I always thought fire meant destruction—something that burned, consumed, ended. I never expected it could also be something born inside me, something that rose out of fear and love and fury all at once. Something that wasn't just a flame but a force. Something ancient. Something mine.
But that realization didn't come gently. It came the moment I ran.
The corridor behind me melted like wax as I sprinted through it, the walls bending inwards as though the house wanted to swallow me whole. My lungs burned; each breath tasted like dust, like charred wood, like the remnants of other people's memories. The shadows chased at my heels, clutching, stretching, whispering—his shadows. The groom's. The Stalker's. Or maybe they were the house itself.
I didn't know anymore.
All I knew was this:
My child was somewhere in this nightmare, and I refused to leave without her.
"Jenny…" a voice breathed through the walls.
I didn't stop. I wasn't afraid of whispers anymore. I wasn't afraid of anything except failing the one person who still needed me.
I ran until my legs trembled. The hallway finally spilled me into a circular chamber I had never seen before, despite all the times this house had changed around me.
The room was lined with mirrors—hundreds of them. Tall, thin, wide, shattered, fogged, clean. Some looked ancient, framed in gold peeling with age. Others were modern, frameless sheets of glass. Each reflected something different: the present, the past, the distortions between worlds.
But none reflected me.
I stepped closer to one of the mirrors. It shimmered faintly, like water disturbed by a fingertip.
"Where are you?" I whispered.
I wasn't talking to the house.
I wasn't talking to the shadows.
I was talking to my daughter.
A faint glow pulsed deep inside the glass. Soft at first. Then stronger.
And then I heard it—
A cry.
Her cry.
My heart fractured inside my chest as the sound echoed across the mirrored chamber, bouncing from reflection to reflection. It wasn't loud. It wasn't sharp. It was the kind of cry a newborn makes when she's too tired to scream anymore—weak, breathy, fading.
"No—no—NO—" I pressed both palms against the mirror.
The glass rippled beneath my touch.
A whisper slithered through the air: "She belongs to us now."
I recognized that voice instantly.
The groom.
The man who had claimed me.
The specter who had tried to take my child.
The shadow that had stalked me from world to world.
My throat tightened. "Give her back."
The mirrors all around me trembled—hundreds of reflections shivering like the surface of a lake before a storm. Shadows seeped from the corners, gathering, thickening, taking shape. They formed a silhouette in the center of the chamber.
Tall. Thin. Familiar.
His voice came from everywhere at once. "You should not be angry, Jenny. You should be grateful. I saved her."
"Saved?" My voice cracked.
"She was born between worlds. She was never meant for yours."
"She's mine," I whispered, and the mirrors surged with heat.
For the first time, he hesitated. "She is… special. She carries the mark of both realms. You cannot protect her there. But we can. We will."
"You're a liar."
"A mother blinded by emotion cannot see the truth."
"No," I said, shaking, "a mother sees everything."
And then something changed.
A warmth bloomed inside my chest—small at first, like a spark. But with every breath, it grew. It climbed my ribs. It wrapped around my lungs. It settled in my throat. A heat born not of fear, but of rage. Of love. Of refusal.
My fingers reddened against the mirror.
"What are you doing?" he asked, voice tightening.
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
But I didn't need to know.
The fire inside me wasn't physical—it wasn't heat or flame. It was something older, something fierce, something that felt like a mother's scream turned into power.
The mirror beneath my hands began to glow.
"Stop," he said sharply.
I pushed harder.
The glass rippled violently.
"You do not understand the consequences—"
"I don't care!"
The mirror exploded into light—not shattering, not breaking—unfolding, like a door opening into a world of blinding gold. I stumbled forward as the chamber behind me dissolved into darkness. The groom's furious roar echoed through the collapsing walls as I stepped through the radiance.
And then the light swallowed everything.
---
When the world settled again, I found myself standing on scorched earth.
The sky above was neither day nor night—just an endless shifting of clouds lit from beneath by orange embers. The air smelled of smoke and something sweet, like burning flowers. The ground was cracked, glowing faintly with veins of molten red.
In the distance, a tall obsidian structure rose like a black spine. I felt the pull immediately.
She was there.
My daughter was there.
The fire inside me flickered, responding to the world around me, like this place fed it.
I started walking.
The heat didn't hurt me. The smoke didn't sting my eyes. If anything, the fire inside my body grew brighter, stronger, as if the realm recognized its own energy in me.
"Jenny…"
I stopped.
The voice didn't belong to the groom.
It belonged to my mother.
I turned, but the landscape behind me was empty. Just shimmering heat waves and black sand dissolving into endless red.
The fire inside me dimmed.
"No," I whispered, pressing my fist against my chest. "Don't you dare take this from me. Not now."
I kept walking.
The voice didn't follow.
The obsidian tower loomed closer—its walls smooth and reflective like polished stone. In its surface, I saw flickers of movement: flashes of moments I had lived, versions of myself I didn't recognize, shadows of the child I had lost, found, lost again.
The tower pulsed.
I reached the entrance—a tall archway carved with symbols that burned with shifting flame. The fire inside me responded, pulling me forward.
The moment I stepped through, the door slammed shut behind me, sealing me in darkness.
But the darkness wasn't empty.
It hummed.
It breathed.
It moved.
At the far end of the chamber, a cradle glowed faintly.
My throat tightened. "Baby…?"
I walked toward it, each step echoing like footsteps in a cathedral.
The closer I got, the brighter the glow became—soft lavender light swirling gently like mist.
I reached the cradle's edge and looked inside.
And there she was.
Tiny.
Warm.
Sleeping.
My daughter.
My knees buckled, and I gripped the edge of the cradle to keep from falling. Tears spilled down my cheeks, dripping onto the glowing blankets.
"I've got you," I whispered. "Mommy's here. I'm here, baby. I'm here."
Her tiny hand twitched, reaching blindly.
But she wasn't reaching for me.
The shadows behind me shifted.
My heart froze.
When I turned, the groom stood in the doorway, taller than before, flames crawling like veins beneath his skin.
"You have crossed into the realm of fire," he said softly. "Did you think it would welcome you?"
"I'm taking her," I said, pulling the cradle closer.
"You can try," he whispered.
And then the room erupted into shadow.
Instinct took over.
The fire inside me surged again—exploding through my veins like molten metal. My skin glowed. My breath turned into sparks. My heartbeat echoed like drumfire.
The groom recoiled.
"You—You are not supposed to have that."
"I don't care what I'm supposed to have."
Flames burst from my hands.
He staggered back.
"This is the mother's fire," he hissed. "The power awakened only when a mother crosses between worlds with love strong enough to burn both."
"Good," I said. "Because I will burn everything to protect her."
He lunged.
I raised my hands.
The fire roared—not orange, not red, but brilliant white, hot enough to distort the air around me, bright enough to erase every shadow.
His scream filled the chamber.
"Jenny—STOP—!"
But I didn't.
I didn't stop until the shadows peeled off him like ash, until the fire swallowed every piece of him, until the world around me trembled under the force of my rage.
When the flames finally dimmed, he was gone.
Nothing left but smoke.
Nothing left but silence.
I collapsed beside the cradle, chest heaving. My fire flickered softly, no longer angry—just warm, protective, alive.
My daughter stirred, tiny fingers curling around the air.
"I promise," I whispered, resting my forehead against hers, "no one will ever take you again."
The world around me began to crumble—the tower walls cracking, the molten veins beneath the floor bursting with heat.
But I didn't run.
Not this time.
I lifted my daughter into my arms. She settled against my chest, small and warm and real.
The mother's fire rose again—not wild, but steady, wrapping us both in a cocoon of amber light.
The collapsing world faded.
The tower dissolved.
The smoke thinned.
And then—
We stepped through the fire
into whatever came next.
Because I wasn't afraid anymore.
Not of the house.
Not of the shadows.
Not of the groom.
Not of my past.
Not of myself.
I had something stronger than all of them.
A mother's fire.
And I would burn through every world to keep my child safe.
--