Chapter 2 – Ashes and Oaths

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.

Back at Kyratth

King Zarreth was having a feast with his council and soldiers.

"Aye! I want to raise a toast to all the brave soldiers who succeeded in killing those damn witches. Now Kyratth can finally have some peace! Toast!"

He raised his glass high, and the soldiers echoed the gesture with loud cheers.

But just as the toast ended, the heavy doors of the grand hall swung open with a bang.

Lucian, the king's first son stormed in, his dark curly hair stuck to his face, damp with sweat and rage. His expression was thunderous, frustration radiating from every step.

"Father, may I have a word?" His voice was sharp, stern.

King Zarreth, barely glancing up, took a piece of meat and chewed slowly, like he couldn't be bothered by whatever his son was fuming about.

"I said, I want to speak to you," Lucian repeated, his tone even firmer now.

The room fell into an awkward silence. Everyone could feel the tension crackling in the air, yet no one dared to move or speak.

A smirk tugged at the corner of King Zarreth's lips. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he signaled for everyone to leave the hall.

Once the room emptied, Lucian stepped forward, closing the space between them.

"I told you we should carry out a proper investigation before making a decree to slaughter those witches," he said through clenched teeth. "Some of them used their powers for good. Some of them were innocent. They didn't deserve to die!"

Lucian and Zarreth had never shared the warmth of a typical father-son bond. Their relationship was strained, unspoken loathing simmering beneath the surface. They had learned to co-exist. But this time, Lucian wasn't hiding his anger.

Zarreth set his cup down with a loud clink and met his son's glare.

"What's the point of investigating?" he said, cold and unmoved. "Even if some of them were innocent… I don't care. I don't want the stench of witches polluting my kingdom. And listen here-" his voice deepened, sharper now. "mind how you speak to me in front of the council. You've disrespected me once… there won't be a next time."

Their eyes locked, fury clashing with fury.

Lucian's expression was unreadable. He held his father's gaze a moment longer, then turned on his heels and walked away, slamming the heavy doors behind him.

BACK AT BLACKRIDGE

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.