The kingdom wasn’t always this bleak.
That’s what people whispered when they thought no one could hear them. Once, there had been music in the streets—fiddles and drums echoing late into the night. Markets bloomed with colors, storytellers performed in the square, and festivals stretched until dawn. People didn’t look over their shoulders before they laughed, and no one cared who you prayed to, who you loved, or whether you chose to raise a family or live alone.
There had been freedom in the air, wild and ordinary all at once.
Now? Silence. Silence in the markets. Silence in the temples. Silence whenever the Council’s guards walked by in their black tunics, silver swords gleaming at their chests like a warning.
They called it “Order.” Everyone else called it survival.
The change hadn’t come all at once. At first, it was subtle, like frost creeping over autumn leaves. The Council said they only wanted to “restore honor” to the kingdom. They tightened rules around worship, declaring only one altar acceptable. Then they promised “protection of family,” while quietly stripping away the rights of women to decide their own bodies and futures. They spoke of “purity of bloodlines,” and foreigners who had once brought their trades, languages, and music were cast out or disappeared in the night.
And then came the decrees about love. Couples who didn’t fit the Council’s definition of sacred union found their names erased from the registries. Their homes were vandalized, their work stolen, their children mocked as if they didn’t belong.
One law after another, until the songs were gone, the storytellers were silenced, and whole communities lived in shadow, afraid of being seen.
Amara hated the silence.
She wasn’t reckless—she’d learned the hard way not to be—but she still remembered the way her husband used to laugh, loud and unafraid. Garron had been the kind of man who said what he thought, who believed truth was worth the risk.
That’s why the Council had made sure he didn’t come home from the quarry one night.
Now she kept her head down, her mouth shut, and her hands busy with herbs and salves. People still came to her, though. When they were sick, when they were scared, when they couldn’t risk saying too much in the square.
That morning, Liora showed up at her door, shaking like a leaf.
“They took him,” the girl whispered before Amara could even invite her inside. Her blond hair was damp with sweat, her eyes wide with panic. “My brother. He asked one question in the gathering and—” She swallowed hard. “He never came back.”
Amara shut the door quickly. Her stomach twisted because she already knew what had happened. Questions were dangerous now. Dangerous enough to erase someone overnight.
“Drink this,” Amara said, pouring hot water over lemon balm leaves. It wasn’t much, but the steam steadied the girl’s breathing.
“You can’t talk about it,” Amara added. Her voice came out sharper than she meant, but fear had a way of doing that. “Not here. Not anywhere.”
Liora’s lips trembled. She nodded, but the hurt in her eyes made Amara ache.
The market that evening was crowded but hushed, as usual. People no longer came for luxuries—those days were gone. The way of living they once knew had been stripped away piece by piece. Education, trade with distant kingdoms, even the right to own land outside the Council’s reach—now only the rich, the ones who sat in the high towers, could afford such things.
The rest of the people survived however they could. With the great trade routes cut off and foreign partnerships destroyed, there were no caravans rolling in with spices, silks, or books. Each village had to rely on its own hands.
A fisherman with sunburnt skin held up two silver-scaled trout, haggling with a seamstress who offered him a patched tunic in return. His jaw clenched—once he could sell fish by the barrel to ships from distant ports. Now he was begging for clothes he used to afford easily.
At the next stall, a child no older than eight clutched a carved wooden horse, its paint chipped, its mane worn smooth. He held it out with trembling fingers to a farmer’s wife, trading it for a small sack of turnips. The woman hesitated, then pressed the toy back into his hand, sliding the turnips into his basket anyway. The boy’s eyes shone, but his shoulders stayed hunched, as though kindness itself might be punishable.
Near the well, an older woman unwrapped a tiny bundle of cloth. Inside lay a silver ring—her wedding band. Her hands shook as she offered it to a traveling apothecary in exchange for a vial of fever medicine. He frowned, clearly knowing the value was uneven, but after a long pause, he nodded. She kissed the vial as though it were holy, tucking it into her dress. The ring disappeared into the folds of his bag.
It was survival, stitched together in makeshift markets where every glance toward the guards carried risk. People bartered in low voices, eyes flicking constantly to the black-clad sentinels at the edges of the square.
Amara kept her own expression carefully blank as she took bread from Mara the baker, tucking it into her basket.
And then she saw him.
Elyon.
She almost dropped the loaf. He hadn’t been in Davenrock for years—not since Garron’s disappearance. His hair was darker now, streaked with gray, his ink-stained fingers hidden in his cloak.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Amara said under her breath as she passed him.
“Neither should you,” he murmured back. Then, softer: “The prophecy is changing.”
Her pulse spiked. “What do you mean, changing?”
“They’re rewriting it again. Twisting it. By winter, the Council won’t even bother pretending the king matters. The crown will belong to them.”
Amara froze, the noise of the market fading around her. She wanted to ask more, but Elyon was already slipping into the crowd.
That night, sleep refused to come. Garron’s laugh haunted her. Liora’s wide eyes. Elyon’s warning.
She left her house before dawn and walked to the cliffs. The sea crashed below, wild and restless, and for the first time in years she whispered a prayer out loud.
That’s when she realized she wasn’t alone.
A man stood at the edge, cloak whipping in the wind. When he turned, she saw eyes like obsidian, sharp and steady.
“You’re Amara,” he said.
She stiffened. “Who are you?”
“Someone who remembers what freedom feels like.”
Her breath caught. No one said things like that anymore—not if they wanted to live.
He pulled something from his cloak: a pendant carved from black stone, shaped like a flame. It gleamed in the pale light.
“You’re not alone,” he told her. “The fire isn’t dead. It’s waiting.”
Before she could answer, the heavy sound of boots hit the path behind her. Guards. Too many of them.
The stranger pressed the pendant into her hand, his fingers warm around hers.
“Hide it,” he whispered. “When the ashes stir, you’ll know what to do.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the mist.
Amara stood frozen, the pendant burning in her palm, as the guards’ footsteps grew louder.
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