Chapter 2 – Ashes and Oaths
I ran until my legs nearly gave out beneath me.
Branches tore at my skin. Stones bruised my feet. But I didn't stop, not until I reached the edge of the river that marked the boundary between Kyratth and Blackridge, a small kingdom untouched by the madness of King Zareth's rule.
The water was cold and fast, churning like it sensed my desperation. I didn't hesitate. I dove in.
I was a strong swimmer, thank the stars but the current tugged at my limbs, and every stroke sent fire shooting through my arms. Still, I kept going. I had to. The river wasn't wide, but it felt endless with the weight of my soaked clothes, the sting of vervain still in my blood, and the ghost of Laura's scream echoing in my ears.
When I finally reached the far bank, I collapsed onto the muddy shore, gasping, trembling, soaked to the bone. My chest heaved, and my arms ached from the strain, but I was alive.
I had made it.
I had crossed the border.
Blackridge lay ahead. A new land. A chance to hide. To plan.
Behind me, Kyratth burned my home, reduced to ash and memory. I had watched it all fall: my family, my neighbors, my childhood. I watched my mother burn, my father slain, my siblings torn from life. I watched Laura die to save me.
I was the only one left.
The last Flameborne.
I sat in the mud, soaked and shaking, and lifted my bloodstained hand to the sky.
"I swear on my mother's blood," I whispered, voice raw with grief, "I will burn them all."
King Zareth. His bloodline. His soldiers. Every hand that lit the fires.
I will take their blood.
I will end them—one by one.
No mercy. No forgiveness.
Only vengeance.
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I wandered deeper into Blackridge, my soaked shawl clinging to my body as I wrapped it tightly around my head and shoulders. My teeth chattered with every step, my limbs shivering uncontrollably. People stared, some with pity, others with suspicion. To them, I was just another beggar girl, soaked and broken, wandering without purpose.
I didn't care. Let them think what they would. I just needed shelter. Even the hollow of a tree would have sufficed.
I kept to the shadows, slipping through the darker alleys to avoid the judgmental gazes of the villagers.
"Spare a coin of cindra, young one... I'm starving…"
A frail voice stopped me in my tracks. An old man, hunched at the steps of a crumbling church, reached out and tugged at my shawl. His eyes were hollow, his skin pale, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in days.
I froze. I wanted to help him, but what could I give? We weren't so different, he and I. The only thing separating us was that I hadn't yet begged.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, gently trying to pull my shawl from his grasp.
But his grip tightened.
"You think you can hide for long?" he rasped, voice low and eerie. "It's only a matter of time before they find you."
My breath caught in my throat. My heart lurched.
How did he know?
Before I could speak, he released me and sank back down, burying his face in his bag of alms like nothing had happened.
I didn't wait. My pulse thundered in my ears as I turned and bolted, not daring to look back.
I ran until I reached the market square.
Blackridge was small. its population not even half of Kyratth's, and quieter, too. But its people still stared. I tightened my shawl, keeping my face low, pushing forward until I reached the far edge of the village.
That's when I saw it.
A small cottage. Simple, but neat. A single lamp glowed softly through the window, casting warm light on the stone path.
I stood outside, hesitating. Should I knock? What if they were loyal to Zareth? What if they recognized me?
Still… I needed shelter.
I raised my fist and knocked.
Knock… knock…
Silence.
I waited, heart pounding.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
Slowly, I pushed the door open and peeked inside. The room was empty.
I stepped in cautiously, closing the door behind me. My heart thudded in my chest like a drum.
It was a small but beautiful space—clean, warm, and filled with the scent of roses and herbs. Bundles of dried lavender and rosemary hung from a wooden shelf, and a pot of fresh tea steamed gently beside a plate stacked with golden pancakes on the dining table.
The aroma made my stomach twist painfully. I hadn't eaten since the morning of the massacre. My hands itched to reach for the food, but I held myself back.
I was still frozen in place, eyeing the table, when I heard a voice, soft and gentle.
"Do you want some pancakes, dear?"
I spun around instantly, heart leaping into my throat.
Standing behind me was an old woman, bent with age, leaning on a carved walking stick. Her silver hair was tied in a loose braid, and her face was lined, but her eyes sparkled. A kind smile spread across her face.
For a moment… the fear melted away.
"Uhmm… yes— I mean, no. I was just looking for shelter," I stammered. "I know I shouldn't have come in, I'm really sorry. But… it was freezing outside."
To my surprise, she didn't scold me or chase me out.
"It's alright, dear," she said softly, her eyes kind. "I can tell you're a good girl. Go on—down that way. You'll find a place to bathe. I've laid out some comfortable clothes you can wear."
Her voice was gentle, her tone warm. Still, a flicker of doubt crept into my mind. Was she truly being kind? Or just pretending? But one look at her—the kindness in her wrinkles, the soft curl of her smile, and I couldn't find it in me to resist.
"Ma'am… you're really not upset that I came into your home?" I asked, needing to be sure.
She smiled again, that same unwavering warmth in her gaze.
"Like I said, you look like a good girl. Now go before you freeze to death. There's hot water in the washroom. After that, come sit for dinner."
She turned with a light chuckle, and I couldn't help but smile back.
I made my way to the washroom, a small stone-walled bathing room tucked just behind her living space. It was warm and clean, filled with the earthy scent of dried herbs. A wooden bucket steamed with hot water, as though she'd been expecting me.
I stood there for a moment, heart swelling with gratitude I didn't yet know how to express.
Stripping off my torn and muddy clothes, I stepped into the warmth. The water soothed every ache and chill from my bones. I closed my eyes, letting it run over me like a second skin.
But then, like knives piercing the quiet—memories came.
My mother's lifeless eyes.
The fire.
My father's bloodied hand reaching for mine.
Laura's scream.
I sank my face beneath the water, trying to drown it all.
When I surfaced, I found rows of handmade herbal soaps arranged on a ledge. They smelled of lavender, wild roses, and something deeper, sage, maybe. She definitely worked with herbs.
Once I was clean, I dried off and found the cupboard she'd mentioned. Inside were carefully folded gowns in soft fabrics and floral patterns. I chose a white one with tiny blue blossoms. It was beautiful. She had wonderful taste.
Dressed and finally warm, I made my way back to the dining room.
She was already seated, a gentle smile playing on her lips, her hands folded calmly on the table.
Something about the sight made my chest tighten. I'd always been wary of old people, especially the overly friendly ones. But with her…
With her, it felt like I was home again.
Like I was sitting across from my grandmother.