One time, when Sienna was newly eight years old, she'd burned herself on the stove while trying to see what her parents were cooking for dinner that night. Pozole, was it? Mole sauce for something else? Her neverending curiosity had urged her to crane her neck to try and see into the pot, and when that had failed, that curiosity had inflamed even more. She would simply lift herself up in the slightest—just to see what was in there—

"Ow!"

Tearful eyes had made the burn on her hand blurry, but the pain from the burn was still sharp and ever-stinging. Raw—an angry red burn. Someone had rushed into the room at the sound of her crying. "Sienna, what happened?"

She'd shown her mother her hand, sniffling.

While watching as her mother spooned and spread honey on the already-blistering wound, she'd asked why it had hurt to touch the stove—she'd touched it before, after all, and it'd been cold.

"See the flames underneath the pot? They go there when we turn the stove on and it makes the stove hot," her mother had said. "Don't touch the fire, cariña. I don't want you to get hurt."

Little, eight-year-old Sienna Diaz had nodded.

But, when Fajhiro walked through the door and Sienna the Matchlight tripped him, pinned him down, and subdued him in a choke hold, she found that touching Fire did not hurt at all. What hurt was when Fire's Tongue elbowed her in the gut and pushed her away from him with a furious snarl. "You dare—"

She didn't wait. She rushed to him, ducking under his fist, snatching his arm and wrenching it behind his back in a movement that made Fajhiro yelp in pain and squirm in surprise. Like a volcano, she erupted, something maddening flowing like lava down her body. Heat. Heat of anger, of shame—heat of a thousand names seeking revenge.

"Send us back!" she roared, one arm holding him back, the other biting her knife into his neck. "Envre, his other arm!"

Envre stood frozen, eyes wide, hands gripping the phoryth shooter so tightly his arms quivered.

"Envre, grab him!"

But instead of touching the fire god, Envre came to him and pointed the shooter at his head. Fajhiro ceased to move, glancing up at the device with an eerily amused expression. Envre said softly, "Don't move."

The Bright Flame suddenly grinned, setting Sienna's nerves aflame. "I do not need to."

Smoke—the putrid scent of smoke filled the room. Smoke led to life. Or it signalled death. The scent of fire and a blazing pain at Sienna's hip—

"Djia!" The matches in her robes burst into flames. Panic rose up into her throat and she let go of Fajhiro, frantically patting down the fire.

"It would be foolish not to admit that was clever, Matchlights," said Fajhiro, brushing himself off with a languid hand. He touched his neck where the kitchen knife had nicked him, and when his fingers came away bloody, his eyes darkened like soot. "But then again, I think you were foolish not to admit the same about me."

"Don't move," warned Envre, still aiming at Fajhiro's chest.

"Ah, the boy's phoryth shooter."

A whistling sound whisked all around them, and Envre's eyes left Fajhiro, darting around to try and trace the noise. The whistle turned into a hiss, the hiss to a scream. Sparks from Sienna's burned robe seemed to multiply, filling the room and slowly descending to the ground. One spark floated, spiraling, taking extra care to navigate the night breezes coming in from the windows, shifting this way and that, spinning like a dancer to the rhythm of the scream. Then the dancer touched the phoryth shooter—the noise ceased—

In an instant, the gun turned red-hot and began to melt. Envre dropped it with a shout, clutching his sizzling hands and gasping for air, sinking to the ground. The shooter burned a flaming hole in the floor, but Fajhiro killed the flames before it could catch fire to the rest of the temple.

"Envre!"

Fajhiro furrowed his eyebrows as if he were a disappointed father. "Sienna Diaz, I am going to assume the both of you want to 'go home'. That is a correct assumption, is it not?"

She refused to answer.

"Do you think yourself so mighty that you are the only one who can 'stop me'? Do you think so highly of yourself that you believe you are the only one who has tried this?" Fajhiro shook his head, his face mirthless. "I have told you before. The Fire may have started your journey, but it has not done anything else."

"Send us home."

"You are not in the position to bargain, Sienna Diaz. Besides," he said, waving a lofty hand, "you misunderstand the situation."

"I understand that you told me you had the power to send us home."

Envre, breathing hard as steam trailed up from his hands, said, "Why keep us here?"

Huffing, Fajhiro finally caught a glimpse of Zimorrah. "I have no time for Matchlights thinking I can be threatened into submission. Zimorrah, come with me."

Sienna's eyes darted to her. Zimorrah, High Priest's daughter. Highly favored, highly revered. Confident and strong, respectful and pious. The one she served had given her the opportunity to bring lasting honor to her family, and Sienna was aware this was no small thing. She saw it in Zimorrah's face—jaw taut, coal-like eyes stony and distant, head held high as if suspended by a flimsy string from the ceiling. Zimorrah did not move.

"Why do you hesitate?" asked the Bright Flame, his voice urgent and raised. "Come."

She dipped her head as if to bow, but Sienna saw through the gesture: Zimorrah was conflicted. "Are you going to make me into one of them?"

"They fight because they have misused my blessing. Would you do the same?"

"It does not look like they are fighting," said Zimorrah, looking to Sienna, eyebrows furrowed. "It looks like they are begging."

Fajhiro took in a sharp breath, impatient as a wildfire at a riverside. "I cannot help them."

"Then you would not be able to help me—if I asked?"

"We do not have time—" Fajhiro stopped, meeting her gaze with grave intensity. "No. I would not be able to help you if you asked me. Fire's will is to give you your will. Not mine."

Something snapped inside of Sienna as if a rope had been fraying for ages, twisting and wringing her own neck. Her eyes stung, her throat tightening. The prospect of losing an opportunity grated against her. She could be losing the Diaz household. She could be losing Lanil and Rephai and Djianora, her best one. Sienna thought of the remains of the match that lay black and smeared in the west hallway. "Are you or are you not capable of sending us to different worlds?"

"I am."

"Then why will you not send us home?"

"I do not 'help'—nor do I interfere. A Matchlight is simply sparked by the Fire, ordained to have the great privilege of having the Fire and being able to use the matches for chances. Even I know not why you were chosen; you simply were chosen and given the spark. The rest is not my doing." The ensuing pause made Sienna sick to her stomach. "Some Matchlights find their way home. Others do not."

"You must help us."

"It isn't my choice. I am sorry, Sienna Diaz. You are going to have to light a match and find your way—"

"I did!"

Calculated silence.

"Because of you, I had to find my way through fifty worlds. Fifty worlds in eleven years. Do you realize what that does? Do you realize what you've done?" Sienna whirled around. "Envre, tell him how many you've been through! Tell him!"

Envre, tears streaming down his face from the pain of the branded hand he cradled to his chest, spoke through clenched teeth, "Hundred and fifty—"

He winced, a strangled cry escaping his mouth.

"—in seven years."

Sienna, blood running hot through her veins, red clouding her vision, fumed. "I did light a match. Over and over and over again. They weren't homes but places! They weren't chances but cycles! They weren't matches but mismatches, and I did light a match—every time! And I lit one here, too, and it didn't work."

Fajhiro's dark eyes sparkled with intrigue for a moment, but it vanished as soon as it had come. "Again, I am not at fault. Zimorrah, prove your loyalty and win your honor. Come."

Zimorrah hesitated again. But she bowed her head and they fled the room.

Ignoring the plea in her mind to run after them, Sienna rushed to Envre and knelt. His hand had swelled, skin turning white as his pale face. Some of the metal of the gun had welded to the skin in a sickening, blackened red. It was a deep burn.

"It hurts so bad," he hissed, his voice breaking. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Hurts like fire—"

She took his hand by the wrist as gently as she could, the burn inflamed and his arm cold and clammy. Envre's pulse under her thumb felt erratic and frenzied. His eyelids started to flutter, and all thoughts of chasing after Fajhiro and Zimorrah suddenly melted away. "This isn't good. Let me see your other hand."

He cradled it against his chest and Sienna had to take it, but when she pulled it away from him the hand was covered in red. A wound in Envre's gut bloomed with red, red so dark Sienna thought she'd see the governor's face when she met Envre's eyes.

"I don't know how—he got me." Envre grit his teeth and let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard.

No. No. This wasn't right. Fajhiro couldn't have wounded him. He couldn't have killed him. They were supposed to go home and rest.

"I-I've got my knife. We can clean the burn, remove some of the . . ." Envre's eyes started to roll to the back of his head, and Sienna gripped his shoulders. His gaze regained focus and she released her hold on him, hands trembling. Tearing off the overcoat to her robe, Sienna pressed the cloth to the wound and stained it red. "I'm going to lay you down and clean your hand and find water—I'm going to . . . I'm going to . . . djia, I don't know what else—"

"Leave."

"—to do, but don't move—" She stopped, her head whipping up, mouth still open. "What?"

"Leave." He said it with such a finality it made her eyes sting.

"But," the words spilled like lifeblood, "I promised you. I promised I'd get you home."

A moment passed.

"I think I'm . . . think I'm going home already." He swallowed, lip quivering. Pain laced his features with fear.

"Envre, hush—you're hurting yourself," she cried. "I'm going to get you home—I'll . . ."

"Do you think they mourned when I left?"

"You didn't leave," she urged, something stirring inside of her. "You were taken."

He shook his head weakly. "It was never fire."

"I don't understand."

"Go back to your home, Sienna."

"I can't, Envre, I—" Her voice dropped, a storm churning inside of her. "I've tried that. I've been to all the worlds there are and I've been everyone I can possibly be. I can't shed any more blood and I can't keep lying and running and—and escaping and changing just so I can live for a time before moving to the next world. Djia, why is it so hard?"

Her robes were soaked with red, and they were warm and sticky. Envre was losing too much blood.

"Hold on," she pleaded, tears burning like dying embers.

Envre's old, old eyes were distant, as if they'd flown from his young face like free birds and had soared with otherworldly winds on the wings of death. But they did not yet cloud over. His voice was hoarse. "I have not been this far."

Suddenly, he started to move, shifting his position and reaching into a pocket on the inside of his own overcoat. His charred hand gripped something. A single match.

He tried to hand it to her, saying, "Light it."

"It won't work, Envre." Tears filled her eyes like the glassy Djianoran sea, but no wind caressed her cheek. "Besides, where would I even go? Nowhere has a place for me—I've already been taken from Earth and I had to leave Djianora, my best one—"

With a horrible, sweeping movement, Envre lit the match and shoved it into her hand. Sparks began to fly all around her like a fountain, but everything was dry and warm with flushed heat, not of shame but of shock. The sparks swirled, cascading over her shoulders like smooth water. Envre nodded, red-rimmed eyes blazing with reassurance and passion as the world fell around them.

"Sienna Diaz, you are your best one." 

The End