I've been many things, but never enough.
A bartender, a mechanic, a street fighter, a thief, a hired gun. Whatever put money in my pocket and kept me and Ruby alive, I did it.
The Ashlands weren't kind to anyone.
I walked ahead of Ruby and Sol, leading them through the ruined streets. The air was thick with smoke and the distant scent of burning coal. The Ashlands never slept, not really. Even now, past midnight, I could hear people moving in the distance—traders, drunks, men looking for a fight.
I kept my hands close to my holsters.
Reno.
For a long time, he was the only one who saw me. Not as an afterthought. Not as a disappointment. But as someone worth something.
My family didn't. They saw my blood, my lineage, and expected fire. Expected the Pyrosoul's flames to course through me like it did through the rest of them.
When it didn't, they turned away.
I was nothing to them, but Reno never treated me like that.
He taught me how to fight, how to survive. How to be more than the powers I didn't have.
I still remember the night he gave me my guns.
It was my sixteenth birthday. The palace halls had been cold, empty. No grand celebration, no gifts, no words of acknowledgment. Ruby came to my room for as long as she could sneak away, along with a small cup with what i think was supposed to be cake inside—Ruby never learned to cook. When she left, there was just silence.
Until Reno.
He found me sitting outside in the training yard, staring at the stars like they had answers. He didn't say much, just handed me a case wrapped in worn leather.
Inside—two pistols, custom-made. For me.
I had traced the engravings on the barrels, speechless.
"You got your own fire now, and they'll make damn sure you hit your mark."
That was all he said before walking off.
I still carried them.
But they weren't just weapons—they were an extension of me, of what I could do.
My juju wasn't like Ruby's. It wasn't something I could summon from my hands, wasn't something I could wield like a blade.
It was subtle, quiet.
I could imbue things with it. My bullets, mostly. Make them sharper, deadlier, more precise. If I focused enough, I could even shift their trajectory mid-air, make them curve just enough to catch someone off guard.
It wasn't the Pyrosoul. It wasn't fire. But it was mine.
I exhaled slowly, glancing at Ruby.
She walked beside me, quiet. She hadn't said much since we left the ruins.
She didn't have to. I knew what she was thinking.
I knew because I had lived it—being born into something you never asked for, something that was supposed to define you. And when it didn't, when you didn't meet their expectations, they either cast you aside or broke you trying to fit you into their mold.
Ruby got the other side of it. She was the Pyrosoul, but that didn't mean she got to be her.
I had spent my life being ignored.
She had spent hers being watched. Scrutinized. Molded into something that wasn't a person, but a symbol.
It wasn't just that I understood her pain—I felt it like it was my own.
That's why I protected her. Not because I thought she was weak. Ruby was the strongest person I knew.
But because I knew what happened when you let the weight of expectation, of guilt, crush you.
And Ruby… she carried too much.
She held herself together like cracked glass, pieces barely clinging to each other. And I… I felt like I had to keep holding her together, even if I didn't know how.
Some part of me was afraid that if I didn't, she would shatter completely.
I glanced at her again. She was staring ahead, lost in thought, her jaw tight.
I didn't say anything. Just walked.
Because for now, that was enough.