Fire Witch by Thea Atkinson Page A

consequences of invasion.
    She could almost feel relief wash over her. Let them suffer her mother's wrath. They'd give credence to the tales soon enough, those who might survive and escape. And should another generation of new men decide it was again time to take what didn't belong to them, she would be the temptress of flame in her own right. Given her full power. As capable of instilling fear as any temptress before her as she commanded the flame to do her bidding.
    She crept to the yard and froze next to the well, scanning the chaos to pick out her mother as she walked calmy, almost coldly, through the frenzy, pointing a finger as she went, using her power to set aflame each marauder she encountered. The stink of burning hair wafted across the breeze, carried by the sound of each victim's screams. One old man, too doddering to get out of the way in time caught his sleeve on the flame from a still-blazing invader, and with an almost callous shove, Indiris forced the elder to the ground, and sent him rolling with her foot. A middle-aged woman, probably his daughter, raced to his side and beat out the flames with her skirt. Already moved on, Indiris cornered an invader who gripped a prepubescent teen by her hair.
    Aislin let go a sigh of relief as she gripped the lip of the well. Everything would be all right. Her mother had everything in hand, and all she had to do was stay out of the way and make sure everyone she could help was safe.
    She scanned to the left, doing her best to maintain her composure in the face of the chaos. Several children hid beneath a hay wagon, unnoticed by a large intruder striding past, his sword extracted and slicing this way and that as a means of warding off any of the men who came at him. He wore lightweight leathers and soft-soled boots and he seemed more bent on inspecting the village than stealing women and horses. His armbands glinted in the early morning sunlight, blinding her for a second until she had to cover her eyes with her hand.
    Unlike many of the invaders, he seemed almost casual in his movements, not bothering with any of the young women that streaked past him. His gaze swung from left to right, his sword slicing into whoever came at him. At least three village men died his hand when they went after him with clubs and pitchforks. So ill-equipped for such violence. Although she had faith in her mother's power, she couldn't help but feel regret at Indiris's choices. When her time came, she'd make sure her people were prepared, not suffering the consequences of complacency like they were doing now.
    When she scanned to the right, she saw a similar scene, another marauder dressed the same, acting just as preoccupied. Either they didn't care about their comrades who were being sent to a howling flamed death or they'd been prepared to die before they breeched the walls.
    One thing was certain: this was not like the time when she was seven. In an instant, she knew her mother would not be able to keep the entire village safe. It had grown too large for one witch to protect, and there were far too many, too committed marauders. Indiris was powerful, yes, but she was still just one witch and her powers had begun to wane as she aged. If she had just given Aislin one sacred mark, she could be there beside her mother, taking down those who would dare to pillage though she loved. But that wasn't the case.
    For whatever reason, Indiris refused to name Aislin as the rightful temptress of flame. Instead her mother marked an old man as her protector and a prepubescent child as her blood witch, leaving her first born waiting impatiently for the passing of power. Sometimes she could feel it swelling within her breast, racing through her tissues with the promise of supremacy. But it always stopped just short of blooming, and she knew the reason was because she should have been marked as a babe. The power was stunted within her, and so her dreams grew ever stronger, threatening to overtake her body