Page 1 of Bound in Flames

Chapter 1

Cleo

Blood smeared the horizon, the dying light of dawn struggling to pierce the heavy mist that smothered Syn Farm. I crouched by the hearth. Rough stone bit into my knees, and my hands trembled as I coaxed reluctant embers to life. The acrid scent of charred wood clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of my own sweat. My arms ached from the endless labor of yesterday, but it wasn’t the weariness in my body that pressed down on me. It was the shadow of my father’s voice echoing in my mind:You’ll never amount to anything.His words were chains, binding me to this dying patch of land, to a future I was powerless to escape.

“Cleo, water on for tea.” my father’s voice was as rough and unyielding as the stones in the hearth. The demand yanked me from my thoughts, a sharp reminder that here, my rebellion lived only in silence. It wasn’t a request. It never was.

“Yes, father,” I said, the words hollow, my voice little more than a breath as I reached for the battered kettle. The motions were automatic now, drilled into me like the ache in my bones. I poured the water, watched the steam rise, and when the kettle began to scream, I bit back the urge to do the same.

I swept a hand back through my hair, catching painfully on a knot in the messy braid. I winced but didn’t stop, yanking the tangle free with a sharp pull. The sting in my scalp was a fleeting distraction from the clawing ache in my chest. But then, there was something else—a faint, tingling warmth at the edges of my senses. It wasn’t the fire, and it wasn’t the chill of the morning air. It was something deeper, something I couldn’t quite place. It stirred uneasily just beneath my skin before it faded into the noise of my thoughts. Last night’s betrayal sat heavy in the air around me, thick and suffocating, as if the shadows of his deal had crept into every corner of the room, whispering of a future I could no longer escape.

A marriage. Arranged in whispers over a grimy tavern table, sealed with the scratch of a pen and the clink of a debt repaid. My father’s gambling had been the noose, and I was the tethered goat. The man he’d sold me to was old enough to be my grandfather, his eyes hungry with greed, his smile a promise of misery. I had one week of freedom left.

The kettle’s shrill whistle yanked me back to the present. I poured the tea and carried it to him. His cold gray eyes flicked over me, sharp and appraising, like I was a bushel of grain to be weighed and sold. His gruff orders blurred together into background noise.The market. The debts. Don’t come back empty-handed.

“Yes sir,” I murmured.

As I turned toward the door, I felt his heavy gaze follow me. Shackles had less weight. Everything about Syn Farm was a reflection of him: withered crops, crumbling walls, and choices that spiraled endlessly downward. The dowry Mama had saved was long gone, gambled away on promises as empty as the coffers. And me? My worth had been measured and sold to the highest bidder.

The neighbors liked to whisper about me, how my looks were unusual, too bold for their delicate tastes. At twenty-five, my age only seemed to amplify their judgment, setting me further apart in a society that prized youth and conformity in women. They never said it to my face, but I knew the truth. My wild auburn curls had a mind of their own, always a frizzy mess no matter how hard I tried to tame them. Add to that my freckled face and green eyes that seemed to scream defiance, and it was no wonder the neighbors looked at me like I was trouble waiting to happen. Not exactly the meek and mild daughter anyone hoped for. Too strong, they said. Too willful.

Mama had understood me. She used to call my spirit a blessing, not a curse. She’d sit with me by the hearth, whispering stories about women who bent the world to their will, who didn’t wait for permission to claim their power. She’d speak of how they could feel the pulse of the earth, the breath of the wind, and the steady rhythm of life coursing through them—and how, one day, I might feel it too. But those dreams had faded long ago, lost to time to his bitterness. I couldn’t even visit her grave without his sharp words ringing in my ears, reminding me of how little remained of her in our lives. He saw her in me, in the shape of my face, the curve of my smile—and hated me more for it. As I grew older, the blows came harder, as if he could beat her memory out of me.

I paused in the hallway, the rough wood of the doorframe biting into my palms as I gripped it for balance. My breath hitched, and the walls pressing closer, suffocating me. Something had to change. It had to. Because if this was all my life would ever be, I wasn’t sure I could bear it much longer.

The heatof the market pressed down like a living thing as I wove through the throng of bustling villagers. The air carried the tang of spiced meats, the earthy scent of freshly dug turnips, and the acrid undertone of livestock. I walked alone, each step heavy with the weight of what I carried.

Every movement burned with purpose. My pocket held the last of Mama’s jewelry. Its presence both a comfort and a wound. She’d once worn the ring with pride, a symbol of love and hope. The thought made my stomach twist with regret.

The whispers of the market goers prickled at my ears as I passed, their words like nettles brushing against my skin.

“That’s the Syn girl. I heard she was to be betrothed to?—"

“Shame about her father. She’ll end up just like him, I'm sure.”

Their eyes lingered, but I forced myself to keep walking, my chin held high even as my heart hammered in my chest. The market’s vibrant chaos did little to distract me from the gnawing sense of unease that had settled deep in my bones.

I approached the jeweler’s stall. The weight of the ring in my pocket seemed to grow heavier, an anchor of memories I couldn’t let go. I pulled it out with trembling fingers, the gold catching the sunlight in a way that pierced straight through my chest. It wasn’t just a piece of Mama's jewelry—it was her. Her laughter, her warmth, the way she’d smile and say everything would be okay. Now, it was all I had left of her, a fragile link to a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. Now, it was nothing more than a means to pay another debt I hadn’t incurred. The ache in my chest deepened, and I couldn’t breathe past the grief.The jeweler’s sharp eyes assessed it with cold precision, his lips pursed in judgment.

“I can do three gold pieces, not a copper more.” He placed a few coins in my hand. Not enough. It was never enough.

Clutching the coins tightly I turned away and made my way toward the food stalls. The air grew thicker with the mingling scents of fresh bread and roasting meats, but even the warmth of the aromas couldn’t ease the chill in my veins.

A ragged group of children wove through the crowd like shadows, their thin faces a mixture of desperation and fleeting triumph as they clutched stolen loaves of bread tightly to their chests. The baker’s outraged shouts cut through the air, but no one moved to stop them. My steps faltered as I watched them vanish into a narrow alley, their small forms swallowed by the darkness. Their gaunt frames and wide, hollow eyes stayed with me, silent cries for help that clawed at my conscience.

My hand tightened around the coins in my pocket. I could feel the press of my father’s expectations like a noose around my neck, but a sharp bitterness cut through the fear. He’d find a reason to beat me anyway—whether I came home with less coins or the wrong tone in my voice. The realization twisted into a defiant thought: if I was going to suffer, why not let it be for something that mattered? I closed my eyes briefly, and their faces swam in the darkness—gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes, desperation clinging to them like shadows. A memory of Mama’s voice rose unbidden, her gentle words wrapping around me like a balm. My throat burned with unshed tears as I recalled her voice as clearly as if she stood beside me.No one should go hungry, Cleo. Not if we can help it.

Before I could think, I turned toward the nearest stall and handed over a gold coin. The merchant handed me a basket of meat, fruit and bread, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Generous of you,” he muttered.

I didn’t answer. My heart pounded as I made my way to the alley. The sounds of the bustling market faded into a low hum as I focused on the children huddled in the doorway. They froze when they saw me, their eyes wide and wary, suspicion sharpening their gaunt features. In this dark and violent world, I knew trust was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

“Here,” I said softly, setting the basket down and stepping back. “Take it.”

None of them moved. Their gazes flicked between me and the basket. Slowly, a boy—thin, no older than ten—inched forward, his movements cautious as if he expected the offer to be snatched away. He grabbed the basket and retreated quickly, his eyes never leaving mine. The others crowded close, their wary eyes broke my heart, their suspicion and hunger cutting deeper than any blade. They moved with the hesitancy of creatures long used to traps, their fear so palpable it seemed to bleed into the air around us. I wished I could offer more than a small meal, but in this world, even kindness had its limits.

As the boy tore into the basket’s contents, the others swarmed like starving crows, their small hands clawing for scraps with a desperation that tugged at my chest. Their ravenous gaze burned itself into my memory, the desperate glint in their eyes echoing the frantic, wet smacks of their chewing. Each hurried bite gnawed at my conscience, a weight I couldn’t dislodge no matter how hard I tried.

“Why?” the older boy asked.

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