The rain started gently.
That kind of soft drizzle that smelled like wet bark and nostalgia. The kind that made children press their faces to windows and adults say things like "Well, looks like the garden needed it."
But by the time I realized Rhea was missing again, it had turned into a full-fledged sky tantrum.
I checked the kitchen first. No child. Just a mess of spoon-shaped scorch marks and one lonely slice of toast that had clearly been burned out of emotional spite.
Then I looked under the table. Behind the couch. In the laundry basket. The pantry. Even the stupid shed where she once tried to "summon breakfast spirits" using chicken bones and a rotting pear.
Still nothing.
"Rhea?" I called out into the storm, throwing on my cloak. "This isn't funny! You didn't even leave a note this time!"
Actually, no—there was a note.
Scrawled in wobbly charcoal on the wall near the door:
"Rain = washing for soul. Do not worry. Not planning to destroy city. Probably."
That was the sort of thing that made a father figure's heart stop cold.
I found her near the tree stump just outside town. The same place she'd tried her first controlled flame spell.
She was sitting perfectly still. Soaked. Barefoot. Hair clinging to her cheeks like soggy vines. Her cloak was bunched around her ankles and full of muddy leaves. She looked like a very sad, very damp squirrel that had been kicked out of royalty.
When she saw me, she didn't run.
Didn't laugh or throw a spark or say something outrageous.
She just blinked and said, "It's raining."
I walked to her slowly, my boots squishing in the grass, and dropped to a knee beside her.
"Yeah," I said softly. "It tends to do that sometimes."
Silence. Just the hiss of the rain against the trees. The occasional boom of distant thunder like an angry stomach.
Rhea stared down at her hands, trembling ever so slightly.
"Do you think I'm cursed?" she asked.
The question hit harder than I expected.
"No," I said instantly.
"But I keep hurting things."
"Accidents happen."
"I melted a training dummy. And cracked a mirror. And scorched an entire lawn, Elias."
I winced. "Okay, yeah, you might need flame counseling, but that doesn't make you cursed."
"I'm not normal."
"No one in this town is normal."
She turned toward me, eyes tired and too wise for someone her size.
"But what if I wasn't supposed to live again? What if the seal was right? What if the world wants me gone and I'm breaking the rules just by breathing?"
She said it with such quiet despair that my heart almost broke.
I took off my cloak and gently wrapped it around her shoulders. She stiffened at first, then slowly leaned into it. Into me.
"You think I haven't asked myself the same thing?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "When I woke up with that mark, when I saw your magic… when I realized who you used to be… I wondered if I was doing something wrong."
"And were you?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "But if protecting you is wrong, then I'll just have to be wrong louder than anyone else can scream about it."
She gave a small, reluctant smile.
"Even if I'm a danger?"
"Especially then. It's easy to love someone when they're harmless. It's harder when they could incinerate a village because someone tripped over their plush toy."
"I said I was sorry."
"Sir Swim-a-Lot still smells like smoke."
She giggled, and the sound made my chest unclench.
We sat in silence for a while after that. The kind of silence that feels safe. Mutual. Rhea leaned her head on my shoulder and stared up at the dripping canopy.
"Why do people hate what they don't understand?" she asked.
I shrugged. "It's easier. Understanding takes work. Hate's quicker. Like junk food for your brain."
"Do you understand me?"
I hesitated.
"I'm still learning. But I want to. That's what matters."
Rhea reached out and caught a single raindrop in her palm. She watched it roll down her fingers like it was trying to escape her.
"I think," she whispered, "I was a bad person."
I turned to her.
"No."
"But I—"
"No, Rhea. Maybe Revantra did things. Maybe things happened. But you're not her. You're you. You get to choose who you become."
She looked at me like that was the first time she ever heard it.
We walked home in the rain. No words. Just muddy boots and soft breathing and my cloak around her tiny shoulders.
When we got back to the house, Rhea changed into dry clothes while I made soup. Well, I tried to make soup. Technically it was hot water with three suspicious carrots and a chunk of emergency cheese. But she slurped it like it was gourmet.
"You cook weird," she said, licking the bowl.
"You summon firestorms when you're cranky."
"We all have flaws."
After dinner, we sat by the fire. She curled up next to me, still quiet, her eyes thoughtful.
"I don't think I want to destroy the world anymore," she mumbled.
"That's good."
"I think I want… to keep it safe. For people like us."
I smiled.
"Even if they don't love you?"
"You do. That's enough."
And just like that, the storm outside didn't seem so loud.
To be continued…