Eirwen knelt barefoot on the cold stone and lifted her hands toward the small fire. Her fingers traced slow shapes in the air. The flame followed. It bent into a curl, then a ribbon, then something almost like a wing. She held her breath. The shape stayed longer this time. Longer than the bird. Longer than anything before. But the edges began to drift. Sparks slipped past her fingers and caught on the floor. The fire was holding its form, yes, but it was no longer only hers. She pressed her palms toward the carved stone altar at her knees. The runes glowed warm beneath her hands. She pushed her will into the wing, trying to pull the stray sparks back. Pain bloomed in her fingers. She did not stop. The wing thickened. A body formed. Two antennae curled up from a small burning head. A butterfly hung in the air before her. Its wings beat once, then twice, casting orange light across her face. It was whole. It was lasting. But behind it, the loose sparks had spread in a wide ring on the floor. The wood blackened. Cracks opened in the scorched earth around her altar. The butterfly drifted upward, steady and bright, free of her hands. Eirwen rose slowly inside the ring of burn marks. Her creation lived. Her workspace was ruined. She watched the small fire climb toward the rafters and knew she could not stay here.