Set during book two.
It flickers and pops with a dangerous beauty that makes her eyes burn, straining themselves to see the truth in its light, crying false tears to match a false serenity she will never find. Careful and dedicated as a sculptor and his masterpiece, hands raise and begin to guide the fire -- her fire, her guide, her center, her god -- and it is barely contained within her control, but she can still send it flying like a dagger like any amateur could and for a moment, it feels satisfying. Again. Practice makes perfect, and she must gather again what she'd lost.
It escapes her grasp. The puppet strings connecting her and her element snap.
Whitening knuckles and dilating pupils. Images of an unbidden romance playing through her head, secret trysts and unspoken of kisses slipping in through the thoughts of vengeance.
Furious tongues of flame curl around her hand, precise as ever. Only the smell of her lover's burning flesh brings her back to peace of mind.