Bren's blue eyes flicker with the flame in his hand, a mix of reds and oranges fluttering around his fingertips. Underneath Bren's control, the flame is his beckoning, his reason, his calling. The power can't hurt him.

He clenches his hand into a fist and the flame moves with it; the peaks towering over his knuckles like flammable mountains cresting over valleys and slaughtering every bit of life in their wake. The fire is pure, not like ashes or embers fluttering into the sky. In his hand, the fire is infinite and strong.

With even the least bit of flame, Bren could turn that into an inferno and swallow the entire village, until there is nothing left but those imperfect ashes.

As he wills it, the flame travels up his arm, encircling his wrist and then his elbow, all the way to his shoulder. On me, the fire would burn through my clothes. But not on Bren. The fire trusts him and he trusts it.

The flame blends in his blue eyes while the ocean breeze tears at his hair and clothes. Behind him, that ocean is eternal and in front of my eyes, he is that eternity. The never-ending, the young and the hopeful, the lost and the brave. He is flame.

Bren Finke is flame.

With that blaze, he brings his hands together, forming a flickering ball of that power. The flames dance around the shape he molds it into, barely bigger than a kickball the kids fashioned to play with in the center of the village—underneath the vigilant eyes of the looming pine tree.

I watch as from hand to hand; he tosses that orb of flame against his fingertips. The red shade crackles around his skin, turning the golden tone to deep orange. Shadows flicker underneath his eyelashes and against the smooth arch of his nose. He doesn't flinch, nor does he blink as the ball of fire grows as he commands it to.

So powerful.

I take a step back as the ball of flame grows between us and the heat warms my face, frozen from the ocean gust. Bren smiles at me wickedly through that fire and spins, towards the open water, and throws. The ball soars in a perfect arc, flame tearing at the tips against the wind until it falls down, down towards the ocean.

Bren and I lean over the cliff to watch the ball of flame drop against the water with a hiss and disappear, disintegrating into nothing.

The Grounding to flame is water. If he ever lost control of his power, a witch of water is required around Bren at all times.

Flame wielders are one of the more prominent breeds of witches. We know them for their destructive abilities and with water, their power is more common than my own. A witch of ground, I have never met another. As far as I know, I'm the only of my kind and any offspring I produce could inherit that gene of power, that sliver of fear in the eyes of the innocent.

My father always says: the only thing worse than one witch of ground is two. The destruction could be monumental. City by city, we have the potential to wipe out the entire kingdom. Celestine always looks at me warily when he says those words to hammer the final nail in my stone coffin.

"Now it's your turn," Bren says. His voice is calming, relaxed, as though the flame soothed his nerves and calmed the anxiety swirling inside that perfect head of his.

"If anything goes wrong, I want you to run," I order. He nods, but I know he won't listen. If anything happens, he'll be right there beside me.

"Trust your power, Roux. You are in control. Don't try too hard and don't be too gentle." His words are helpful but I ignore them and take five large steps back, opposite of the cliffs. I don't want to send us tumbling into the water if I pull up the wrong chunk of ground.

Bren watches me from that short distance as I take a deep breath, standing in the nearby grasses. The tips brush against my hips.

Very carefully, as not to startle it, I creak open the door to my power and peek inside. The witch inside me swirls with excitement as finally, she gets to come out and play. Cautiously, that door opens halfway and seeing the light on the other side, the power slams against the outer wall, searching for freedom.

The ground rumbles underneath our feet and my ankles wobble. Bren tries to keep his composure but the furrowed brows tell me fear is trickling inside his brain. I can feel it. I can sense it.

The eagerness of the power slams against the magic walls and I try to shut that door again and block it off completely. But I've given too much freedom. The taste of fresh air was adequate enough to make my power roil with excitement. It's too far gone.

Everything shakes, the ground, the world, until I fall to my knees, the power sputtering. Bren grips onto a nearby boulder to keep himself standing. Over the roaring in my head, I hear him say, "Control it. Don't let the power slip through your fingertips."

Easier said than done, I want to shout back. But my throat is thick with the jagged rock so I can't speak. With another deep breath, the power shrinks away and backs off for only a second. That small fraction of time allows me to slam that open freedom shut and the dirt drifting from the ground to my fingertips drops back down into small, loose piles.

"That's all right," Bren reassures. The breath comes back, and the world is clear. The village is still standing and my family is on the cliff sides—hopefully oblivious to what just happened. "Don't try to do too much."

Vexation swells inside me. "I hate this power. I hate trying to control it." Inside, the power bangs against me, beckoning for me to let it out so the magic might soothe that outrage. It's a trap. All the power wants to do is destroy and I can't let that happen.

Bren steps close and places two reassuring hands on my shoulders. "Don't lose your sanity. This isn't your fault. If your father trained you at fifteen, you might be able to control your power now. Since you know nothing of that power, it's grown too strong and will take time to understand. But you'll get there."

I keep my eyes on his boots, on the clean leather and scuffs towards the toes. When he realizes I'm avoiding his eye, he sticks a finger underneath my chin and forces me to look up at him.

"Your power is yours to control. Try again. Don't do anything drastic. Just...create a wall," he ventures easily with a shrug. All I want to do is lose myself in his blue eyes and the warmth of his touch underneath my chin.

Instead of doing that, I ask, "A wall?"

"A wall. That's it. And once you've done that, our training will be complete. Consider that your accomplishment for the day and then you can rub it in Celestine's face." With a reassuring pat on the shoulder, he takes huge steps back and puts more distance between us.

A wall. All I have to do is create a small wall of ground, like a shield, and I'll finish training. My power can handle that, can't it?

Once again, I clear my mind of all doubts. I keep one small tether to the outside world, to Bren standing only a few feet away. Do it for him, control the power for him. You don't want to hurt him, do you?

No, of course, I don't. With my hands clenched into fists, I sneak a peek at the power and let it soak into my blood, into my bones. Magic rages within me like the fire Bren displayed minutes ago.

His fire was carefree, and this one is thick and endless and no matter where I go, the ground will always be near. So near I can pull from it. At the mercy of my enemies.

"A wall, Roux. That's it." Bren's voice is a melody, a humming reassurance to connect me to whatever humanity I might have left.

The ground grumbles again and I squeeze my eyes shut against the throttling in my brain. The power whispers that the pain will stop once I give in once I let it take control. If I do that, the entire village will crumble underneath and we will disappear forever. My friends, my family, the innocent people coming here to escape one threat will find themselves in another.

It will be my fault. I have to control.

Like a cat pouncing on a mouse, I snuff out the power and grip it in my fists to bend the strength to my will. The power of ground screams at me to let go, to tear a chunk of it and throw that into the ocean. I ignore the screaming whisper rattling every part of my body and try to take a deep breath.

Bren continues to reassure me but I can't hear his words, not anymore. They are a beacon, a light in a storm-swallowed ocean and I need them, to hear and remember, but I don't need context. I just need to know he's there, waiting to pull me back in.

In the empty expanse in my mind, a dusty room sits idle, waiting for me to use that power. I yank that door open, being met by a cold breeze of magic, and picture that wall in my mind. A wall of solid rock, stone, dirt. It will protect me. My power will protect me.

A different rumble shifts underneath my feet and through the power, I hear something break through. The sun is snuffed out, gone into shadow, and when I open my eyes, Bren isn't standing there anymore. He is, I realize, but he's behind the solid wall of stone standing over me like a tower.

I hadn't meant to make a structure this tall. As I take a step back, I realize it's two times the size of what I had imagined. Bren peers around with a broad smile on his face. "See, you controlled it! Doesn't that feel great?" He asks.

It does feel great. My hand clenched into a fist keeps that wall from crumbling. If I can learn to do that without my power wanting to take me down, I'll be strong beyond belief.

"This feels amazing," I breathe. And just like that, the small bit of distraction causes the power to shift.

The ground cracks open between us and I fall back, landing onto the hard dirt that cleaves itself in two. I unclench my fist as Bren tumbles back, and the wall crumbles into nothing more than a pile of dirt and rock. As quickly as I can, I force control—causing a splitting headache—and snuff out that power.

The rumbling stops and all is quiet again. My best friend looks with wide eyes at what I've done. Bren could only hide his fear for so long. He'fears me as everyone else does.

When he sees the desperation on my face, he holds out a hand. "One step at a time."

Although I don't want to, I take his outstretched hand. "I don't think I want to train anymore," I confess quietly.

Bren looks like he's ready to object but he nods. "That's fine. How about we eat our meal and enjoy the view?"

Like it's not there, Bren steps over the crack in the ground and takes the sack of food to a perfect sitting spot, resting his back against one boulder next to a twin.

He's the only person to accept my mistakes. Bren isn't my friend because of the force of power we share. No, Bren is my friend because we accept each other for the imperfections when no one else will.

Later in the day, when the soreness has settled inside my body from the small bit of training I managed, I kick off my boots and change into a pair of cinch waist pants, billowing around my thighs.

In the hours after training, dark clouds swallowed up the clear sky and deep thunder rumbles in the distance from the east. Whatever is coming, however strong the storm, we are prepared. The sun has set and the winds have gained pace. With the distant spark of lightning, I find these nights most relaxing. It forces us to stay inside, as a family, as one, and that is our strongest.

Instead of crawling upstairs and finding my way to bed, I lay in front of the fire with a book open on the floor in front of me. On the sofa, Celestine's pen skitters over the blank page then she crosses something out before writing again. A wonderful mind at work. My parents, upstairs, have already climbed into bed for the night.

If the crackling of the fire and the thunder wasn't so brash, we might have a chance of hearing their snores. Lucky for Celestine and I, we don't. She can't stand when they snore like bears. Particularly our father.

With a sigh, she closes her leather-bound book and plops down on the edge of the sofa, close to me. With a long, thin arm, she taps at my head and I bat her hand away. My protests aren't enough thus she does it again and I catch her hand in the air. "Is there something you need?" I question. She leans over the armrest, a goofy smile plastered onto her face.

"I saw what you did today. I saw you create that wall," she says with a grin. My hand immediately releases hers.

My heart flutters with nerves as I recall what happened after the fact. I nearly cleaved the world in two although my untrained power would never extend that far. If it did, I would Drain and end up killing myself before that happened. A witch's power can only extend so far and there isn't a chance of it extending from one end of the world to the other.

"Please don't tell dad, I don't want him to scold me." I close my book and involuntarily, my nose scrunches up.

Celestine tilts her head. "He saw it, too, and said it impressed him. For your sake, I distracted him before you nearly swallowed Bren whole with that crack in the ground." She nudges my head again and I don't bother batting her hand away.

"It's so difficult, Celestine. I hate not being in control of my power." Pushing with my elbows, I bring myself to a sitting position to face her.

She rests her chin on the back of her hands, causing a slight dip of her skin. Like always, she can't sit still, so her bare feet slap against the sofa cushion behind her and nearly the pillow our mother so carefully fluffed before she went to bed.

"You'll get there, eventually. You're not in the ideal place to learn, the capital is the best place—I heard the trainers are the best in the world." Her eyes flash with amusement and I'm tempted to agree. I heard the rumors, too. "Keep practicing and someday, you might find your Grounding."

I snort. "No one has ever heard of a witch of ground having a Grounding. If there is one, no one knows what it is. I'm one of the unlucky witches."

Not every witch has a Grounding. Most do, but a few don't. I happen to be one of the unlucky witches without another to rein in my power when it bursts out of control with a mind of its own. Every witch can have what we call Outbursts, the time our power decides to work on its own randomly. The user, being me, is pushed out so we lose that much-needed control.

It can happen to anyone, even the oldest witch. Whenever Outburst's take place, it's important for witches to have a Grounding, a witch who carries the opposite power or one closely related in strength. Those witches can stop that Outburst from happening before it starts. Out of everyone in this village, I am the most prone to an Outburst and everyone recognizes I don't have a Grounding.

I grimace at the thought. It's not fair.

"Even if you are one of the unlucky ones, a witch's power takes years to master. I'm still trying to learn the difference between growing daisies and roses. For some reason, the two are mixed up in my power."

Celestine laughs, embarrassed, and I want so desperately to tell her my power is nothing like that. My 'mixed up power' is not having the ability to control it at all and the difference is life or death. With her, she has the simple mistake of growing the wrong flower.

I look at the innocence on her face, ready to tell her exactly that, but I realize there isn't any use. She wants to help me and she's trying to console—her problems differ greatly from mine but she ignores that fact. With our powers being so different, she's trying to find common ground—for lack of a better phrase.

A common...flower, perhaps.

Before I have the chance to dive further into an explanation about the crack in the ground, the sound of someone bounding down the stairs has our attention turning. Our father appears a moment later, a wild look in his eye. His hair is disheveled on the right side, the side he sleeps on, and his tunic is ruffled towards the collar.

"What is it?" I ask, immediately standing.

"There's something here," he breathes. "I can hear it."

Celestine and I exchange a nervous glance and moments later, my mother comes down the stairs much calmer, with her hair pulled back. She's already dressed and lost in that calming focus, even her own daughters don't hold recognition.

"Do you know what it might be?" Celestine asks. She stands next to me, her shoulder grazing mine. This isn't the time to fold into each other.

I stuff my boots into my pants and wait for the order to fight. This could be the chance I've been waiting for, to allow freedom to my power. My hands are shaking and my heart is thundering so for a second, I wonder if fighting is the right thing to do. I could cause more damage than it's worth.

"It's a dark power," my father mumbles in answer while peeking out the curtains. As though in answer, thunder crashes overhead. "And that isn't an average storm."

He turns to us, eyes full of fear. I'm taken back. My father, out of all the years we've dealt with minor attacks, has never revealed his dread. Something is different tonight, something is looming. And if that storm isn't caused by natural occurrences...what witch is about to unleash hell on us all?