Shadowbound Flame

Sierra’s POV

Age 7 · Fortress of Cinderfall

There was blood on the stone again.

Not hers, this time.

He lay crumpled at her feet, breathing shallow, lips cracked but still curved in that soft, knowing smile—the kind that made her believe the darkness might one day break.

“Do it!” her father’s voice cut through the chamber, slow and poisonous. “Kill the traitor, Vaelira. Or I’ll have you flayed and fed to the hatchlings.”

She was seven. Starving. And with the promise of a thick, juicy steak, her tiny hands clutched the ceremonial blade. Knuckles white. Arms shaking. Freckles burned from the fire-laced slap she’d taken for hesitating.

“Come on, little ember,” the king cooed, each word venom-wrapped. “He betrayed you. Lied to you. Promised escape—and brought you nothing but weakness and misery. Make me proud.”

She didn’t look at him.

She looked at the boy on the floor. Older. Taller. Pale from lack of sun. His eyes—soft, grey eyes—never left hers, even as blood poured from his mouth.

“Do it,” he whispered.

“No,” she choked. “I—I can’t—”

“You have to,” he said gently. “It’s okay. I failed you. I couldn’t get you out like I promised.”

Vaelira trembled.

He smiled again, a broken thing.

“Enjoy that steak for the both of us.”

Then he closed his eyes, awaiting the only embrace he could have with her.

And she drove the blade into his chest.

Present Day · Age 18 · Redmoor Academy

Sierra Vale shot upright, gasping like she’d surfaced from drowning in oil. The shadows screamed inside her head—chittering, slithering, howling in dead languages. They wanted blood. They wanted freedom. They wanted home.

She gritted her teeth and scrambled for the vial under her pillow: blue glass, silver stopper, laced with nightbloom and silentroot. Her fingers trembled as she uncorked it and downed it in one gulp.

The burn hit first, then the numbing calm. The shadows wailed one last time and curled back into the corners of her mind like punished dogs.

She exhaled.

Not safe.

Never safe.

But silent, for now.

Pressing her hands to her freckled face, she traced her fingers up through the tangled jungle of her curls. Still shaking. Still haunted.

A fist slammed on her dorm door.

“Siiiieeerraaa!” a shrill, venom-laced singsong voice called. “Come out, come out, wherever you’re hiding, you flaming-haired freak!”

Another bang.

“You know what time it is!” another girl chimed in, high-pitched and nasal. “Time for everyone’s favourite game—let’s humiliate the charity case!”

“Get out before we come to get you, bitch!” the first snapped, now low and cruel. Sierra didn’t move. Not yet. Not until her hands stopped shaking. The shadows might be quiet… but they remembered.

The pounding stopped. So did the voices. Sierra sat motionless for another five minutes, counting the thump of her heartbeat and the seconds between shadow whispers. Twenty-three. Twenty-four…

Stillness.

Silence.

She rose.

The morning sun cut through the slats of her window like golden knives. Dust danced in the beams, illuminating the edges of her reflection in the cracked mirror and the faint shimmer of magic suppression ink along her collarbone—redrawn every night, burning like truth.

She moved quietly, slipping into her grey uniform: too tight in the chest, too loose at the waist. Tied her curls into a high, messy bun. Clutched her satchel. Then… opened the door.

A second of peace.

Then pain.

Hands—three of them—grabbed her arms, her hair, her bag. One kicked her hard in the back of the knee. She hit the stone floor with a grunt, cheek scraping rough against cold tile. The hallway was empty, too early for teachers. Just like they planned.

“Ooops…” sneered the first voice—sharper than the others. Highborn. Cruel. “Did the little orphan fall down again?”

Sierra didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe too loudly. She just watched the trio with lowered lashes. They stood above her like hungry crows:

Elara – The Leader: Pale blonde, perfect lips, eyes like chipped quartz. Always smiling when it hurt most.

Gloria – The Shadow: Lanky, wolf-eyed, knuckle bruises, laugh like shattered glass.

Patricia – The Echo: Pretty brunette, fake pout, sharper tongue than blade.

“Maybe she’s waiting for someone to help her,” the wolf-eyed girl said, crouching close enough for Sierra to smell her sour breath. “A prince, maybe?”

“She’d turn him to stone with that freaky stare!” the brunette added. “Honestly, what are you? A cursed peasant? A failed spell?”

Sierra stared at the floor.

Don’t. Don’t react.

The blonde knelt, gently flicking a curl from Sierra’s cheek. Her fingers grazed the potion burn still fading from her skin. “I think,” she said softly, “you need to be reminded of your place.”

Sierra whispered, “Already know it.”

The blonde’s smile faltered.

Before she could speak again, a soft hum vibrated through the hallway. The air shifted. Something invisible trembled. The shadows stirred.

Sierra squeezed her hands into fists.

Not now. Not yet. Be still.

She swallowed down the venom in her chest, biting her tongue until she tasted blood. The trembling stopped.

The blonde stood, sneering. “Tch. Boring…”

The wolf-eyed girl spat next to her. They walked off, laughing. Sierra waited until their footsteps vanished.

Then she stood. She didn’t cry. Didn’t brush the dust from her skirt. Didn’t look back.

Instead, she whispered a word in a language no one taught her, one that rose from her blood like smoke. And the shadows shivered in delight.

“Vel’thra nex umbraa…”