Elena's boots whispered against the stone as she entered the cottage, her hand never loosening from Jaime's. The threshold gave beneath her step with the familiarity of home, and yet her breath stuttered in her chest as if she had crossed into hostile ground.
The air smelled of herbs steeping in jars, of old woodsmoke clinging to the beams, of a thousand small comforts meant to heal and hold, but her body recoiled as though struck. Each scent dragged her backward, each familiar thing sharpened into an edge against her.
And then she stepped into her bedroom.
It had been more than a month since she had last stood there.
Her gaze flickered over the bed, the hearth chair worn by her reading, the plaster walls where shadows clung. For the briefest moment she thought she saw her old life in the details- the place where her children had curled up beside her, the space where Niegal's coat had hung, the corners lit by mana lamplight.
But memory came sudden, merciless, a strike through bone.
The growling.
The reek of rot.
The tearing of flesh.
The walls were no longer walls but cages closing in. Her magic had ripped itself apart that night, unraveling into a thousand threads until her own body could no longer contain it. Hips snapping, ribs searing, blood boiling under her skin. Convulsions that wracked her until she begged, silently, helplessly, to be unmade.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the doorframe, shaking, as the present blurred into the past.
Jaime was there instantly, one heartbeat behind her. He felt it before she even gasped, the spike of terror that pierced her chest, mirrored in his own. Their bond carried her pain straight into him: her pulse hammering, her lungs straining, her terror pounding like war drums inside his ribs.
"Elena- " His hand lifted toward her shoulder, steady, gentle.
But before his skin touched hers, she moved.
Her hand snapped upward, fingers cutting the air with a sharp flick.
The room erupted.
Lighting leapt at her command, answering grief as much as magic. The bed exploded into hissing sparks. The wardrobe shuddered, splintering open as heat devoured its wood. The hearth chairs collapsed into pillars of flame, their smoke unfurling toward the rafters like dark offerings. The walls glowed red, alive with dancing fury.
Jaime flinched at the sudden blaze, the air rushing hot against his face, but his breath died not from the fire.
It was her.
Her violet eyes gave way to stormlight, indigo sparking alive in their depths. But it wasn't power that stilled him, it was sorrow so vast it hollowed her out, pouring through their bond into him until he felt it in his marrow. The extent of her hurt. The enormity of her loss.
She was burning it all.
Every memory.
Every wound.
Every piece of herself that had died there.
He could have tried to stop her. He could have pulled her hand down, dampened the fire, urged restraint. Instead he reached for her, threading his fingers through hers.
Together, they stood in the heart of the flames, bound hand to hand, watching her past burn itself into ash.
The scent of smoke and charred wood drew footsteps. Esperanza and Juan rushed in, their silhouettes framed by the firelight. They froze in the doorway, silent.
Esperanza's lips parted, her breath catching as she beheld her mother's figure limned in fire, Jaime beside her, the storm itself echoing in their eyes. Fear and awe warred inside her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fall to her knees. Instead, she swayed, and Juan's arm caught her.
Juan's jaw tightened. He understood. He bowed his head, and without a word guided Esperanza back. She resisted at first, tears spilling, but he gently drew her into the main room, his arm firm around her trembling frame.
Before the hearth, Esperanza collapsed onto the bench, gasping, clutching at her chest as if it hurt to breathe. "Mama… is more than Mama now, isn't she?" The words left her in a whisper, broken.
Juan pressed a kiss to her brow, his arm tightening around her shoulders. "Yes," he murmured. "And yet… she is still yours."
She closed her eyes, letting the tears fall as she leaned into him, the truth both balm and knife.
Back in the bedroom, the fire raged and then began to ebb. The wardrobe sagged into cinders. The chairs collapsed in skeletal heaps. Flames hissed, snapping low, until all that remained was smoke curling from embers and the sharp, bitter scent of ash.
Elena stepped forward. Her boots crunched softly in the soot. She stared at the ruin of the place that had once been hers. Nothing remained.
A shuddering breath escaped her lips. Her voice broke when she whispered, "Good. No more bad memories."
Her tears glimmered in the fire's afterglow, bright trails down her ash-streaked cheeks.
Jaime moved to her side, slipping his arm around her waist. He pulled her against him, shielding her even in the ruins of her own making. His ocean-blue eyes, dark now, storm-tossed, locked on the wreckage, burning with a promise.
"I swear, mi corazón, we'll have our revenge," he murmured, low and steady, into her hair.
Elena pressed her face into his chest, nodding wordlessly. At last her body surrendered, shaking, the sobs breaking free.
Together, they stood amid the ashes, two figures remade by fire. Bound not only by grief, but by the storm and flood that claimed them.