Oil Fire

She walked out. Then she slipped on an ensorcelled jewel that hid her from sight and walked back in again. The rest of the knowledge still called to her, begging to be learned and mastered.

Puabi hides in the houses that store the city’s dead, sneaking out at night to read the priests’ hidden scrolls. Her collection of ensorcelled jewels grows. No priest’s skill matches hers.

But magic rages like oil fire. Without control it grows too hot too fast. And scars all it touches.