I woke from the night’s sleep to a bright, flickering orange light and a roaring heat that burned my skin. The air in my lungs felt thick, like breathing mud. The outer wall of my bedroom was in flames.

  Coughing on smoke, I tried to choke a lungful of clean air down, but there was none. I rolled out of my bed and down onto the hard floor, already warm with heat. I kept my face low where the air was a little clearer and sucked in a few quick breaths. Still, the heat scorched my skin from the flames that poured in through the window that faced the street. The fire was my only light in the nighttime, but even that was dampened by dark smoke. I held my breath in bursts and sank lower while I pulled myself forward on my hands and knees.

  My family owned little as it was, and though I knew it was dangerous to prioritize belongings during a deadly emergency, I just couldn’t stomach seeing everything we’d worked for turn to ash. I found the leather satchel full of my old school books on the floor beside the nightstand that separated my bed from my little sister’s.

  As I crammed anything of value into the bag that I could grab, personal or otherwise, I reached up and shook the corner of my sister’s bed, gripping at her quilt to stir her.

  “Ravel, wake up!” I tried to shout over the roar of the flames, but my voice was hoarse and the sound was weak.

  I scrambled in the dark to cram a small pile of clean shirts and trousers into the bag alongside my tattered school books, then threw in a pouch of bread crust and dried meat. For a brief moment as I caught sight of the flames licking up my bedroom walls, I felt somewhat fortunate.

  For the first time since our father had died, I felt thankful for our constant struggle. We owned so little that we had almost nothing to lose.

  I gritted my teeth through the smokey air but pulled myself towards the door. I dragged my leather satchel, strap balled up in my fist. I crawled toward the hallway, where the air should be a little less saturated and blistering hot than the closed-in space of my shared bedroom.

  I began to panic when I still hadn’t heard my little sister stir from her bed.

  The flames roared in from the window on the far side of the bedroom, beside what had been my bed moments ago but was now also caught in flames. The fire was spreading up the wall, and it wouldn't take long for the roof to collapse and spread the flames and ashes. I didn't want to be near when that happened, but I had to get my family out, first.

  The bedroom door burst open just as I reached it, and I peered up in the eerie orange glow to see my frail mother slumped against the frame, a thick cloth over her face.

  “Soren!” she called when her eyes reached me. She dropped to her knees and pulled me forward. “Where’s Ravel? Ravel!”

  I tried to answer, but the smoke caught in my throat, forcing me into a coughing fit.

  I was starting to feel dizzy, even though I was low on the floor where the air was clearer. How much more would my mother be struggling? We had to get out of here, and fast.

  “She might still be asleep,” I croaked out. “I tried to wake her.”

  My mother wasted no time scrambling to Ravel’s bed, furthest from the flames. Over my shoulder, I watched her ruffle through the covers from her knees.

  The light from the fires cut through the cloak of night in the room. Though thick smoke filled the airspace above me, the floorspace was a bit clearer.

  From my place in the doorway, even I could see that Ravel’s bed was empty.

  “She’s not here!” my mother cried through the cloth on her face. “Where is she?”

  “Ravel!” I shouted between coughs. “Ravel!”

  There was no response. Could she hear me over the roar of the flames? I called louder, as well as I could with my hoarse voice. But after too long with no answer, I knew we had to move on, to look somewhere else.

  I turned back to grab my mother, but she was already scrambling to the door on her knees.

  “We have to get out,” I urged, looking back at the wall of flames. It had reached the ceiling. We couldn’t have much time left.

  “Where is she? Did you see her?”

  “No.” I pulled her along into the hallway.

  Outside the bedroom was a railing that led to the open space of the lower floor. Mother’s bedroom, the kitchen and living space were there, but once again, I was thankful for our lot. Our tiny house meant there weren’t many places for Ravel to be.

  The air was clearer here, but I could see more flames bursting through the window downstairs. We didn’t have much time.

  “She must have been gone before the fire woke me up,” I said, each word a struggle as we hurried down the stairs, crawling backwards on our hands and knees.

  Mother gave me the cloth she’d been using to cover her face and I put it over mine. Then she continued to use up what little breath she had to call out for Ravel.

  “Maybe she got out before us,” I said hopefully, my voice muffled through the cloth.

  Mother shook her head and turned to the open living room. There weren’t many places where a child Ravel’s age could hide—maybe behind the furniture or inside one of the cabinets--but at nine and tough as nails, I really believed she knew better than to stay inside a burning building.

  A loud, snapping sound came from overhead. I hardly had time to look up as a piece of the ceiling cracked, spraying splinters of wood and embers onto the floor mere feet from where we crouched. I yanked my mother back and towards the front door.

  “We have to go!” I shouted through the rag. “We’ll find her outside,” I promised.

  I only hoped it wasn’t an empty one.

  I had to drag Mother out by her wrist to get her to follow me, as she continued to call her daughter’s name. I understood. I was as confused as frightened as she was. But even if Ravel was still inside—I hated to think it, but if she was—we might not be able to save her, anyway. Mother and I couldn’t afford to lose more of our tiny family trying to find her.

  More of the roof snapped down as our feet hit the pavement of the stone street outside. I stood up for the first time since rolling out of bed in the smoke, feeling wobbly on my feet, and continued pulling Mother away from the house. The other side of the street seemed a safer place, but as I looked around at the neighborhood, I noticed spots of orange light and billows of smoke bursting up in pockets throughout the streets. Our home wasn’t the only one in flames, our family not the only one in danger.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  I looked back at Mother in the flickering orange light to see her face blackened with soot, streaked clean where tears poured from her eyes.

  “What is happening?” she asked, looking over the same pockets of fire that I was seeing. “Where’s my baby girl?”

  I had spent most of Ravel’s of life taking care of her while Mother worked or kept up the house for us. Father had died when Ravel was only four. I admitted that, while I loved my baby sister, at times I would catch myself complaining about how hard we lived. About wanting Ravel to grow up, learn to care for herself more and build skills to help the household better. When I’d finally be able to spend more time on my own pursuits and thinking about my future. No one had expected Father to die so young.

  It was selfish. I was just a kid, myself, after all, but Ravel disappearing amidst a housefire wasn’t at all what I’d wanted.

  A heaviness struck my chest as I peered at my mother’s beautiful pale face and strong hands through the smoke. We hadn’t seen Father in five years, since his ship was lost at sea. But even though I watched my mother endure the loss of her husband and still remain strong for us, it didn’t mean that I wanted to watch her have to do it again with Ravel, her baby girl.

  My sister's features so strongly resembled our father’s ever since she was a baby, that Mother began to call her our special miracle. When I was younger, my heart often clenched with jealousy when I heard her say this, but it only took a few years of the ache of missing Father that I became glad for the reminder as well, and cherished Ravel more for it.

  I couldn't stand the idea of us losing that long dark hair and those large, blue eyes, knowing she was the last reminder of our father as well.

  “We have to find her,” I said, but my voice cracked. Mother couldn't have heard me over the hiss and screech of the fires, if her mind were even in our world just then.

  At that moment, I felt a grip on my shoulder, and a strong hand pulled me around.

  “Soren! I heard you shoutin’, boy,” came a familiar, gruff voice.

  The thick hand tugged me down the street and I reached for Mother, who I was thankful to see was following, looking helpless.

  Several yards down the street from where we’d stood, the smokey air was clearer and I felt like I could take my first real breath since escaping the house.

  Feeling overwhelmed with gratitude that we weren’t alone in our struggle, I peered up at the town’s resident baker, Brag and did my best to offer a smile.

  The baker was a plump man, but he was strong as well. I hadn’t realized that my head had begun to feel cloudy and light from the smoke, but Brag didn’t seem to be struggling. I wondered what our plan had been if he hadn’t come alone.

  Brag looked between Mother and myself.

  “Where’s your sister?” he asked.

  My heart sank. I suppose I had hoped that he was bringing us to her—that he knew. I had slung my satchel over my shoulder, and it currently held all of the belongings that my Mother and I had between us. It would never be enough to take care of ourselves, let alone a nine-year-old girl on top. I hoped beyond hope that she was somewhere, with her favorite doll and blanket and a tin of biscuits she’d stolen from the kitchen. But I knew my hope was thin. Mother didn’t seem able to explain.

  “She didn’t answer when we called,” I said, when my lungs finally filled with fresher air. “And she wasn’t in her bed.”

  A shadow crossed Brag’s face, and I could guess what he must have been thinking. Mother and I had been thinking it since we left the upstairs bedroom and didn’t find her standing outside, hugging a blanket and crying for us.

  Down the road, smoke still billowed into the sky, carrying shrill screams of villagers. I gaped at the wall of flames consuming the whole block of homes back the way we’d came. Thatched rooftops billowed with smoke, and window glass melted like candle wax. Mothers ushered crying children into the street while their fathers helped haul water to quell the flames. A pack of stray dogs ran howling and barking down the street.

  “I don’t think she came this way,” Brag said. He pointed down the street, opposite the fires. “I came from the back of the bakery. I never saw her.”

  I was glad for Brag and his wife that the bakery hadn’t gone up, but the feeling seemed hollow. I couldn’t care about much in earnest until I knew.

  I detached myself from the baker, feeling the weakness start to wash away with the flood of air. I scanned the street, searching for the familiar mop of unkempt black hair. But I didn’t see her. I called her name again at the top of my lungs, then listened hard for her reply. But if her voice sounded at all, I couldn’t hear it over the roaring chaos.

  Brag patted my shoulder. “She’ll turn up,” he said, but it was quiet, only said to me. Was it a platitude? Was he afraid to give Mother false hope? I think, staring at the fiery display, we all knew the chances were slim. Maybe not impossible, but slim.

  “I’m going to join the men at the well hauling water to try to put some of these fires out,” Brag said.

  I nodded numbly, my eyes still scanning the area.

  “Is there anything more I can do to help you?” Brag asked, looking between Mother and I.

  Mother shook her head. “I just need to find my baby girl,” she creaked out.

  Brag nodded. “I understand, Willow. If anything comes up, you’ll know where to find me.”

  Without another word, he turned and jogged off to join the line of men hauling buckets of water, which I could now see through the alleyway between his bakery and the other homes and businesses.

  After catching my breath and pumping some cleaner air through my body, it occurred to me that if we couldn’t find Ravel here, then we—or at least I—should be helping Brag and the other men to try to put out the fires. Mother and I might not be the only family searching for a loved one. Maybe working to put them out would be the fastest way to help everyone.

  “I think I should go with Brag,” I said to Mother.

  Mother steeled her expression. She was strong. Even now, when she seemed like she could barely speak, I saw the power in her eyes that bloomed after we lost Father, and she realized how much more that meant Ravel and I needed her. She didn’t need me to hold her hand through this.

  Although, at only sixteen myself, and faced with losing half my family already, I wouldn’t have hated it if she would have held mine.

  Instead, she only nodded, showing me a pinched smile, and waved me off in the direction Brag had just gone.

  I kissed her soot-stained cheek, then yanked the satchel higher on my shoulder and ran through the streets of the village in the direction Brag had gone. As I ran, I searched for an end to the flames, but burning buildings peppered every road. When I approached the north side of Hightower, on the higher mountainside opposite the harbor, I jogged to a stop near the well from which the men drew water at the edge of our small village. The fire spread briskly, but it hadn't yet reached the upper end of town.

  Men formed a line at the well passing buckets of water to a group of runners. I recognized all of them, had known them my whole life. I found Aldren Cain in front of the line drawing water up from the well, and I ran to him.

  Cain was a well-known distant descendant of Enderson Wiles, the first settler of the continent of Vane, where our village and all the surrounding cities resided. Cain also owned the storehouse, managing trade at the seaports, and had worked with my father for years before his ship was lost. For Hightower's standards, he had wealth and a take-charge demeanor. I wasn't surprised to find him at the head of the line dousing fires.

  “Soren!” Cain's deep rumbling voice shouted to me above the roaring flames.

  Beyond the well, a line of trees guarded Hightower like a wall that spread further down the north side of the mountain. A loud crack sounded from the edge of the forest. No one else seemed to hear it, or likely no one else cared, but I feared that the forest was catching the flames.

  What could have started the siege? I wondered.

  Then my eyes spotted a shape in the shadowy woods that didn’t seem to match the silhouette of trees, or fallen branches.

  Just as I was ready to dismiss the forest, the shadow shifted. The hunched, dark shape appeared to be the silhouette of a draped cloak or blanket over the shoulders of a person. What at first appeared to be a branch could have been a staff or walking stick.

  I realized Cain was trying to press a bucket of water into my arms. I stared at him, then at the bucket. Instead of reaching out to take it I stepped back a few feet. He stared at me with a puzzled look, then forced the bucket into another man's hands and moved the line.

  The shape shifted closer to the forest’s edge, and encroaching firelight from the distance glowed on the hooded face of a wrinkled old man. I couldn’t recognize him from the distance, but he could have been any of the older residents of the town. Hightower rarely attracted visitors, so I was convinced he must be a citizen. I feared he needed help, alone in the forest. I opened my mouth to call out to the man, but he turned and disappeared into the trees.

  I knew the forest quite well. I considered running after him as the fire began to spread closer. But what would I do if I couldn’t catch him?

  If I came back to Hightower burned, I would truly have nothing. Mother and I already owned so little; our family already so small.