So, this happened. I think I'll let the story explain itself for the most part, but there are two things to note before we begin.

First, to those who have read The Curse And The Blessing, I'm still working on it; there will be six chapters total and an epilogue, and I am working on Chapter 2 right now.

Second, due to the mysterious nature of the Canon Cinder, I'm basically operating on pure guesswork and more than a bit of my own brand of nonsense in defining this one; some of the inspiration I'm drawing from here should be obvious. Basically, I don't expect this to be remotely accurate to canon at all, and I'm not really trying to be. Just so you know.

EDIT: This ended up getting a Code 1 for some reason, so I changed the rating to M so it would be published, but you can expect generally T-rated violence at the worst.

Anyway, with that over with, let's get on with the story! (And don't forget to review if you liked what you saw or had suggestions or criticism!)

Cinnamon wafts from the ashes
something sweet was burning down;
Rotten outside pure within, a
lawless prince rejects his crown.

Earthy dampness hides the hunted;
Metal stench of rusted iron.
Acrid smoke from wilting flowers;
Minted whiteness seems so fair;
Musty red walls feel familiar;
Neon ozone fills the air...

The lone figure lay in the center of the ragged carpet, laying back lethargically as she felt the stifling heat seep down her throat, sweat staining her ragged clothes to no effect. Facing her was a massive metal monstrosity of a furnace, its cylindrical black body radiating visible heat, its tiny maw open to spill an angry orange light over the surroundings. The fire within burnt and cracked with an almost accusing tone, a tone oddly similar to the voices of those who lived just upstairs. Along the walls to the left and right were stacks of books, the wax of their bindings slightly melted from many a night being read near the furnace, and each one worn from use. Sooty handprints covered their leather dust jackets like a child's art project, but their owner had been careful to treat the precious pages within more respectfully. A staircase, the steps littered with used bowls and silverware, led up along the wall opposite the furnace; a thick door with no less than three deadbolts at the top, while a tiny cot filled the equally tiny space below. In the corner behind the furnace was a tall stack of firewood, added to on an irregular basis through a diagonal slot near the ceiling – it was too small for the room's occupant to fit through, unfortunately. Aside from those, the room was bare, the few possessions all coverered in a fine layer of soot and lit only by the same burning orange glow.

The room was bare, and grimy, and small, yet it was her home, as it had been for the past... five years, she thought. Perhaps it was six? The room was windowless and she had no clock; the only way she could judge time was when she was brought food, something that her captors sometimes forgot to do. She knew, remembered enough from her childhood, that hers was a bad lot, and there was a better world waiting for her somewhere outside. Yet, part of her, a part she cursed and despised with every cord of her being, that was afraid to escape, not for fear of failure and punishment, but from the thought of facing an unfamiliar world. It was that part of her alone that had prevented so many opportunities from being taken, and why she now lay here doing nothing even as the first of the deadbolts unlocked with a sharp click.

Clack. Click.

The stairs creaked as her visitor gingerly made her way down, carefully stepping around the discarded dishes. She didn't bother going too far, stopping on the third step and leaning over to see into the basement. "Can't you make it go any hotter? My room is, like, freezing." The overdressed girl frowned at her so-called sister without any sympathy, wincing as some ash rubbed off onto her puke-brown nightrobe. When the figure on the mat made no move to respond, she raised her voice. "Cinder! Don't make me get Mom up to come down here!"

Cinder snorted slightly, taking some comfort in the knowledge that Tremaine would beat her own daughter just as badly as she would Cinder for losing her some beauty sleep, but after a moment of consideration, sluggishly got to her feet and began heading toward the fire poker. "That's better," was all her sister offered on the way out. Cinder barely even noticed as she mechanically went about her task; the lack of gratitude had ceased to bother her a long time ago. Such was simply her lot in life.

Realizing her own thoughts, a sudden burst of anger overtook her, and she jabbed deep into the flames with her poker, not noticing that her fingers had slipped until it was too late. Free of her hand, the instrument flew like a javelin into the heart of the furnace, the pointed end embedding itself in the interior wall opposite, while the wooden handle rested among the coals. Cinder could only stare in horror, her hands suddenly sweaty all over again as she was mesmerized by the pulsing, flickering orange cracks in the black-caked bottom, the dancing flames roaming across a tiny landscape and drawing curiously toward the new arrival.

Tremaine would kill her if she had to spend a cent of her precious fortune on a new poker, but the heat, bad enough on a regular day, seemed to shoot up several degrees just from thinking about the other option. But still, she had no choice – Cinder had to try to reach in and retrieve the poker.

Carefully reaching one hand forward, fruitlessly trying to steady her wavering limb so as not to brush the edges of the small door, she drew closer to the wrathful metal hulk. She was up to her wrist now – already, it felt like the blood in her fingers was boiling, and a muscle in her pinkie seized up. Ignoring the pain, too tense now to allow for a single mistake, she reached further inward, taking a small step toward the furnace and nearly tripping on the rug. She was up to her elbow, and slowly, carefully began twisting her arm over to reach downwards. She had run out of sweat now, the droplets on her skin having long since evaporated in the infernal heat. A flame licked upward just below her hand, but she resisted the urge to jump away, knowing she'd only hit the burning metal ceiling if she did so. Her skin was beginning to turn pinker than usual, and the burning sensation grew stronger… Her shoulder was now just short of pushing up against the opening, and her fingers still couldn't even so much as brush the poker's handle.

Her vision began to waver, and she realized she was crying. Blinking away the tears so they wouldn't cause a misjudgement, she stared helplessly into the fire as she considered her options, barely aware of her arm still slowly roasting in there. With a gulp, she realized she had no choice, and gritted her teeth.

Throwing herself forward, she flailed wildly for the handle, finally succeeding in grabbing it. She withdrew, banging her knuckles roughly on the way out, and all but threw the poker across the room and away from the furnace, not caring where it landed as she dropped to her knees.

Clutching her hand tightly, the burning sensation finally overtook her. Her whole side had been pressed up against the furnace's shell for several seconds too long, flames rocketing up and down within her skin even through her dress, while her shoulder and hand were actually beginning to blister and crack, sending sharp spikes of pain into her mind with every slight movement – the pain was worse if she held still. She bit her hand mindlessly, feeling the teeth actually sink into her skin, yet it failed to distract from the horrific burning heat that overtook her entire body. This had to be the end, it just had to, her animal mind screamed within itself, yet all that came out was a muffled groan and whimper. She bit harder, but it didn't help, and tears once more sprung to her eyes. The world was being swallowed in blackness, the blinding light from the furnace holding out for a moment longer before the merciful, cool, black rushed in to obscure that as well.

When she came to, Cinder did so all at once, still lying on the rug. Yet - something was different. Blinking quietly, (tears still clung to her lashes; had she only been out for a second?) the tattered girl pushed herself up to her knees, mind struggling to determine what was wrong.

And then it hit her – there was nothing wrong. Looking down, she saw that her hand and shoulder were whole and unblemished, though soot had been rubbed away in the right spots. Not only that, but the burning sensation was gone entirely. In fact, she even felt a little bit chilly! She glanced over to see that the furnace was indeed still burning, casting the same malevolent orange glow as always, but the stifling heat she had never quite grown accustomed to in five years was entirely absent.

Distractedly playing with her fingers, Cinder's mind leapt forward. What had happened? Where were her injuries? Why was the heat gone? Several theories, each more insane and desperate than the last, leapt out at her, but she dismissed them instantly. There was no logical explanation, as far as she knew.

Standing with a sigh, the girl leaned her head against a bookshelf, too emotionally drained to give the issue any real deep thought, yet too vividly affected by the ordeal to stop dwelling. Her mind raced in circles, replaying the event over and over, asking the same questions but still at a loss for answers.

She didn't know how long it was before she finally moved, her frantic heartbeat gradually slowing down even as her mind continued its frantic race, but eventually she became aware that she had stood upright again, body seemingly moving of its own accord as she picked up the fire poker, gingerly reached in to turn over a log, then made a point of carefully withdrawing it before depositing the tool back in its rack. She moved like a zombie to her cot, and flopped down unceremoniously. She had never needed even a single blanket in this hellhole of a basement, but now she shivered as a cold breeze brushed against her bare skin, the ragged little dress she wore now feeling like nothing at all.

Another uncountable period of time passed, and she still couldn't sleep. The fire had died down now, and after long minutes of consideration, she stood up again, pushing her exhausted form to throw in a few more logs, arranging them to best pick up the flames that remained among the dusty cinders.

Wavering where she stood, she unthinkingly reached forward to lean against the furnace… and only after realizing what she'd done, she also realized she didn't feel warm at all. If anything, her palm felt somewhat cold from touching the metal, and she pulled her hand away to find not even a trace of pinkness on her skin.

Mind beginning to work again, she hesitantly reached forward once more, running her fingers down the side of the hulk. Nothing. She paused when her hand came to the opening… then without a second thought, she plunged her arm back into the heart of the fire. She jerked back, but not from the heat – she felt like she was freezing! Probing inward again, she found that the fire seemed colder the more intensely it burned, and she felt no pain whatsoever. She wondered idly if she had simply gone numb, the stress shutting down her neurons somehow, but that still didn't explain why she wasn't getting burned whatsoever. Besides, the small tongues of flame that lapped at her hand tickled somewhat, like the tongues of the mice sometimes did when they stole food from her very hands.

Withdrawing from the furnace, Cinder clutched at her hand again, this time trying to warm it up, frowning introspectively at the fire. Once again mentally running through the possibilities, she finally settled on a theory that seemed to make even a small bit of sense. Dashing to the bookshelf, she pored over the familiar spines, occasionally wiping one off to see the covers. There were all sorts of texts down here, leftover from when her father had died. Tremaine wasn't a woman much for reading, and had had those parts of his collection she'd been unable to sell off to rot down here alongside Cinder. Cinder didn't consider herself a bookworm, but these exciting stories and dry manuals alike had been her only non-rodent companions down here, and she had come to appreciate their company.

"Aha!" At last finding what she was looking for, the girl pulled the book out and dropped to the rug, sitting cross-legged with it open across her lap, flipping to the index in back. "Atlas, August Grimm migration patterns… Aura. Page Seventy-Two." Flipping forward again until she found the right page, she saw a whole section was dedicated to the topic. "Let's see…" Her voice cracked from disuse as she read aloud to herself. "Aura is a field of... yeah, right, got that already… protects the individual from harm, both from physical blows or falls, but from extremes of temperature, as well. That fits… umm, heals rapidly… right."

The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together in her head, but she needed more confirmation. Turning the pages, she found a subsection titled Activation. "There are three main methods for unlocking one's aura; with the assistance of another, by oneself through rigorous mental training, or through exposure to truly extreme extenuating circumstances. The last case is very unreliable and uncommon, but there are several commonly used methods and exercises associated with the first two, some of which are detailed below." Growling with impatience, Cinder quickly scanned across the next few pages, until something caught her eye. "In the rare recorded instances of activation caused by extreme danger, the circumstances surrounding the activation, and perhaps the circumstances of the individual's life as a whole, may be reflected in the individual's semblance." There was a footnote attached; "Semblance; see pages one-fifty-two through one-sixty-five, and Index Table Eight-B." Once again, she flipped to the highlighted section, leaning down closer to the pages as her interest grew.

"Semblances are another manifestation of an individual's soul, intrinsically tied to their aura. As a result, if their aura is not yet unlocked, they do not have a semblance, and if their aura is unlocked but drained, they cannot use it. However, it is still an immensely helpful tool, and especially so to the hunters and huntresses who so often risk their lives in protecting the people of the four kingdoms from the Grimm.

"Semblances take the form of some sort of ability or power, either tied to the individual's personality or, as discussed in chapter five, sometimes to the circumstances in which the individual's aura was unlocked. As a result, no single aura is exactly like another, though there have been attempts to broadly classify similar groups by how they manifest or what their effect may be. Some augment the individual's natural speed or strength, while others may grant them limited control over a common element or force. See Index Table Eight-B for the common classifications and groupings within the Luna-Shawcross system."

Cinder set the book down; she would continue to read in further detail later, but at the moment, she felt light-headed and unfocused. Everything came together perfectly, but it was all so unexpected… the fire had been so, so hot… she just couldn't comprehend it all right now. Breathing deeply for several long moments, she shut away the painful memories to focus on what she had just learned; she had an aura! Her mind immediately jumped to an image of Tremaine beating her, but now each blow that rained down had no effect. She could just see her stepmother growing more and more frustrated as she failed to elict a response, and a smug grin made its way to Cinder's expression.

Something else occurred to her, and she slowly stood up, futilely dusting herself off, and walked over to the furnace once more. Staring into the flames, bad memories surfaced once again, but this time the girl had no intention of reaching in again. She lifted a soot-stained hand up to the opening, watching as the orange light washed over her blackened fingers, and slowly made a gesture, putting more feeling into it. The flames inside rose higher as bidden, until they rose past the opening. The cold became too much for her, and Cinder gently let them back down. Her mind thrummed quietly, processing this new information without reaction. It hadn't quite sunk in yet.

Cinder immediately turned to lie down in her cot once more, exhaustion finally overtaking her before she even hit the pillow.

One Month Later

The expansive kitchen was quiet, dark save for the light of the shattered moon streaming in through a window. There was a door in the corner, barely noticeable behind the pantry as it was, that had three deadbolts. Had anyone been present that night, they would have seen a slight orange glow coming from the locks, as one-by-one, the metal heated and they began to melt. Once there was nothing but ribbons of molten silver trailing down the door, it slowly opened, and a dark, somewhat emaciated figure, coated from head to foot in black soot and carrying a thick book tucked under one arm, crept out.

Cinder took trembling steps, barely able to process the sight of anything other than her boiler room. It had been so long since she'd been up here that her once-familiar home now felt alien and terrifying. But she had done it; she was ready. She could finally escape.

Quickly and quietly gathering some non-perishables from the cupboards, she moved on to the dining room, and out into the hall. On the second floor were her step-sisters, she could recall, but more importantly, Tremaine had converted her father's old office into her bedroom, even before he'd died. Softly slipping in, warily watching the bumpy figure beneath the sheets, she searched the shelves until she'd found what she was looking for. A coin purse, ugly and tasteless in design as it was, was her goal, and careful not to rattle the lien within, Cinder slipped it into the sack she'd made of the tablecloth.

The front door was simple to unlock from the inside, as her family members had doubtless not expected Cinder to even get that far, and after stealing a spare pair of slippers from the entryway closet, she was free.

Cinder walked at first, marveling at the dark houses around her. She didn't know where she was going, of course, but it felt good just to have her home at her back. A tiny part of her actually missed that basement now, but for the most part, she just didn't care. Enjoying the gentle breeze – neither hot nor cold – she walked, then jogged. She was running now, domestic monoliths passing by on either side, until she was out of breath. She'd attempted to do some running in place to prepare for her escape, of course, but there was only so much one could do in that basement, and she was dismayed to find herself only five or six blocks away. Okay, then. One step at a time, walking again. Exhaustion began to push at the edges of her consciousness, but she ignored it, continuing on inexorably.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but eventually the moon had set, and a bright yellow glow had begun to creep up on the horizon. Cinder found herself walking by a park of some sort, and on impulse, turned to walk across the grass, collapsing hard onto a bench. The stars were slowly fading as dawn came, and the girl wanted to take in the sight. She was reminded of her father, before Tremaine had come into their lives, and how he would sometimes wake her up so they could watch the sunrise. She did not cry as she watched this new dawn, but quietly, she whispered to herself. "Wish you could be here with me, father. Wish we could just sit and watch this together like we used to. But I'll just have to watch it for you, for now." After, she sat in silence.

An hour later, now that the sky had turned blue and the sun had risen in full, the girl stood up once more, her muscles aching but holding strong. Slinging her sack over her shoulder with one hand, she opened her book with the other, the same book she'd read the night of receiving her aura. But it wasn't open now to the explanation of semblances or auras; instead, she had turned to Index Table Ten-D; a list of academies. Near the top, listed under the kingdom of Vale, was a single word, a precious, fragile word that had solely sustained her over the past month.

Beacon.