Page 5 of Bound in Flames

Even so, their words churned in my mind. I imagined the gallows, the crowds shouting for my death, my body swinging lifelessly in the breeze. Or worse, some experiment at the hands of the Crown’s Enforcers. The thought wrapped around my chest like an iron band, squeezing tighter with every passing second. I closed my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but their laughter dragged me back, a constant reminder that my fate was already written. I wouldn’t cry. I couldn’t. Not for them to see. Not for anyone.

Magic. The word itself felt foreign, like an accusation rather than a reality. My mind reeled, trying to reconcile the whispers ofshamanwith the life I had known. I had never seen myself as anything but a farmer’s daughter. I had spent countless days working the fields, my hands in the soil, feeling the steady rhythm of the earth beneath me. It was the closest thing to peace I had ever known. The vibrant energy I had felt while tending crops or walking the forests wasn’t magic, was it? I hadn’t thought so. It had simply been life, as natural as breathing.

Doubt clawed at me.Had it always been magic?The hum beneath my skin, the connection I’d always felt to the land. Was that what set me apart? The villagers spoke of shamans as wild, untamed forces, dangerous because they defied the Crown’s control. But I wasn’t some wild force. I was just… me.Wasn’t I?

The thought churned in my mind, bitter and heavy. The one thing that had ever made me feel alive, that had made meme, could it truly be the reason for all this? The idea twisted inside me, cutting deep in places I hadn’t known could hurt.

Time lost meaning in the darkness of the cell. Minutes stretched into hours, maybe even days, though I couldn’t tell anymore. Every part of me ached, my stomach twisting painfully with hunger, but none of it compared to the hollow void where my magic had been. The cuffs drained my strength, stripping away the energy I hadn’t even realized I’d come to rely on. With every passing moment, the absence of that steady, comforting hum left me weaker, as if I were slowly crumbling from the inside out.

The void was where my thoughts festered. They whispered darkly, twisted and refusing to give me any peace. I thought about the quiet buzz of my magic—how it had once been so constant I had barely noticed it. Now its absence gnawed at me like a phantom limb, a hollow space that couldn’t be filled. The silence was deafening.

I saw my father’s face twisted in anger as he called for my arrest. His voice, sharp and bitter, echoed in my ears, replaying his venomous words over and over until they became a chant I couldn’t escape. I heard the villagers, their voices rising in a hateful chorus.

But beneath the sorrow, anger burned like a low fire. It simmered, growing hotter with each cruel laugh from the guards, each jeering comment they threw my way. Anger at my father for the years of abuse, and for choosing his pride over his own blood. At the villagers for their cowardice, their willingness to turn on someone they had known for years. Anger at myself for being too weak to fight back, too scared to do anything but endure.

When they came for me again, dragging me out of the cell and into the harsh light of day, the anger had strengthened my resolve. It was quiet now, a smoldering ember in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t struggle as they chained my wrists to the bars of a prison cart, the ever present weight of the enchanted cuffs ensuring my compliance. A constant reminder of my powerlessness. I didn’t flinch at their jeers or react when they mocked me. I only stared ahead, my jaw tight, my green eyes burning with defiance.

Rain began to fall as the cart rattled down the uneven road. The first drops were cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of my anger. Soon the rain came down harder, soaking my hair and plastering the dirt of captivity against my face. The countryside blurred past me, dark and unwelcoming, but I didn’t let it pull me in. Instead, my gaze locked on the birds wheeling freely in the gray sky, their wings cutting through the rain with grace. A pang of longing pierced my chest. I envied their freedom, their ability to fly far away from this place, from this life. But I didn’t look away.

The guards' voices buzzed at the edges of my awareness, their words sharp and ugly. I tried to block them out, to bury their voices beneath the pounding of my heart, but fragments still slipped through. Crude remarks about my body. Mocking laughter that sent heat crawling up my neck. Bets exchanged over the violent fate that awaited me in Knight’s Hold. Each word struck like a lash, leaving raw wounds I fought to ignore. I clenched my jaw, forcing my focus elsewhere to quieten the simmering rage. I focused on the way the cuffs against my skin, a faint vibration I latched onto like a lifeline. Somewhere beneath the despair, something still stirred. My magic wasn’t gone. Not entirely. It was there, hidden and waiting, flickering just out of reach.

Fear, anger, and loss swirled within me, a raging storm tearing through me. How had it come to this? The end of my life before it had even begun. There was so much I had dreamed of—to see beyond the endless stretch of fields, to be more than a farmer’s daughter, to find a place where I truly belonged. All of it stolen from me before I’d even realized it was mine to reach for.

The thought burned, a fire that spread through the bitterness of betrayal and the sharp sting of fear. My nails bit into my palms, grounding me against the tide threatening to swallow me whole.

This wasn’t the end.

Not yet.

Not if I had any say in it.

Chapter 3

Cleo

The prison wagon jolted violently, its wheels crunching over the uneven dirt road, forcing me to shift awkwardly to avoid being thrown against the cold iron bars. I sat in silence. My back was pressed against the unyielding bars, and my wrists were still bound above my head. The enchanted metal sapped my strength with every mile, a cold pressure that seemed to seep into my bones. The familiar hum of my magic, something I’d always thought of as a quiet part of myself, was barely a flicker, smothered by the cuffs’ iron grip. The oppressive weight of the journey to the capital was draining me. I knew each jolt of the wagon carried me closer to my death.

I hadn’t spoken to the guards since they had thrown me into the wagon, their jeers and occasional strikes silencing any protests I might have made. Their disdain for me was clear—a shaman, not worth the effort of civility. Each mocking comment was a sharp reminder of the fate awaiting me at Knights Hold.

As the hours dragged on, the countryside morphed from rolling fields to dense forests that seemed to swallow the fading light of late afternoon. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches reaching overhead to blot out the sky.Shadows pooled in the underbrush, flickering with the wagon's movements as if alive. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

The wagon creaked with each bump and turn, the sound blending with the distant caws of crows overhead. Patches of gnarled roots twisted through the dirt road, clawing at the wagon's wheels as if the forest itself sought to trap us in its grasp. Each jolt sent vibrations rattling through the iron bars, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the trees were watching, their shadows shifting in ways that defied logic. The scent of moss and decaying leaves was so thick it left a bitter taste on my tongue. Somewhere deeper in the forest, an unseen creature let out a low, mournful cry that sent a shiver down my spine. The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, and my stiff fingers curled into fists against the chill. Each shift of the cuffs sent a faint vibration through my wrists, the enchantment gnawing at the edges of my mind. It wasn’t just physical; it was as if the absence of magic unraveled something fundamental inside me, leaving a hollow ache I couldn’t escape.

Up ahead, another patrol wagon came into view at a fork in the road. The oxen pulling it stomped and snorted nervously, their breath misting in the cool air. Guards loitered around the stationary cart. Their laughter and coarse voices carried on the wind. My curiosity stirred despite the exhaustion pressing heavily on me. The clang of armor and the scrape of boots against dirt reached me before their faces did, a jarring rhythm to their casual conversation. As the wagon jolted forward, my breath stuttered in my chest when I caught sight of their prisoner.

The orc was unmistakable. His massive frame towered over the humans even as he was forced to his knees. His dark green skin bore streaks of dried blood and fresh wounds, creating a grim pattern against the thick muscles. His black hair, damp with sweat and grime, clung to his face, only emphasizing theintensity in his sharp golden eyes. Chains bit into his wrists as well, binding him so tightly that every movement was a slow, deliberate struggle. The guards hauled him to his feet, dragging him forward as we approached. Despite his injuries, his eyes burned with defiance, their golden hue piercing as they scanned the scene with unsettling clarity.

I’d heard of orcs before. Their strength and ferocity were legendary, as well as their barbaric way of life, but I’d never seen one in person. The sight of him, bruised but unbroken, was both terrifying and strangely captivating.

“Get him chained up.” The lead guard from our small convoy motioned to the rear of our cart. “No free ride for the beast.”

The orc’s laugh rang out, rich and sardonic, cutting through the air like a blade. “A free ride? I wouldn’t dream of it.” His deep voice was tinged with mockery.

The guard struck him hard in the face with the butt of a spear. He stumbled but didn’t fall, his tusks flashing menacingly as he grinned despite the blood trickling from his mouth. It was predatory, and my skin erupted in goosebumps as an icy primal fear flashed through me in response. “Careful, you might actually hurt me,” the orc responded. His smirk was unwavering as they stepped forward to strike him again, but thought better of it. The guard glowered at him, muttering something under his breath before retreating.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing as they hauled him into position, securing the seven-foot giant to the rear of the wagon. The cuffs around his wrists looked as though they had been forged to contain something far more dangerous, their metal groaning faintly under his shifting movements. Each clink of the chains seemed louder in the unnatural stillness of the forest, a rhythmic reminder of the strength restrained within. His wrists were bound in front of him, and though his arms were marked with bruises and cuts,they still flexed with a power that demanded attention. His chest, bare save for an old, battered leather pauldron streaked with blood and grime, rose and fell with a steady rhythm. Even in chains, he held himself with an undeniable presence, his eyes sweeping the wagon with a sharp, deliberate precision that made my breath catch.

As the wagon lurched forward, the orc began to walk easily behind us, his sharp eyes locking onto mine. He studied me, his expression unreadable, before a slow smirk tugged at his lips.

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