I was barefoot. Dirt on my knees. A string of wildflowers tangled in my hair. Daisies and red clover I'd stolen from the north slope. The hem of my dress was torn, dragging behind me like a banner of rebellion, smudged with ash from the old fire pit and green stains from where I'd fallen laughing down the hill. My brothers took one look at me and shook their heads.
"You look like a wild thing," they said. "Not a lady."
But I didn't care. I liked the wild better. I liked the way the wind didn't care who I was. The way the dirt didn't mind being touched. The way the sky looked bigger when I wasn't trying to be small.
Grandfather never minded either.
"Come here, spark," he called, not even glancing back, already knowing I'd follow.
I grinned wide. The gap in my teeth was still there then, and I wore it like a badge. Skipped down the old stone path, feet slapping the warm bricks that held the sun like a secret. I knew every dip, every crack, where the moss grew thick between the stones and where the rainwater always pooled after storms.
I didn't slow down. Not until I reached him.
He sat under the old ironwood tree, the one with roots like twisted fingers and a trunk that creaked when the wind leaned in too close. His hands were busy with something—carving, maybe, but his presence was enough. Solid. Like time stopped when you were near him.
He didn't speak much. Just being there, in that hush between words, was enough to make everything feel whole. I didn't know, then, how rare that kind of stillness was.
He wasn't working with steel that day. I remember that clearly.
Instead of the usual clang of the hammer, there was only the soft scrape of a blade against wood. A pale block of ashwood rested in his lap, and his calloused hands moved slow and careful. That alone felt strange. Grandfather never worked slow.
"I'm making you something," he said, not looking up. "But you're not ready for real steel yet."
I huffed loud enough for him to hear. Crossed my arms, kicked at the dirt like it had insulted me. "I am ready."
That made him laugh. When he looked at me, his eyes had that softened edge, like he was seeing something more than just a child stomping her feet. "You think fire makes you strong, girl," he said. "It doesn't. Fire makes you visible. What you do after that — that's what makes you powerful."
I didn't understand it then. But the words etched into me.
I sat down beside him, cross-legged, elbows on my knees, chin in my hands. Watched the slow birth of something beautiful. He carved the hawk on the hilt with the patience of someone who'd fought wars and seen worse, which he definitely had. I remember the way the feathers came to life — one stroke at a time, rough at first, then precise. A talon, then a wing. Then the eyes. Sharp. Focused. Like the Halewynns.
I must've stayed like that for hours, soot clinging to my cheeks, the forge crackling in rhythm with his breath. He didn't say much after that. Just worked.
When he finished, he placed the wooden sword into my hands without ceremony. "It's not a toy," he said. "It's a promise."
I remember staring down at it—at the simple shape, the smoothed edges, the faint warmth left by his hands—and asking, "A promise of what?"
He knelt — joints cracking, the years catching up to him and tapped the center of my chest with two fingers. Right over my heartbeat. "That no one will take this from you. Not even kings."
I looked down at the sword again, then back at him. "So… if a king tries, I just poke him with this?"
He laughed. "Exactly. And if that doesn't work, you just keep poking until he runs away." He tapped my chest again, then looked at me with that half-smile of his that always meant something was coming, and I probably wouldn't like it. "Now, you're to carry this with pride. Swing it like you mean it. And absolutely no hitting your brothers unless they truly deserve it."
I grinned. "What if they only sort of deserve it?"
He squinted at me, mock serious. "Then you only sort of hit them. A tap. Maybe two."
I laughed, but he didn't. Not at first. He looked at me for a long moment, then gently rested his hand on top of my wildflower crown. "You're my spark," he said. "And one day, you'll set the whole damn world on fire. But first—learn where to aim the flame."
And I believed him.
That night, he told me stories of the hawk. How it never flew in flocks. How it hunted alone, and from heights no one else dared. How it never screamed when it struck. Just silence. Speed. Precision.
I might've been fighting to stay awake in his arms while sleep pulled me down with every word he spoke. But even as my eyes drooped, I knew exactly what he'd say next—because he always said it before I drifted off.
"You're not meant for soft things, Kiana," he murmured into my hair. "But you are meant for flight."
Until the nights came when he wasn't there to say them anymore.
My eyes open to the present.
The room is still. The ceiling above me swims in blur as hot tears streak sideways into my pillow. I don't wipe them.
The wooden sword is clutched to my chest, just like back then. Its handle, worn smooth by years of holding on too tightly, digs into my ribs. The carved hawk is faded now, but I still trace the wings with my thumb like a ritual.
They celebrated Killias tonight.
But it was Idris Halewynn who made the steel. Who built the vision. Who raised me with truths sharper than any blade.
And they took him.
They took everything.
But they forgot what they left behind.
Me.
The girl with ash on her knees and a wooden sword in her hands.
The firestarter.
The hawk.
And now I remember.
"You're a firestarter," he whispered, "So make sure what you burn deserves it."
Idris Halewynn.
My grandfather.
The only man in this cursed bloodline who knew what loyalty meant — not to crowns, not to politics, but to people. To truth.
He used to smell like pine resin and burnt iron. I still remember it. The scent of the forge woven into his very skin, and the way his hands were always nicked from shaping blades not meant for killing, but for protection.
And tonight, they celebrated the man who murdered that legacy.
Killias Wren.
That bastard.
That silver-tongued wraith of a man, parading around in brocade robes and polished medals like he earned any of it. My stomach turns just thinking about the way they applauded him at the summit. How every noble rose with their goblets raised to toast the "Founding Mind of Steel." His name lit up in gold above the banners. His face carved in cake and marble.
They called them friends. Called them blood-bound. Said they forged the kingdom's defense together.
But no one remembers how that bond ended — how Killias accused my grandfather of treason. Of forging weapons to sell to the enemy. No trial. No defense. Just rumors and a noose of politics tightened around his neck until he was gone.
"Found with a shattered spine at the base of the north cliff."
They said he jumped.
I say he was pushed.
And Killias — oh, Killias — was quick to clean up the ashes. Took the schematics. The steel secrets. The revolutionary alloy designs my grandfather spent years perfecting. He took them, renamed them, and stamped his seal over Idris's truth.
And now he thrives.
Fame. Wealth. A title. The King's Ear. He built his empire on bones and lies and not even dust of my grandfather remains in the records. Only the sword I hold now, and the memories they tried to erase from me.
I roll to my side, clutching the hawk-shaped hilt tighter.
There's a line of woodwork just beneath the wings. A name, carved with a blunt knife by a man who was losing his sight but not his pride.
For Kiana, the Spark.
I blink once. Then again. The ceiling blurs.
Because the truth is, I remember more than I let on.
I remember the night the guards came. How my father didn't stop them. How Rose stood beside him, clutching his hand like a doll, how my brothers were silent clenching their fists. I remember the way Grandfather knelt to speak to me one last time before they dragged him away. He took my small hands in his soot-black ones. Hands that had never held a lie.
"I need you to remember something," he said.
I sniffled. "Why are they taking you? What did you do?"
He smiled. Not the gentle kind, but the kind that hurt to look at. The kind worn by men who've been betrayed by their own brothers. "Sometimes truth threatens the wrong kings, spark."
I didn't understand it then. How could I? I was only a child with a wooden sword tucked under her arm and a heart full of things she thought couldn't break.
"Listen close, Kiana Halewynn," he said that with proud and confidence, drawing me near. "Don't trust a man who can't look you in the eye when he wins."
Killias never did.
Not once.
That bastard came to the trial in blue velvet and spoke in circles. Spoke of national secrets and dangerous ideals and how my grandfather had "lost his way." He said it with sadness. Regret. He painted himself the loyal friend forced to betray for the kingdom's safety.
But not once — not once — did he look at me.
He spoke of peace. Of necessary endings. Of debts owed.
But his eyes stayed on the paper in his hands, or the marble floor beneath his boots. Never on my grandfather. Never on the girl who watched everything she loved rot in real time.
Because he knew.
He knew he hadn't won by truth. He'd won by theft.
Tonight everyone toasted to the very lie that ended Idris Halewynn.
But I remember the truth.
The soot. The steel. The man who knelt without shame even when the whole world turned its back.
And I remember this: Killias never looked me in the eye.