The guards’ boots thundered against the cliff path, closer and closer. Amara shoved the obsidian flame into the folds of her cloak, pressing her fist tight to keep it from slipping.
Breathe. Just breathe.
When the black-clad soldiers came into view, their faces were hard as stone, swords gleaming at their sides. The leader—a man with a scar bisecting his jaw—looked her up and down like she was a bug he wasn’t sure whether to crush.
“Amara the healer,” he said flatly. “What brings you out at dawn?”
Her throat went dry. She forced herself to meet his eyes, though her stomach lurched. “Herbs,” she said, holding up the basket she carried. “The sea cliffs grow feverleaf after the rain. You’d know that if you’d ever had to care for the sick.”
The soldier’s jaw twitched. For one terrifying heartbeat, she thought he might drag her away just for her tone. But then he spat into the dirt and motioned to his men.
“See that you’re back in town before curfew,” he said. “The Council has eyes everywhere now.”
And then they were gone, boots pounding back toward Davenrock.
Amara let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her hand opened. The pendant still sat in her palm, dark and solid, its carved flame catching the first light of morning.
Not dead, the stranger had said. Waiting.
She tried to forget about it that day. She really did. But the flame weighed on her like a secret that wanted to burn through her skin. Every time she mixed herbs or tied bundles of lavender, her mind drifted back to his words: You are not alone.
Liora came by in the afternoon, eyes hollow.
“There’s still no word about my brother,” she whispered. Then she leaned closer, her voice breaking. “And now they’ve started posting notices—lists of people who aren’t allowed to work anymore. Anyone who questioned the Laws. Anyone whose family doesn’t fit the Council’s idea of pure bloodlines. My mother’s name was on it. She’s been dismissed from the weaving hall.”
Amara felt her stomach knot. The weaving hall was one of the last places women could earn their own coin.
“It’s worse than that,” Liora said, her fingers twisting in the hem of her sleeve. “The healers in the capital have been ordered to stop treating women who come asking for… choices.” Her cheeks flushed, but her meaning was clear. “And people are whispering that the borders are closing—that no one from outside will be allowed in. Refugees from the southern fires are already being turned away.”
The words hung heavy between them.
It wasn’t just silence anymore. It was control. Of work. Of bodies. Of who belonged and who didn’t.
Amara squeezed her hand, though guilt stabbed through her. She wanted to tell the girl about the pendant, about the whisper of resistance—but what if it was a trap? What if speaking out put them both in chains?
So she said nothing.
But that night, in the square, she saw what silence cost.
The Council’s guards dragged three men into the marketplace and bound them to the central post. A crowd gathered—some willingly, most out of fear. Everyone knew what it meant when the bells tolled after dark.
“These men,” the guard captain announced, “are guilty of treason against Order. They questioned the sacred prophecy. They spread doubt among loyal citizens. And so, their punishment is to be made example.”
Amara’s stomach turned. She recognized one of them—Tomas, a fisherman who had traded with her just two days ago. His daughter clung to her mother in the crowd, sobbing.
The punishment was swift, merciless. By the time the guards marched away, the crowd had scattered in silence, leaving behind only grief and the heavy stink of fear.
Amara walked home with the flame pendant burning in her pocket like it wanted to scream.
The next evening, a knock rattled her door. She froze, candlelight flickering against the walls. No one visited after curfew. No one dared.
“Amara,” a voice whispered. “It’s Elyon.”
She yanked the door open and pulled him inside.
“You’re going to get us both killed,” she hissed.
“I had to come,” he said. His eyes darted to the shadows. “There are whispers, Amara. Whispers of fire.”
Her hand instinctively brushed against the pendant hidden in her pocket.
Elyon’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
Her silence was answer enough.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “The Council thinks they’ve buried every ember of resistance. They’re wrong. There are still those who remember the old freedoms, the old ways. They’ve been waiting. And now… now they believe it’s time.”
Amara’s pulse hammered in her ears. “You don’t know what you’re saying. People are being executed in the square. You want me to throw myself into the fire for a prophecy?”
“No.” Elyon’s eyes glinted. “For freedom.”
Before she could respond, another knock thundered at the door. Heavy. Unmistakable.
Council guards.
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