ISKERA
I'm in a dream, where I am no longer Iskera, but Suzanna, an eight-year-old in a house ending in a roar of orange flame.
The house is a modest structure of timber and fieldstone, typical of the late 1800s. The walls, once covered in cheerful floral wallpaper, are blistering and peeling under the heat. Outside, the sky is an impossible, bruised ink—the Black Moon hanging like a dead eye in the heavens.
Inside, the air is thick with the grey-white smoke of pine floorboards catching fire. And the heat is pressing against my small chest.
"RUN!"
My father's voice cracks like a whip through the crackle of the flames. He is a man of sturdy build, dressed in the heavy wool trousers and linen tunic of a tradesman, his suspenders hanging loose.
His face, usually so gentle, is a mask of soot and desperation. His thick, dark mustache is singed at the edges, and his eyes—the same eyes I see in the mirror every morning—are wide with a terrifying, frantic light.
