

Lyra loved this time of day, when she could see the coalfinches – tiny soot-black birds which roosted in forge chimneys and volcanic vents – venturing out to find small insects and other morsels of food to return to their young. The insects themselves shone with an eerie spark – firegnats, glowing orange midges which buzzed like sparks from a fire in the darkness, and slagmites, armoured ants with translucent, glass-like abdomens that caught and reflected the glow of nearby lava.

She paused to glance at the bell tower – the tallest building in the village – which stood like a silent sentinel watching over her. Its layers of dark stone were an impressive sight. The bell was rarely used. Its purpose was not to tell time or to commemorate celebration or mourning; it was an alarm system, used to alert the village to an impending threat or danger. A pair of scouts were always stationed there, ready to sound their warning, but she could only remember hearing it a handful of times – and those had always proved to be false alarms, caused by younger scout members either panicking or messing around.

After another few moments, she continued on her way and soon arrived at the farm. It was a huge, expansive space full of pens, storage barns, and workshops run by her family.

Her father, Rorik, worked almost exclusively at the main drake pens – the most prominent and important feature of the farm – and as she approached, she could already hear the low rumble of the resting creatures forming a familiar background hum. He took his role as the village’s Chief Dragon Trainer incredibly seriously – too seriously if you asked her – and spent almost every waking hour meticulously training the creatures, with the strongest and fastest used as mounts in Ferroxia’s Dragon Championships.

Rorik was likely already at work – if he had even come home last night. Lyra knew that the Celestial Trials, the famous annual tournament of the gods, were only a few short weeks away and, rumour had it, a boy from Emberholt – Zarek Flamestrike – was among the favourites to be selected to represent Ferroxia. She stuck her tongue out at an ashspinner – a pale, long-legged spider – as it spun down from its heat-resistant silk, imagining it to be Zarek. Then she felt guilty; the ashspinner was much more pleasant than Zarek.

Her brother, Talon, worked at the drake pens too, mostly undertaking manual tasks like repairing and cleaning the pens or preparing the training enclosure where dragon riders worked and bonded with their drakes. She could tell how much he hated it. He did love the drakes, but he was too soft, too gentle, and his attitude towards the creatures irritated their father beyond belief.

It was the job of Lyra and her mother, Mira, to care for the many other animals of Drakeforge farm.

There were emberboars – large, thick-skinned beasts with ember-glowing tusks which granted them their name – prized as feed for drakes in training. They were naturally aggressive, hardly surprising given their unenviable fate, and needed steady, consistent handling, something which she was proud to have mastered over the past two years.

There were magma rams – stocky, wool-laden creatures with obsidian-curled horns. Their fleeces were exceptionally fire-resistant, and they provided durable armour padding and potent milk used in traditional healing salves and drake medicines – something Mira was an expert at producing for use on the farm.

There were ashwings – scale-feathered birds with faintly smouldering plumage. Their mineral-rich eggs strengthened drake bones, making them essential to hatchery diets. There had been that unforgettable morning when an ashwing, settling comfortably on Lyra’s arm, had singed a perfect circular hole into her sleeve. Lyra had worried about telling her mother, until she saw Mira’s reaction: a sigh, a shake of the head, and then an amused quip. She had named the bird Cinder and always greeted the creature enthusiastically when she saw it.

And, finally, there were emberlings – tiny salamanders stored together in small cages and fed to young drakes learning to hunt. Quick and plentiful, she loved watching them dart around, tussling playfully with each other. They made the most of the time they got together.

They were all a part of what made home… home.

She, at just fourteen years old, was only able to work part-time – completing mornings on the farm and continuing her studies in the afternoon. Thankfully, when she turned fifteen next year, she would be free to leave education and begin training towards her own career. Her preference changed almost daily and, as much as she loved life on the farm, she couldn’t envisage staying here as Talon had done. She craved a life of adventure and mystery.

Perhaps she would solve crimes – like who stole the big ashwing egg (Bren had slipped her some money and eaten it for dinner), or how the hole had appeared in the side of the water trough and soaked through all that day’s drake feed (Cinder had got a little too excited playing a game of ‘fireball’). Perhaps she would write a book, or perhaps she would write about crimes she solved – or those she committed! Regardless, she only had a few short months left until a whole world of possibilities would be open to her.

Her brain whirred with the thought of it as she set about the list of chores her mother had given her – though it was hard to feel like a future world-famous detective while shovelling emberboar droppings. She stepped lightly between the creatures, weaving between tusks with confident steps, throwing in the occasional acrobatic twirl for dramatic effect.

She was just about to move on to feeding the ashwings, trying to think of what mischief Cinder might have got up to since yesterday, when she stopped short at the sight of the man watching her, a faint smile visible through his beard.

“You must be the only girl in Ferroxia who can make that task look fun,” Rorik said with a low chuckle.

“Oh, hey, Dad,” she said casually. “What brings you by?”

Her tone was light, but she was genuinely curious. Rorik rarely visited her – or any of the other parts of the farm – he was always too busy with the serious work.

“I need a couple of errands running,” he told her. “Think you can handle it?”

Business-like. Straight to the point. As always.

“Sure,” she said, swinging herself over the fence of the emberboar enclosure and straightening next to him. “Can you hold my shovel?”

He didn’t laugh, but she could tell he was holding back. She would keep trying, she resolved. No matter how many emberboar dung references it took.

“I need someone to head into town,” he said, ignoring the shovel. “Mira is busy and I can’t spare Talon today, not with the final preparations for Zarek underway. Do you have time before school?”

“For you? Always,” she beamed back. She enjoyed her father’s errands – any excuse to venture into a different part of the village, to speak to someone she had not spoken to before, to overcome a challenge she had been set. This was about as exciting as life got for her at the moment – at least until she and Cinder launched their new comedy double act they’d been threatening.

“Great,” said Rorik, a trace of his smile flickering once more. “I need you to visit Old Fen, the leatherworker, and collect the drake training harnesses we sent for repair. Remember – check his work, because Fen can rush sometimes when he’s busy, and I can only have the best. Don’t pay him what he wants unless it’s perfect.”

Lyra nodded. She liked Old Fen – he was eccentric and drove a hard bargain, but had a soft spot for her, and she knew she could get him to relax his usual approach with customers.

“Then, if you go to the southernmost shrine, you’ll find a group of fire priests. Your mother needs more sootheleaf, slagmint, and molt balm for her next batch of medicine. We’ve been working the drakes hard this month, and we’ve been getting through it more quickly than usual.”

“Sounds good,” said Lyra. It really did – she had never been asked to visit the shrine before. It was always good to be trusted with something new. “I won’t let you down.”

“You never do,” said Rorik as he turned away. “Just don’t take the ashwing with you,” he added under his breath.

Lyra laughed quietly. Maybe he had a sense of humour after all.

The market was a thicket of voices, steam, and heat. Built onto a wide, sloped square of blackened basalt, warmed underneath by the volcanic vents that ran deep beneath the village, the market stalls were arranged in uneven rows, each built from dark timber and reinforced metal frames to withstand the conditions. A haze of heat shimmered between the spaces, giving everything a faint molten glow.

Lyra looked around, taking in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of the market – smiths and metalworkers displaying blades, tools, and other trinkets, beast handlers showing off young drakes, ashwings, or emberboar piglets for sale, merchants selling ironstone, lava crystal, and other materials, and food vendors with steaming trays of emberbread, spiced root mash, sizzling meat skewers, and volcanic salt nuts.

It was definitely one of her favourite places in the village – she loved the hustle and bustle of it all: the kids her age swapping glass marbles behind the stalls, the stray emberlings that lived under the fish vendor’s table and always snapped at falling scraps, even the broken chunk of pavement that squeaked ominously when she stepped on it. She always aimed for it.

But most of all, she loved the challenge. Since her father had begun to trust her on errands such as this, she’d grown fond of the likes of Vessa Durn, the grain merchant, and Renn Hollowstock, the butcher, who always treated her kindly. But she also liked the travelling traders and other newcomers to the market who dismissed and underestimated her. She took pride in taking them by surprise with how sharp she was.

She wove through the sellers and their patrons, ducking under outstretched arms and through tight spaces between groups chatting animatedly about what they’d purchased, until she saw Old Fen’s trademark stall. It was a half-open workshop, more permanent than most, carved into a nook of the market square.

The stall’s front counter was made from a thick slab of dark volcanic wood, littered with tools and materials which were organised chaotically. Further back, there were shelves crammed with leather, buckles, straps, and other materials, as well as a small vat of heated glue which sat in a gently steaming stone basin. Overhead, tens of finished harnesses, reins, saddles, and straps sat waiting for collection.

She found that she couldn’t see Fen as she approached, but she could hear him, muttering under his breath between the blows of a hammer striking metal. When she reached the counter, she rang the small bell placed upon it in hope more than expectation, but to her surprise the man popped up from his work dramatically and grinned at the sight of his visitor.

“Miss Drakeforge,” he said with enthusiasm, “so good to see you.”

Fen was lean and wiry, with the kind of frame which looked like it was held together by sheer stubbornness rather than muscle. A wild mane of grey hair, tied back with a strip of old leather, and an uneven, singed beard framed sharp eyes and thin lips. He wore a thick leather apron over a scorched tunic and was giving off a strong smell of cured hide which caught at her throat.

“Hi, Fen,” she smiled back. “How have you been?”

“Not bad, not bad,” he said absent-mindedly, as if already thinking about his next task.

“How’s business?” she asked.

“Business?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, yes, fine, I suppose. Or good. I’m not sure, to be honest. I lose track sometimes.”

She smiled to herself. Fen was always more focused on his work than his customers.

“I’m here to pick up the harnesses for my father – are they ready?”

“Ooh,” he cooed. “Yes, I believe I finished those yesterday, let me find them.”

In one swift movement which defied his age and stature, he leapt onto the counter, his head disappearing among the hanging leather. As he searched, she could hear Fen talking quietly under his breath, and she caught words like majestic, beautiful, wonderful craftsmanship. Words not meant for her.

Lyra waited patiently, watching in part amusement, part fascination.

After several minutes, a hand shot out, stuffed full of straps. He dropped to one knee on the counter, his head reappearing, his hair somehow even more of a bushy mess than before. He stroked them endearingly before meeting Lyra’s eyes.

“These are some of my finest works yet,” he said dreamily. “Fit for a champion of Ferroxia.”

“Funny you should say that,” she said, holding out her hands. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

“By all means,” said Fen, placing the garments gently into her outstretched palms.

She studied them carefully, paying particular attention to where the material had been cut and joined as her father had taught her, searching for imperfections. She could see none – Rorik’s fears that Fen would have rushed the work had proved unfounded – but she needed to be careful not to offer the man too much praise if she wanted to secure a good price.

“I trust you are impressed,” came Fen’s excited voice. “Shall we say twenty gold pieces?”

“Twenty?” Lyra exclaimed. “It was ten last time I came.”

“The cost of materials has been higher than usual lately,” Fen said with a shrug. “And seeing as I have prioritised this work so highly, you should pay the going rate.”

“Can I let you in on a little secret?” she said, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Always,” grinned the older man.

“My father has been training Zarek Flamestrike, and these have been ordered specially for him.”

“Flamestrike…” said Fen, then his eyes bulged. “The two-time winner of the Dragon Championships? The boy who is anticipated to represent Ferroxia at the Celestial Trials?”

“The very same,” Lyra winked, before making a shushing gesture. “But keep it quiet – we want to keep his final preparations on the down low. Can’t risk disrupting him at such a critical point.”

“Of course… of course…” said Fen, nodding vehemently.

“But just think,” she intoned. “Your work, displayed proudly in the city of gods.”

“Ten will be fine this time,” Fen said after a moment. “But you tell your father you got a bargain.”

“You’re the best, Fen,” she said, her voice returning to normal volume. She dropped one of the money pouches she’d been given onto the counter where Fen still knelt. “See you next time.”

“Always a pleasure, Miss Drakeforge,” he called after her as she walked away. “Your little secret is safe with me.”

She held her head high as she made her way out of the market. Her father would be pleased with her – and he didn’t need to know the bargaining chip she’d played to keep the price down. She just hoped that Zarek delivered now she’d done it. Even if he was worse than an ashspinner.

The crowds quietened as she walked to the southern point of the village. She rarely ventured down this far. The shrine was a semi-circular stone structure carved into black rock. The entire area felt older than the rest of the village – less tidy, less touched by daily life – and a faint sulphur smell rose from the vents, mingling with the scent of burnt herbs, giving it a pleasant vibe nonetheless.

Vertical pillars engraved with curling fire sigils surrounded offerings on a low stone table – charred wood carvings, molten-glass beads, scraps of red cloth, and burnt incense cakes – small items you either wouldn’t find at the market or would be easily missed among grander commodities.

A tall, slender woman with long, ash-white hair bound in intricate braids waited patiently behind the table. She wore traditional fire priest robes: layered red, orange, and charcoal cloth. Her colleagues, who moved silently behind her, all wore matching clothing.

“Welcome,” she said. “My name is Alira Coalbar. How may I help you today?”

Shaking off the slightly eerie feeling the woman was giving off, Lyra smiled her broadest smile, introduced herself, and reeled off the list of ingredients she had been given. Alira didn’t return Lyra’s enthusiasm but smiled blandly before studying a ledger. Her attitude was customary for fire priests – always so emotionless.

“I should be able to help you,” she said. “Though your order is a little earlier than expected, so I may not be able to give you your normal quantity.”

Alira moved with efficiency, wrapping packages and tying them together with string, her eyes fixed on her work whilst Lyra waited.

“How long have you been sending things to Drakeforge farm?” Lyra asked, desperate to fill the silence which was becoming uncomfortable.

“Not long,” said Alira, her tone blunt but not unkind. “But the other priests here have been doing so for many years.”

Only once she had finished and stacked the packages neatly in front of Lyra did she speak again.

“Take these wares with a warning, Lyra Drakeforge,” she said, the light of her eyes appearing to flicker slightly in an unnerving fashion that Lyra was sure had nothing to do with the flame of the brazier behind her.

“Great change is coming,” Alira continued, her voice soft, her head tilting slightly as though listening to something unspoken. “Embers which have not yet awakened will soon burst forth; one who is weak will become strong, one who thinks themselves strong will be tested; and one of our own will turn, then turn again. Where she will land, only fate can tell.”

Then, no sooner had it begun, the light in Alira’s eyes went out, and she straightened once more, looking at Lyra with the slightest hint of confusion.

Lyra dropped the second money pouch onto the table, grabbed the packages, and hurried quickly away. When she was confident she was out of sight, she brushed herself down with a grimace.

That was too weird, she thought. As she began the journey home, she vowed to herself – she would never deal with a fire priest again if she could help it.

She was still unsettled by her meeting with Alira when she arrived back at the farm. She handed over the items she had collected to her father, only managing a half-smile at his thanks, but he was too distracted to notice her discomfort. So, she went on her way again, and soon found herself sitting in her usual seat at the back of the classroom.

It was a low, rectangular room with stone walls and mounted molten-glass lamps which created a steady amber hue. Rough wooden desks stood facing a raised stone platform, behind which a single large board made from a polished slab of obsidian was bolted, its faded chalk marks still shining starkly against the dark exterior.

Ferroxian law dictated that pupils would remain in full-time education until the age of eleven, then part-time until the age of fifteen, and Emberholt ran just a single senior class for those who fell into the latter bracket. The room had been mostly empty when she entered. There were only a handful of students – many wearing light burns or soot smudges from their morning chores.

She was joined in the seat next to hers, as always, by Orren Flint. He was a boy around Lyra’s age, slight of build, with curly dark hair and warm hazel eyes. His customary ironwood cane, its surface etched with tiny flame motifs he’d made himself, rested against one side of his desk.

Orren was from a family of beast handlers, and the severe leg break from which he had never fully recovered – as well as the faint old burn scar that ran along one side of his jaw – were souvenirs of his upbringing.

Despite his injury and the restricted movement it caused him, Orren had always been kind-hearted, quick-witted, and unashamedly nerdy about beast-lore. He still worked on his father’s emberboar ranch each morning and would happily share hints and tips with Lyra on how best to tame them.

Lyra had first met him, aged eight, when she had loudly told a bully to ‘shove off’ for mocking him. Orren had smiled gratefully and, upon finding out who she was, offered to help Lyra with a troublesome ashwing who had been eating its own eggs – an ancestor of Cinder, no doubt.

They had been friends ever since, and after entering Tutor Marwen’s class three years ago had quickly learnt that positioning themselves here, within easy reach of the door, gave them both a quick escape and the best chance of exchanging anecdotes without detection.

Marwen was a man in his late fifties with broad shoulders and a solid, work-hardened frame. He had close-cropped, ash-grey hair and wore simple coal-black robes with burnt-orange trim. Over the years she had known him, Lyra had found him to be firm but fair – never cruel, never loud, but always in control. He did not tolerate nonsense, but rewarded curiosity, something she had never lacked – even if his lessons about Ferroxian culture and history were starting to wear thin.

As the class settled, he tapped the edge of the board with his finger, quietly calling them to order, and silence fell quickly as the eyes of the room settled on the three words written on the board: The Celestial Trials.

It was not a new subject for Lyra – Marwen talked about the trials every year, emphasising their legacy and their critical place within society, both for Ferroxia and for all of Divinia – but she still looked forward to this particular lecture. The trials always sounded so exciting, and if Zarek were to be their region’s representative this year, then the intrigue and anticipation in the village would only grow.

“Welcome, class, to today’s lesson,” Marwen began. “I know most, if not all of you will be familiar to some extent with today’s topic but, first, a brief recap.”

Lyra settled back in her chair, preparing for a long speech.

“The Celestial Trials were first held in the year 1126 – taking place twelve months after the conclusion of the Great War of Divinia and the creation of Concordia, the city of the gods, which intersects our seven regions and plays host to the trials each year.

“The gods created the trials as a fair and equal way to govern the lands over which they rule – each year the gods select a champion from their region to compete in a series of contests. The victorious god wins wealth and prosperity for their lands over the next year – things like economy, trade, climate, culture, security, and the balance of power are all affected. The lower a champion finishes in the standings, the worse their region’s prospects.

“The trials themselves remain shrouded in mystery – although we do know a little of what takes place there. Each god is responsible for creating a unique trial to test the abilities of the seven champions. Champions are ranked based on their performance, and the two strongest champions go head-to-head in a final battle for victory.

“Everyone with me so far?”

Lyra saw the backs of many heads nodding, some in understanding, others with enthusiasm.

“Good,” said Marwen. “Now, Ferroxia holds the record for the most victories in the history of the Celestial Trials, winning one hundred and ninety-nine times. Our last victory came in 1955 when Varro Ashbane famously won all seven of the trials he faced.

“Over the past seventy years, our lord Thoros has strived to find another champion to match Varro’s unrivalled accomplishments, but sadly we have so far failed him.”

“Not exactly a surprise, is it,” hissed a voice two rows in front of Lyra. “Look at some of the chumps Thoros has got to choose from.”

The speaker turned around and gave Lyra and Orren a deliberate stare.

His name was Drax Hember – an older boy who was close to graduating from their class. He was broad and stocky from helping at his family’s forge. He had a square jaw, short, bristly black hair, and wore a sleeveless tunic to show off his muscles.

He was the definition of all brawn and no brains. Lyra liked to compare him to a lava crawler – the huge, crab-like beasts clad in hardened volcanic shells which were used for construction, mining, and large-scale earthworks – but much like Zarek and the ashspinner, she felt the comparison was too harsh on the creature. At least they didn’t seem to have inflated egos.

Lyra had never liked him, and she doubted many of her classmates did either. He was known as the boy who started arguments, cheated in contests, and picked fights with those smaller and weaker than him – often making Orren a prime target.

“Quiet please, Master Hember,” said Marwen patiently before continuing.

“We are, of course, hopeful that this year Ferroxia will fare better. And, with the trials just a few short weeks away, it is believed that word will come any day now as to who Thoros has selected as his champion.”

The time trickled by as Marwen moved from discussing the trials themselves to the history of Concordia, the impact of some of the more recent results on Ferroxian society, and the fluctuating relationships with the other regions.

Lyra felt her interest wane, and by the time Marwen released them, she had already been exchanging sketches under the desk with Orren for an hour – drawings of fantasy creatures like ashwings with the tusks of an emberboar, or a furnace mouse with miniature magma ram horns.

“These really are very good,” Orren exclaimed as they exited, holding up the ashwing–emberboar hybrid with his free hand and his cane with the other. “I think there might be a market for these creatures if we could create one. Imagine…”

“Out of the way, freak.”

Drax barged between them, knocking both the sketch and the cane out of Orren’s hands. The blow sent Orren to one knee and he raised his hands protectively over his head as if expecting another strike.

“Hey!” Lyra shouted angrily. “What was that for?”

“It was because you were in my way,” growled Drax, turning on his heel. Other members of the class had stopped to watch the confrontation. Marwen was evidently still in the classroom.

“Well, why don’t you watch where you’re going then?” Lyra replied with mock sincerity.

“Bog off,” Drax retorted. “Always acting so high and mighty just ’cause of your family. You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”

“Just leave it, Lyra,” Orren whispered pleadingly. “It’s not worth it.”

She ignored him. Instead, she stroked her chin, pretending to consider the question.

“Hmm, well, ordinarily I’d say no. But given you’ve got a brain like an untempered nail – blunt, brittle, and useless to everyone – I would say yes, I am better than you.”

Laughter came from several of the onlookers and Drax’s face turned red with rage.

“You’ll regret that, you little bitch,” he spat, pulling a hammer from the waistband of his trousers. It must have been something he’d taken from the forge.

Without warning, he swung wildly, but Lyra was expecting it – she sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted, and then swept her leg low, sending him crashing to the ground while his arm was wrenched back. The hammer clattered loudly to the floor.

“Hember,” came the shout. Lyra looked up. It was Marwen, who had appeared at the door of the classroom, looking thunderous. “Inside, now. Your parents will hear about this.”

Drax stomped back inside, not stopping to look back at them. Too embarrassed, no doubt, she thought. She bent to help Orren back to his feet.

“Miss Drakeforge,” said Marwen, his voice quieter now. “I will need to speak to you about this too, but I think that can wait until tomorrow. For now, do make sure Mr Flint gets home safely.”

Lyra nodded solemnly and gave Marwen a small smile, which he returned subtly before following Drax back into the room.

“Thanks, Lyra,” said Orren earnestly. “That was amazing.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, her smile broadening. “He should know better than to mess with us.”

By the time Lyra returned home that evening, it was to find the Drakeforge home glowing with heat and the smell of her mother’s stew. Mira was joined in the kitchen by Bren Ironclaw, a close friend of Talon’s, who was often invited to join them for dinner. It seemed that neither Talon nor Rorik had yet returned from the farm.

“How was your day, honey?” Mira asked over her shoulder as she noticed Lyra enter.

“Oh, not too bad,” said Lyra. “Did my jobs at the farm, ran a couple of errands for Dad, went to school, got attacked with a hammer, the usual.”

Mira almost dropped the spoon she had been holding as she whirled around to face her. Lyra explained what had happened – she was rubbish at keeping secrets from her mother, so she had learnt not to try – and she watched with amusement as Mira’s face went from fear, to anger, to bemusement. Bren, at least, laughed and gave a small cheer when she described knocking Drax to the ground.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Mira, turning back to the stew. “But I’m glad you’re okay and that you were able to stand up for your friend.”

“You get in a different scrap every week,” chuckled Bren, although there was no hint of judgement.

“There’s a lot of idiots in this village who need teaching a lesson,” she replied with a wink.

Mira tutted and Lyra rolled her eyes.

“Something else interesting happened today,” she said. “I went down to the southern shrine, and I met a fire priest called Alira Coalbar.”

“Oh really?” said Mira with interest. “I thought I’d met all the fire priests who worked there, but that’s a name I don’t recognise.”

She was just about to ask another question when a loud sound interrupted them.

A bell.

Her mother’s eyes widened with concern.

“I’m sure it’ll just be another false alarm,” she said, although she heard the doubt in her own voice.

“You’re probably right,” Mira replied. “But please, could the two of you go and find Talon? I’m sure he went up to the clifftops after work – go and get him quickly and bring him back here.”

“No problem,” said Bren, moving towards the door.

“And Lyra,” said Mira quickly. “No dawdling. Bren, I’m trusting you to look after her and get them both back safely. I know what my children are like if left to their own devices.”

“You’ve got it, Mrs Drakeforge,” said Bren.

Lyra knew exactly where Talon would be – the cliff overlooking the village gates – where he would have the best chance of watching the drakes. The light of the day was beginning to fade as they clambered quickly up the volcanic path. As they neared the top, she saw his unmistakable figure peering over the side of the cliff to the ground below.

“Talon. Tal!” she shouted.

---

ENJOYED THIS? Buy the full story - The Trials of Divinia - on Amazon.