⋆༺𓆩Chapter One𓆪༻
⋆༺𓆩Nazira Ansar𓆪༻⋆
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Run
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I beg my legs to run through the ache spreading up my thighs, the burn in my throat. The soot clings to my white stays, scraping down my lungs, setting them ablaze with every breath and ragged pant my body screams for.
Run. Run through the torment, through the searing pain, through the blood of our mother soaking the earth beneath our feet.
Smoke mixes with the fog, shrouding our path in a disorienting haze. I choke back the urge to retch, my stomach roiling at the stench of soot and blood caking our skin.
Cyra struggles to keep close behind me, her breath coming in ragged gasps as we burst through the dense fog. Our feet pound against moss-covered earth, stones and jagged twigs lurking beneath. Their footsteps close in, pounding against the moss in a relentless rhythm, each step a heavy drumbeat of impending death. Heavy boots slam against the moss, their daggers glinting in the moonlight—honed to a lethal edge, poised for the killing blow they so desperately itch for.
We couldn’t escape to another capital or town. Hunters will pursue us relentlesslyuntil we reach the next kingdom—and kill us if they find us. Worse than that is the horrid truth: outside of Aspye, nowhere is safe. Every city, every town under their control, offers only betrayal or capture. Running to the next kingdom is a gamble, the kind where losing means a death far slower than their daggers would grant us.
Yet, knowing this, we run. Because to stop is to admit defeat—to accept that we are already dead. That every runner before us has fallen, their names lost to time, their struggles reduced to whispers in the dark.
Aspye’s runners don’t survive. Their legacy fades; eventually, they too become dust. But to our pursuers, this is only a game. A game they are destined to win.
The forest erupts in a blaze of light, flames engulfing the trees and painting the night sky in hues of hellish orange and red. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh clogs my throat, the unbearable heat blistering my skin even from a distance. Homes and families are swallowed in its wake, their shrieks echoing through the trees in a chilling symphony
But amidst the horror, a single thought burns brighter than the flames: There have to be others. Someone else has to be alive-
“Nazira!”
Her voice stops me cold. My body stumbles forward as I nearly collapse. The crackling trees groan under the weight of the inferno, and I spin wildly, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“Cyra!” My throat burns as I cough up soot, pressing my arm against my nose. I weave through the haze, desperation clawing at me. A burning branch crashes beside me, its heat singeing my skin. I gasp, inhaling air laced with ash and coal, forcing it down my lungs as my vision swims.
The forest moans, trees swaying before collapsing into the inferno. I barely make out the sound of Cyra thrashing wildly, her eyes wide with disbelief—horrified. Her ankle twisted and ensnared in a trap of vines. The tendrils yank against her skin, red blisters rising where they bite into flesh.
I drop to my knees, hands searching frantically. I know they can hear her. My palm is not enough to smother the sounds that echo through the trees. It is only a matter of time before they find the source of the noise. We are running out of time.
I glance over my shoulder, paranoia clawing at me. Soon, small daggers and poisons will turn to ignited arrows and toxins. Soon, even those will turn to ash alongside the souls they bury.
Cyra cries out as I finally grip her, her hands clinging weakly to the fabric of my gown. Her body twists in agony, her voice barely above a whisper, sweat slipping down her forehead. Flames roar behind her. I cough, the soot a brutal rasp in my throat.
“S-stay still, Cyra,” I force out, barely recognizing my own voice. I tear at the vines, their thorns slicing my fingertips, drawing blood with every pull. My teeth grind together as I wave the fog from my face.
Then, at first, just a glimpse—something pale against the darkness. A creeping, curling presence, its delicate tendrils wrapping around Cyra’s legs. My breath stutters as the realization takes hold, ice pooling in my veins. And then, I see it fully. Something far worse takes form before me.
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Hemlock blooms.
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Their white petals, intertwined with the poisonous green vines ensnaring her legs, are unmistakable. They are infamous—born of our ignorance, the root of the plague that tormented Aspye, sending the masses into hysteria and, eventually, their deaths.
It would have claimed our mother’s life, too.
And now, it will claim Cyra’s.
I will not lose her. Not like this. Not with my hands already stained with our mother’s blood. “Nazira…” Her voice is a strained whisper, her strength fading fast.
“I’m not leaving you.” My voice is a rasping wheeze. My fingers tear desperately at the vines, shredded fingertips screaming in protest. But the harder I pull, the tighter they grip. The flames are closer now, their heat blistering my back. The world narrows to Cyra’s gasps, the crackling fire, and—a whistle.
Sharp. Unnatural. It slices through the air, chilling me to the core.
My head jerks up, and my breath catches. An arrow strikes a birch tree mere feet from us, its shaft quivering where it lands.
Another whistle follows. Then another. Each one closer. Faster. Deadlier.
Realization slams into me like a dagger to the gut. A cold dread coils in my stomach, the kind that freezes the blood in my veins. They’ve stopped chasing.
They don’t need to anymore.
The arrows rain down.
And the flames close in.
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