Dawn broke like a bruised whisper across the horizon, spilling faint gold over the snow-covered wilderness. Lyria trudged through the forest, boots crunching with every step, steam rising off her skin as her body fought the biting cold. Her cloak was half-burned, and soot smeared her hands. But her eyes blazed with new resolve.
She had escaped. But not alone.
The fire spirit's voice still echoed in her mind. "You melt the curse."
What curse? And how?
She didn't have answers—only more questions. But she had one goal: to get back to Marella.
If the Inquisition found her sister…
She pressed forward.
As the sun climbed higher, she spotted smoke curling from the trees up ahead. Not white like chimney smoke. Black and thick.
She crouched low and moved silently.
A clearing opened before her, and what she saw turned her stomach.
A village. Or what remained of it. Burned-out huts. Ash-choked wells. The bodies of livestock half-buried in the snow. And standing in the center were three Inquisition soldiers, cloaks fluttering, swords drawn.
"This is what happens to those who hide witches," one of them sneered, kicking over a charred basket.
Behind them, chained to a pole, was a boy. No older than twelve. Blood on his lip. Fear in his eyes.
Lyria's breath caught.
She knew this kind of cruelty.
She couldn't walk away.
Drawing a deep breath, she whispered to the fire inside her. Not too much. Just enough.
The flames obeyed.
She stepped into the clearing.
"Let the boy go."
The soldiers spun, blades raised. One laughed. "Another savior?"
She raised her hand. Fire bloomed from her palm.
Laughter died.
"She's a witch!"
Too late.
A ring of fire burst around them. One lunged; she ducked, sweeping flame across his legs. He screamed, collapsing. The second threw a dagger. She caught it mid-air with her hand, burning hot enough to melt the metal. The third turned to run.
She raised her other hand.
"Stop."
The snow in his path exploded in fire. He fell, unconscious.
Silence returned to the village, broken only by the boy's sobs.
Lyria approached him and knelt. "You're safe. What's your name?"
"Talin," he whispered.
She freed him. "Go north. Find the rebel camp near Frostmere Cliffs. Ask for Wren. Tell her Lyria sent you."
He blinked. "You're her? The fire girl from the stories?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
"I thought you were a myth," he said, voice small.
"I was," she said. "But not anymore."
---
That night, she made camp near a frozen stream. She sat cross-legged beside a small fire—not one she made with her powers, but one she built by hand. It felt safer that way. Human. Normal.
But she wasn't normal. Not anymore.
She stared into the flames. They flickered strangely—blue at the base, gold at the tips. Like something watching her from the other side.
"You're stronger now," a voice whispered.
She turned. No one.
"Who's there?" she called, rising to her feet.
The fire pulsed.
From the shadows stepped the figure she had seen in the ice. The fire spirit.
But now, it had form. A woman with skin like molten bronze, hair of living flame, and eyes like twin suns. She hovered inches above the ground, heat rolling off her like waves.
"You called me," she said.
"I didn't mean to," Lyria replied.
"You were chosen long before meaning ever mattered. You carry the spark of the First Flame."
"I don't understand," Lyria whispered. "What am I? Why me?"
The spirit moved closer, her presence warming the snow around them into steam. "You are the curse. And you are the cure."
Lyria frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It will. In time."
She reached out, brushing her fingers against Lyria's temple. Visions exploded behind Lyria's eyes—ancient cities burning, shadowed kings wielding magic, chains made of light and flame.
"The Inquisition hunts witches because they fear what we once were. Not monsters. Not cursed. Queens. Leaders. Protectors. The fire was sacred, and they stole it. Locked it away."
The vision shifted. Lyria saw a black tower in a sea of frost. A prison. A vault. At its heart, a chained creature burning brighter than the sun.
"What is that?" she gasped.
"The truth," the spirit said. "The source of your power. And the lock they placed on the world. If it remains, the curse will never lift."
"I have to free it?" Lyria asked.
The spirit's face darkened. "You must decide. But know this—once you begin, there's no turning back. The path of fire leaves only ashes."
Then she vanished.
---
The next morning, Lyria walked with heavy thoughts and tired legs. She couldn't shake the vision. The black tower. The chained flame.
Was that where her journey would end?
The forest thinned into rolling hills, and in the distance, she saw a flicker of movement—figures. Riders.
She ducked, heart racing. Were they Inquisition scouts?
She edged closer, hiding behind a tree.
But then she heard laughter. Not cruel. Not forced. Real.
A small camp nestled near the river bend. Tents flapped in the wind. Around the fire sat rebels—young and rough, dressed in patchwork armor, hands calloused from survival.
And among them—
"Marella?" Lyria breathed.
She ran forward, stumbling into view. "Marella!"
Her sister turned, eyes wide. "Lyria!"
They met in a crash of limbs and sobs, hugging fiercely.
"I thought you were dead," Marella whispered.
"I thought they took you," Lyria said.
A tall woman approached them, sword on her back, braids swinging—Wren, the rebel leader.
"So," she said, sizing Lyria up. "You're the one burning holes in the Inquisition's plans."
Lyria stood. "I didn't mean to involve you."
"You didn't," Wren replied. "They made us enemies first. You're just... giving us a fighting chance."
Marella looked between them. "We need to leave soon. Word is, Coldmoor has started moving its prisoners."
Lyria tensed. "Coldmoor. That's the tower from the vision."
Wren frowned. "What vision?"
Lyria explained. The fire spirit. The chained flame. The vault.
When she finished, the camp was silent.
"You saw the Flamebound," Wren whispered. "I thought they were myths."
"They're not," Lyria said. "And I think I have to go there."
Wren nodded slowly. "Then we help you. But it won't be easy. That place is guarded by the Crimson Order. Fire mages twisted by pain. They can smell your magic."
"I'm done hiding," Lyria said. "Let them come."
---
They moved out under moonlight.
Each step toward Coldmoor felt heavier. Not with fear—but with fate.
The rebels knew the land well. They traveled through old tunnels, crossed bridges of ice, and slipped past patrols.
On the fifth night, they camped near the edge of a ravine. Across it, rising like a claw from the earth, stood Coldmoor.
A fortress of black stone and metal. Smoke rose from its chimneys. And atop its tallest spire—a chained brazier, burning cold blue flame.
Lyria shivered. "That's it."
Wren laid out the plan. A distraction at the south gate. Lyria and Marella would go through the waste ducts. Once inside, they would find the vault.
The next night, the attack began.
Explosions rocked the walls. Alarms screamed. Fire and ice collided in violent bursts.
Lyria and Marella slipped through the lower ducts, the smell of rot and sulfur filling their noses.
They emerged in the dungeons.
Cells lined the corridor, filled with shivering girls and boys. Some looked barely old enough to speak. All wore iron collars that glowed with cruel light.
"We can't leave them," Marella said.
"We won't," Lyria said.
She focused on the collar of the nearest child. Touched it. The metal hissed and melted, falling away like wax.
The child gasped, free.
One by one, Lyria broke their chains. The magic surged in her hands, but she held it steady.
Control is survival. But now, survival is war.
The children followed her through the halls. Coldmoor trembled. Flames burned through stone. And when they reached the vault door, it pulsed like a heartbeat.
Marella pressed her hand to it. "It's alive."
Lyria stepped forward. "So am I."
She placed both palms on the door.
It exploded in light.
Behind it, the chained creature roared.
A being of flame and sorrow. Wings of embers. Eyes of stars. Its chains were carved with runes of silence, pain, and control.
"I know you," Lyria whispered. "You're me."
The creature opened its eyes.
"You are the end. Or the beginning."
Then the wall behind them shattered.
Selene stepped through the rubble, her cloak in tatters, eyes wild.
"You will not free it," she screamed. "You will not burn this world again!"
She raised her hand. Magic surged.
Lyria met her power with her own.
Flame met flame. Light met shadow.
And in the center, Lyria saw it clearly—the choice.
Destroy the chained flame.
Or set it free.
"I am not your weapon," Lyria said. "I am my own fire."
She shattered the chains.
The Flamebound screamed—but not in pain.
In joy.
It soared through the tower, burning the runes, melting the cold heart of Coldmoor. The collars fell from every neck. The prisoners ran free.
Selene vanished in a burst of ash.
Marella took Lyria's hand. "What now?"
Lyria looked out at the sunrise.
"Now," she said, "we light the world again."
_____To ne continued.....