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It was hardly ideal weather for the resurrection of one’s great-aunt, but Sera Swan’s magical power, while impressive, hadn’t the slightest influence over the obnoxiously blue skies.
A.
“That’s the whole point.” He took a step closer. “In a moment of rage, that was the spell you cast. It wasn’t planned. You weren’t careful. It just happened. And yet in spite of that, it didn’t hurt the people who’d made you so angry. Your magic knew exactly who you were. That’s why your spell was a shield, not a sword.”
The dying wasn’t what mattered. Unfurling your scorched feathers from the ashes and getting up again. Growing. Staying. That was the part that really mattered. So Sera slept. Woke. Unfurled. And got up again.
That was the magic that made the wildflowers bloom.
Z.
