Page 4 of Bound in Flames

He stepped forward, and my stomach twisted in dread. His lip curled as he spat at my feet, the sound echoing louder than any of the whispers around me. “I should have known. Twenty-five years old, unwed, and a burden from the start. I should have seen the signs! And now a shaman?! A fucking stain on our good family name!”

His words lashed me, but it wasn’t just the accusations. It was the complete lack of the man I had once loved, the father who had guided me in my studies before he was consumed by his drinking. Replaced by this hollow, hateful shell of a man. And yet part of me still mourned for what I had lost. Each word struck me like a blow. My knees threatened to give, trembling under the weight of his hatred. My chest ached with the effort to keep the tears at bay. I looked for a flicker of the father I once knew, but there was nothing.

“You’ve bought shame on this family. Onme!”

My eyes burned as I ripped my gaze from his, and the cobblestones blurred beneath me as I fought back the tearsthreatening to fall. I was determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Confusion churned in my chest, tangled with anger and grief.How could I mourn someone who had caused me so much pain?And yet, there it was—a deep ache for the father I used to know, the one who laughed easily, who held me when I cried. Before the anger. Before the alcohol. That man was gone, lost to his demons, and yet part of me still clung to the hope that he might return. The hope made the pain sharper, cut deeper. I startled when the guards pushed me forward, laughing at my faltering steps.

Worse than the whispers was the hollow ache where the magic had been. The steady warmth was gone, leaving me raw, exposed. Shame scorched through me, laced with the bitter sting of betrayal. But even as humiliation threatened to drown me, I held on to my defiance. They wouldn’t see me break.

The jailhouse loomed ahead,its stone walls cold and unwelcoming, a fortress of despair. The guards shoved me through the heavy wooden doors with a force that sent me sprawling, their laughter echoing in the dimly lit cell. My knees hit the filthy, straw-strewn floor, my palms scraping against the uneven stones. The cuffs around my wrists buzzed faintly, a cruel and constant reminder of the power they had stolen from me, the power that was no longer mine to wield. The flickering torchlight threw jagged shadows on the walls, my nose crinkled at the reek of sweat, rot, and hopelessness.

“Caught yourself a live one.” A guard chuckled, his eyes lingering on me in a way that made my skin crawl. “Shame. Pretty thing like her could’ve been fun to play with.”

My pulse thundered in my ears, instincts screaming at me, and I felt like a trapped animal. Every muscle in my body was tense, the weight of their leering gazes coiling around me like a noose. The way they moved, the casual cruelty in their words—it wasn’t the first time they’d done this. I could feel it in the air, thick with unspoken violence, and the realization made me sick.

“You call this pretty?” Another guard stepped closer, grabbing a handful of my curls. Yanking me back to my feet so roughly my neck screamed in pain. “Looks more like a feral beast to me. You see the way she snarled out there?”

I wrenched away from him, pain lancing through my scalp as his grip tore free, a clump of hair. The sting brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. My pain only fueled their laughter—a sound cold and jagged, brimming with malice. It clawed at my nerves, scraping against the raw edges of my fear.

Before I could recover, a hard shove sent me stumbling back. My feet faltered, and my head bounced off the stone with a sickening crack that reverberated through my skull. Stars burst behind my eyes, blurring the world into jagged shapes and shadows. Warmth spread across the back of my head, the faint smell of blood mixing with the dust and grime of the street. An itch prickled beneath the growing wetness, and I struggled to keep my focus as the nausea grew.

Pain and dizziness swirled together, threatening to pull me under, but I swallowed against the urge to vomit, forcing myself to stay alert. The guards’ cruel laughter still rang in my ears, and even as my vision swam, I tried to bite back the groan rising in my throat. I couldn’t give them the satisfaction.

The cell door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the tiny space. I staggered to the corner, the acidic burn rising in my throat as I sank onto the cold, filthy floor. My head throbbed, a dull but insistent ache, each pulse making the room spin. I reached up slowly, my fingers trembling as they brushedagainst the sticky warmth at the back of my head. The texture sent a shiver through me—matted hair and blood, crusted and damp. I winced, pulling my hand back to examine it in the dim light, but the shadows swallowed any detail.

The thin cotton of my dress offered no warmth against the chill creeping through the stone. It clung to my skin, slick with sweat and grime, doing little to keep the cold at bay. My boots were my only source of warmth, laced halfway up my calves. They felt heavy and stiff, caked with mud that cracked with every movement, the tight leather grounding me. I drew my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms tightly around them, but the cold still seeped in, gnawing at my bones.

The dimness seemed alive, swallowing nearly everything except the faint glint of iron bars and the decaying straw scattered across the floor. My chest tightened, and I pressed myself further into the corner, desperate for even the illusion of safety. The damp air clung to my skin like an heavy cloak. Somewhere in the distance, the steady drip of water echoed, each plunk hammering into my mind like a clock counting down to my inevitable fate.

Outside my cell, the guards exchanged crude comments, their voices carrying through the oppressive silence. “Looks like she’ll get real comfortable in here,” one said, his tone thick with mockery.

Another snorted. “Comfortable? She’ll be lucky to last the night without cracking. Shamans always break. Especially the new ones. They’re like fish out of water without their magic. It’s only a matter of time before the silence eats away at them.”

"She’ll crack even faster than most. You can see it in her eyes. Already hollow.”

The walls seemed to close in, the damp air pressing against my chest until each breath felt like a battle. My hands shook asI clutched at my knees, nails digging into the thin cotton of my dress in a desperate attempt to hold myself together.

Breathe, Cleo. Just breathe. Five things you can see.

My lips trembled as I whispered the words my mother had taught me. My eyes darted around the cell, latching onto anything: the glint of iron bars. The decaying straw scattered across the floor. The faint smear of blood on my fingertips. The jagged edge of a stone near my foot. The faintly glowing crack of light seeping under the door.

Four things you can touch.I let my fingers move, brushing over the rough stone at my back. The gritty texture of the straw beneath me. The soft fabric of my dress clinging to my skin. The damp, cold leather of my boots.

Three things you can hear.I strained my ears, focusing on the drip of water echoing in the silence. The faint shuffle of boots in the distance. The unsteady rasp of my own breath.

Two things you can smell.The sour tang of damp stone filled my nose. Mixed with the metallic bite of blood.

One thing you can taste.I swallowed hard, the coppery taste of my bitten lip lingering on my tongue.

Slowly, the storm inside me began to quiet. My heart still raced, but the edges of my panic softened, no longer razor-sharp. Mama’s voice echoed in my mind, steady and soothing.“When the world feels like it’s spinning out of control, you anchor yourself, Cleo. You find the things that remind you that you’re still here.”

Time passed in a crawl, my head fuzzy and still ringing with the barely controlled panic. Outside my cell the guards talked freely, their voices low but still audible.

“Knights Hold won’t waste time with her, shamans go straight to the gallows these days. Or worse. The crown doesn’t waste resources on their kind.”

“Good riddance, fewer of her kind, the safer we all are. They think their magic makes them special.”

Their words sent a fresh wave of fear coursing through me. Knights Hold. The name was whispered like a curse among those who dared speak of it at all. It was where the Ostelan Crown sent those accused of crimes too dangerous for local punishment—traitors, sorcerers, and shamans. None returned. Stories of public executions and the horrors that awaited there were told in hushed voices, the details grotesque enough to turn even the strongest stomach.

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