Snow had a way of muffling sound, like a thick blanket smothering the cries of the world. It covered the rooftops of Eldwyn in ghostly white, softened the jagged stone paths, and dulled the clanging bells that marked the curfew hour. To most, it was just another winter night. But to Lyria, it was the night her silence ended.
She stood barefoot on the wooden floor of her attic room, staring through the frost-laced window. Her breath fogged the glass in short, anxious bursts. Below, guards in black cloaks roamed the streets with torches, their flames flickering like warnings. She counted six of them, moving house to house with mechanical purpose.
They were searching again.
Her hands trembled at her sides, not from cold—she rarely felt it—but from the storm rising within her. A storm of heat, pulsing behind her ribs, begging to escape. She pressed her palms against her thighs, grounding herself, whispering the old mantra in her mind: Control is survival. Control is safety.
"Lyria," a soft voice called from behind. She turned to find her sister, Marella, peeking through the trapdoor. Her eyes were wide, rimmed with worry.
"They're close," Marella whispered. "We need to hide the book."
Lyria crossed the room swiftly and knelt beside the loose floorboard. With practiced hands, she lifted it and pulled out the worn leather-bound journal. It wasn't much—just scribbles of her thoughts, sketches of fire, notes from dreams she barely remembered. But in Eldwyn, even a drawing of flame could mean death.
She pressed it into Marella's hands. "Take it. Hide in the cellar. I'll distract them if they come here."
"No!" Marella clutched her arm. "We promised, Lyria. No more risks. Not after what happened in Aurnholde."
Lyria flinched at the name. Aurnholde. The town where she had almost lost control. The town that now lay buried in ice, its people vanished. She had told no one what really happened, only that the fire was an accident.
But it wasn't.
She forced her voice steady. "I won't use it. I swear. Just go. Please."
Reluctantly, Marella nodded and disappeared down the ladder, vanishing into shadows.
Lyria remained still for a moment. The silence of the attic wrapped around her like a fragile cocoon. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, reaching inward. The fire inside her stirred, sensing danger, aching for release.
Not yet, she told it.
A sharp knock echoed through the house. Three hard pounds. Her heart jolted. She ran to the window again.
Two guards stood at the door. Another patrolled the alley.
They were here.
Lyria descended the ladder, her feet light, her breath calm. She passed the empty kitchen and stood at the front door just as it rattled from another knock.
She opened it.
The wind howled in like a living thing. One guard stepped forward, tall and pale beneath his hood, torchlight flickering across his grim face.
"Lyria Faelan?"
She nodded.
"We received a report. Magic in this district. Your house is to be searched."
She stepped aside. "Of course."
They moved quickly. Boots stomped across the wooden floors. One climbed to the attic. Another pushed into the cellar. Lyria stood by the door, still and silent, her heart thudding like war drums.
She prayed they wouldn't find Marella. Or the journal.
Minutes dragged like hours.
The pale guard returned. "Nothing suspicious. But the law requires you to come for questioning."
Lyria's stomach twisted. "Questioning? About what?"
He didn't answer.
Before she could protest, they seized her arms. She didn't struggle. She couldn't risk burning them.
Control is survival.
She was dragged into the snow.
---
The holding cell smelled of wet stone and old fear. Drips of water echoed from the ceiling, and torchlight cast flickering shadows on the damp walls. Lyria sat with her arms bound, her hair damp with melted snow.
She hadn't spoken since arriving. No one had asked her to.
An hour passed. Maybe two. Then footsteps. A woman entered.
Not a guard. Not a common interrogator.
She wore a velvet cloak of deep blue, lined with silver runes. Her skin was brown and flawless, her eyes sharp like a hawk's.
"Lyria Faelan," she said, voice smooth as silk. "I am Inquisitor Selene. I ask questions. You answer. Understand?"
Lyria nodded once.
Selene circled her like a wolf. "We know what you are. We can feel it. The air around you trembles."
Lyria's jaw clenched. "I don't know what you mean."
Selene crouched before her, eye to eye. "There are two types of girls in Eldwyn. The obedient. And the dangerous. You smell like danger."
Lyria swallowed. Her fingers itched. Not with fear—with flame.
Selene leaned closer. "There's a place for girls like you. Coldmoor. You'll like it. It's always winter there. The kind that burns."
Something in Lyria snapped. A thin crack.
The flame surged in her veins, screaming to be set free.
The torchlight flickered.
Selene's eyes widened. "Control it. Or I will."
But Lyria wasn't listening. Memories flooded her. Her mother burning on the pyre. Marella screaming as soldiers broke down the door. Aurnholde's frozen ruins. Her fire, her curse, her secret.
The heat erupted.
Chains melted. Flames burst from her palms, licking the stone walls with gold and red. Selene stumbled back, casting a barrier spell too late. Lyria rose, her eyes glowing like embers.
"I am not yours to cage," she whispered.
The door exploded off its hinges.
Lyria ran.
---
She didn't stop until the city was far behind. Snowstorm winds tore at her cloak, but she barely felt them. The fire inside kept her warm.
She reached the edge of the frozen lake, where legends said spirits whispered to the brave. She fell to her knees, breath ragged.
"What now?" she whispered to the night.
The lake shimmered. A figure formed in the ice—a woman of flame, eyes like suns.
"Now," the spirit said, "you remember who you are. And you melt the curse."
Lyria stared, shivering not from cold, but from fate. For the first time, she didn't feel afraid.
She felt ready.
The girl who burned in silence was gone.
The fire had finally spoken.
____To be continued.....