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The wind hammered the shutters, fists demanding entry. The wood rattled as though the storm itself longed to be let in.
Corin lay rigid on her straw mat, watching moonlight crawl across the rafters. Shadows stretched and breathed, every shape alive with threat. Her body locked with dread. Tonight, the gods would choose. Not her. Never her.
Beyond the thin walls came the hush of voices over dying hearths. Smoke curled through the village like a prayer too weak to rise.
"It will be Jorrel this time," one whispered.
"No, Dane. The gods take the strong."
"They never take the worthless."
Corin pressed her hands to her ears, but the voices slid through the cracks like smoke. It was always the strongest, the cleverest, the noble-born. Always. She was none of those, only an orphan in a cottage that smelled of mildew and ash. Easy to ignore. Safe to discard.
And yet her chest ached, her pulse thundering like war drums.
Her hand brushed the wooden sword hanging crooked on the wall. Splintered, thin, useless even for kindling, yet she guarded it like treasure.
She remembered the night Sir Edran had thrust it into her hands. Half-drunk, armor sagging, rust eating his plates, he was a knight mocked as a relic. He should have been a warning, not a teacher.
But when his dim blue eyes met her gray stare, something shifted. He had not struck her for spying, nor mocked her. Instead, he looked at her as if he'd found a reflection in shattered glass.
"There's fight in you," he rasped, pressing the toy blade into her palm. "Not the gentle kind. The kind that burns. Rule it, or it will burn you alive."
The words had lodged deep, hotter than the wine on his breath, sharper than the rusted steel at his side.
That ember flared now. She rose, bare feet on dirt, and stepped into the night.
The cottages crouched like frightened beasts, shutters clamped tight, chimneys coughing their last warmth into the black sky. Fear clung to the air like smoke. Behind every wall, unseen eyes watched: fearful, pitying, relieved it was not their name whispered on the wind.
At the gate, Edran leaned against a post, torchlight crawling across the dents of his battered armor. He tipped back his flask, the liquid sloshing loud in the silence.
"Should be in bed," he muttered.
"So should you," Corin shot back, arms tight against the cold.
He gave a broken chuckle. "Difference is, I've lived long enough to earn insomnia." His voice softened. "Your eyes are too young to be this wide awake."
"They won't choose me," she said quickly. "Why would they?"
His grin split like an old scar. "Why indeed?" He shook the flask but didn't drink. "If they're fools enough to notice what I did, remember the lesson."
Her throat tightened. "And that was?"
"Bite back. Always bite back."
She tried to grin, but her lips refused. "That's what got you broken."
He tapped the ruined breastplate over his heart. "Better broken than bowed." His gaze shifted to the treeline, shadow swallowing its edges. "The gods love those who bow."
The earth shuddered.
Hoofbeats. Slow. Merciless. Inexorable.
The flask slipped from his hand. "Not here. Not now."
The rhythm deepened, pounding like a funeral march. Shutters slammed. Doors burst open. Villagers poured into the square, pale with terror.
Children screamed. Mothers dragged them close. Fathers fell to their knees before the riders even appeared.
"It's them."
"Don't look at their eyes!"
"Mercy, gods, mercy!"
And then, the forest moved.
From the treeline they came: black-armored figures wreathed in smoke not of this world. Their steeds snorted sparks, hooves striking thunder from the earth. At their head rode a knight clad in armor darker than void, helm faceless, presence absolute. Even the torches leaned away, flames guttering as if in fear.
The square froze as pale cards bled into the air. They circled the torches, drifting not idly but with the patience of predators. They did not float. They hunted.
One by one, the cards skimmed over villagers' shoulders, tasting hearts and ignoring prayers. When they found none to claim, they drifted closer, circling tighter, until at last they descended.
"Stay still," Edran rasped, iron grip on her arm.
Corin shook him off. "They'll smell fear either way."
"Then for once in your life, girl, be afraid!"
The circle tightened. The cards hovered like vultures, and then one broke free.
Coal-black. Cruelly patient. It lingered before her, then turned.
The Fool.
A painted figure grinned from a cliff's edge, a dog nipping at his heels. The smile stretched wider, cruel and knowing.
"It's a mistake," Edran snarled. "She's nothing. She's no one!"
The card struck Corin's palm like iron.
Fire erupted. It tore up her arm, blistering flesh, searing veins. She screamed as it speared into her eye, burning, blinding, until the flames sank deep, carving themselves into her bones.
When the world returned, she was gasping, chest heaving.
Her right eye remained its cold, stone-gray. Her left eye burned molten red, a ring of fire carved into its iris. Ember-scars laced her arms, faintly luminous, crawling like veins of living flame beneath ruined skin.
A gasp swept the square.
"She's cursed."
"No, chosen."
"Chosen as what? Look at her eye!"
Some villagers collapsed into sobs. Others spat curses into the dust. None dared speak her name..
Above them, laughter split the heavens. It was merciless, exultant a storm given voice. It crashed down like lightning, jagged and blinding, until even the earth seemed to flinch. Not mirth but mockery, a cruel delight in mortal ruin.
The Fool had been chosen.
Corin swayed, tasting blood and ash on her tongue. Her body trembled, every muscle screaming from the fire that had torn through her veins. Smoke curled faintly from her skin, the ember-scars still pulsing like veins of molten ore.
But beneath the pain, something coiled sharp and unyielding. A presence hers, yet not hers pressed against her ribs, whispering not of surrender, but of hunger.
Let them sneer. Let them spit. Let them call her the Fool.
She stood, one eye burning like a forge, the other cold as stone. Her arm throbbed, charred and ruined, yet she clenched her fist until her nails drew blood.
Fear clawed at the villagers. Mothers dragged children back, men averted their eyes as if her gaze might strike them blind. But Corin lifted her head all the same, forcing herself upright against the weight of their horror.
The gods had made their choice. So be it.
She would not bow.
She would not break.
She would be the flame that scoured their altars, the fire that devours their throne.