Ficool

Chapter 3 - A Taste Of Fire

Chapter 3: A taste of fire

The moon hung high and distant, a pale eye watching as Renna tightened the cloak around Nyrielle's shoulders.

"It's madness," the maid whispered, her fingers trembling as she worked the clasp. "If anyone sees you—"

"No one will," Nyrielle said. Her voice was steady, but her chest felt like it was splitting under the weight of what she was about to do. "It's one night. Then I become what they want me to be."

A wife. A pawn. A spy.

Renna stepped back and looked at her—not the way the others did, not like a cursed heir or a forgotten daughter—but like a friend. A frightened, furious friend.

"You shouldn't have to do this."

"I know." Nyrielle pulled the hood low. "But I want to."

That wasn't entirely a lie. She wanted something. Anything. A single choice of her own before her future was signed away in blood and ash.

Together, they crept through the servants' corridor, the hidden ones carved behind stone years before she was born. It was Renna who knew which door to unlock, which stair wouldn't creak, which guards took bribes and which ones looked the other way when a girl in a dark cloak slipped out through the garden wall.

The city below the cliffside estate was a sea of lanterns. Gold and crimson firelight flickered between sloping rooftops, and the smell of sugar, ashwood, and warm bread curled up to meet her like an embrace.

It was Festival Night—the Feast of Veils.

Once, she had watched from the towers, her breath fogging the glass as children chased ribbons and masked lovers danced in alleyways. Once, she'd imagined she might walk among them. Just once.

Now, with the manor behind her and Renna disappearing into the shadows, Nyrielle stepped into the city alone.

The streets pulsed with sound—drums, laughter, music played too fast by too many hands. Masks glittered in every shape: wolves, foxes, birds with shining feathered beaks. Men and women danced in whirls of silk and coin-laced scarves. Wine spilled, kissed by firelight. The night was loud, reckless, full of hunger.

She moved through it like a ghost wrapped in velvet.

It should have frightened her.

But it didn't.

Here, no one looked twice. No one whispered her name. No one saw the Veyne daughter, the Moonless girl, the sacrificial bride.

Here, she was no one.

And for the first time in her life, that felt like freedom.

She passed a circle of fire-eaters, their mouths blooming with light, and caught sight of herself in a glass window. Her hood had slipped. The soft brown waves of her hair tumbled free. Her lips, flushed by the cold, were parted just slightly as if caught in mid-breath.

She looked… alive.

Not beautiful. Not powerful. Just real.

The air was colder here, between the tight buildings. Laughter swelled and fell in waves. She turned down a narrower street, where the crowds thinned, where torchlight didn't quite reach.

She wasn't looking for anything. Not truly.

But she wasn't not looking, either.

The idea had been born out of something ugly—a bone-deep ache, a hunger she'd never named. A bitterness laced with something more shameful: longing.

If Kael Drenmor would never want her…

If her father only saw her as a tool…

If the future had already been written in ink she'd never held…

Then she would choose this one thing. Her body, at least, would belong to her—just this once.

The night air pulsed with sound and scent.

Music drifted from the village square like a heartbeat—steady drums, whistles, laughter spilling over into the cobblestone alleys. Lanterns swung from iron poles, casting golden halos over fur-lined cloaks and wind-flushed faces. The smell of roasted meats and spiced cider curled through the night, sweet and wild.

Nyrielle pulled her hood lower, stepping out from the shadows of the alley where Renna had left her with a quiet squeeze of the hand and whispered, "Be careful, my lady."

For once, she didn't correct her.

Tonight she wasn't Nyrielle Veyne, daughter of the traitor Alpha. She wasn't the girl with no wolf. She was no one. Just a soul among many.

Children ran past her with painted faces, ribbons tied to their wrists trailing behind like comets. A pair of older women, clutching mugs of something steaming, paused to grin at her.

"You alone, dear?" one asked kindly.

Nyrielle smiled faintly. "Just wandering."

"First time at the Harvest Dance?"

She nodded.

"Then don't waste it. The bonfire's just ahead. Let the music carry you."

The other woman leaned in, voice conspiratorial. "And don't let any of these young wolves charm you too fast, hmm?"

They laughed and moved on, their joy light and unburdened.

Nyrielle exhaled, then followed the flicker of flames until she reached the clearing where the bonfire danced.

It was massive—twisting gold and red flames licking into the star-smeared sky. Around it, people spun in wild circles, their feet stomping, their hands linked, letting instinct guide them.

A hand caught hers suddenly—callused but gentle.

"Come!" a girl no older than Nyrielle laughed, tugging her into the circle.

And for the first time in years, she let go.

She laughed.

Spinning, twirling, arms thrown wide. She let her hair tumble free from the braid, the weight of the Veyne name falling away with it. For a moment, the ache in her chest—of a loveless marriage, of being invisible in her own home—disappeared. She was light. Wind. Flame.

Then… she felt it.

Not a touch. Not a sound.

A gaze.

Her spin faltered, the rhythm faltering just enough for her to open her eyes—and see him.

Across the fire, leaning against the post of a stall shaded in shadows. He didn't dance. He didn't smile. He watched.

Not hungrily. Not lewdly.

But like he was… searching.

Nyrielle's breath caught in her throat.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair dark like obsidian under the firelight, eyes unreadable from this distance. But she knew instinctively: he was not from this village. The way others gave him space, without realizing, told her that.

He hadn't looked away.

The girl who pulled her in to dance leaned closer. "That one's been standing there all night," she whispered. "Doesn't speak to anyone."

Nyrielle's throat tightened. "Do you know who he is?"

"Not from around here," the girl said. "But if you ask me, he's waiting for someone."

Nyrielle blinked. "How do you know it's not already her?"

The girl smiled. "Because he hasn't moved yet."

But he did now.

As if the fire whispered her name and handed it to him, he stepped forward—slow, unhurried, like a wolf certain of its prey.

Nyrielle turned away, breath shivering. She could leave. She could disappear into the crowd.

But she didn't.

Her feet held their ground as he crossed to her, stopping just near enough to speak—but not near enough to trap her.

"Do you always dance like that?" he asked, voice deep and quiet.

Nyrielle turned to face him, chin tilted. "Like what?"

"Like the fire is inside you."

Her laugh came out softer than she expected. "Only when no one's looking."

"I was looking."

"I noticed."

Silence lapsed. Not awkward, but sharp with awareness. The sounds around them faded—music, laughter, the shuffle of footsteps—as if the night itself held its breath.

She swallowed. "Are you waiting for someone?"

"I was."

"Was?"

"I didn't realize who I was waiting for… until I saw you."

Nyrielle's heart jumped.

She shook her head with a smile, trying to push back the heat crawling up her neck. "That line probably works on a lot of girls."

"I don't use lines," he said simply.

"Who are you?" she asked.

He was quiet for a beat. "No one important tonight."

And somehow, that was the answer she needed most.

A warmth spread through her. And just like that, she took a step closer.

Not much.

Just enough for him to feel it.

More Chapters