Aelbrunn Valley’s Outskirts, Republic of Soleria. Three years ago

  Life descended between mountains blanketed with pines, where snow did not fall: it floated suspended, as if time itself had decided to take a breath here. At the bottom of the valley, a few lights trembled in wooden windows. Borrowed warmth, granted mercifully to the few who needed it. A place where hope had to camouflage itself to survive.

  A small refuge among centuries-old groves, hidden by an almost permanent albino mist. The houses were built from blackened logs with roofs covered in frozen moss. It was said that their chimneys burned roots, not just firewood, because the forest was still alive and breathing within their walls.

  On the outskirts, veiled by its guardian trunks, lay a small cabin. The mild sun of nine in the morning made the frost beneath its roof drip. The windows fogged from the heat inside. A new day. A new chance for the four of them.

  An older man, broad and strong—the owner of the home—used that hour to chop wood. His thick, hairy arms lifted and brought down the tool with precision. Each strike rang like a mute bell, marking the pulse of dawn. His grunts of morning effort reached the huskies playing in the snow… and the ears of his adopted residents.

  Another man, younger, poured a cup of coffee for a girl staring dissociated through the window. Her red eyes absorbed the landscape painted in white and dark green. A pleasant view, no doubt. It was a needed change from the gray of the cities.

  “Not much sugar for now,” he said, filling the cup to complete his daughter’s meal. “I’ll see if I can trade for some this week.”

  Their plates held dried meat, rye bread spread with deer fat. Toast with blueberry jam, recently bartered for pelts. Breakfast wasn’t a mere domestic ritual—it was the energy she would burn training in the woods, sharpening her combat skills under the tutelage of an elite assassin.

  She took the hot cup in her hands. She didn’t use the handle; her palms had lost sensitivity from the flames she spewed during practice.

  “Doesn’t bother me,” she answered with mild apathy. “Not a fan of sweets anyways.”

  It was a lie. As a child, she had loved them. Blake remembered that every piece of candy he managed to gift her brought a smile that justified enduring another day. Each giggle was a push against despair. At least, it had been until Fer lost Nini during their escape, and with her, part of her innocence.

  Fleeing the cities for the rural zones hadn’t been easy. They’d witnessed the misery of desperate civilians, stomachs pleading; buildings turned to rubble, soldiers occupying the houses where families once lived.

  She still remembered hiding, watching her father burn alive the deserter soldiers who had tried to rob them. The bodies writhing on the ground, screaming beneath the same flames she could now summon in her own hands. The idea of killing, of taking lives as he did, terrified her. She couldn’t protest. She had to learn, and quickly.

  Another silent breakfast.

  Blake wasn’t a man of many words, much less social ones. Habit his daughter had inherited as she grew. The crunch of toast spoke louder than either of them. They were used to it. While she spread another thick slice of bread with fat, he reached to ruffle her black hair.

  “Dad, I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  But the smile she couldn’t hide while eating betrayed her to the man’s calm face.

  Once they’d eaten, they dressed warmly enough to head out. She knew it was impolite, but Feralynn glanced sideways at the older woman sitting stiffly on the living room couch.

  While zipping her thermal jacket, she couldn’t help staring at the tube connected to the immobile, bundled body. Hector opened the thick wooden shutters so his wife could see daylight.

  His knowledge and supplies as a former ex-paramedic kept her alive despite her vegetative state. He and Blake often ventured to the valley—to the tiny town not yet ravaged by war—searching for any medical resources they could find.

  They opened the door; the icy air greeted them like a clean slap. Blake waved to Hector, who kept chopping wood for the fireplace, each blow sounding like a clock marking winter’s heartbeat.

  Feralynn, instead, crouched at once. She loved petting the huskies, always busy tugging at their ropes.

  “Muffin! Come here!”

  Muffin—her favorite—bounded around like mad, leaving the group to lick her chin, drawing a loud laugh from her of pure joy.

  They didn’t use the transport sled; her flames could injure the dogs during practice. So they walked. After all, it was also training: a warm-up to keep the body awake, to steady breathing, to prepare the mind.

  They disappeared among the pines, each step sinking their heavy boots into the snow. The sound was muffled, hypnotic, as though the forest chewed on its own silence.

  There, where no one could find them, near a frozen lake, they hung their thick coats on the branches. Their breath came out in short clouds. They stretched their arms, cracked necks and fingers.

  The ice creaked beneath them, as if the earth itself held its breath. For an instant, nature seemed to brace for the hell about to awaken.

  In silence, he looked at her. She nodded. A wordless answer saying: I’m ready.

  Blake stepped back a few paces, marking the ground, clearing a space in their improvised arena. The snow-covered rocks stood as motionless witnesses, forming a front row for the coming clash.

  Feralynn breathed deeply. Training made her nervous—but it wasn’t fear. The cold didn’t make her tremble: it was adrenaline, that electric hum that precedes fire. No catalyst, no gloves, no redemption. Just fists and knives.

  She took one solid step. Two. Four. Then she ran. The wind struck her face just before impact.

  She readied her fist, swung and he blocked it with an open palm. The collision burst a ring of snow, a white explosion amid the gray.

  “Faster.”

  “I’m trying!”

  “Then try faster.”

  “Tsk!”

  Feralynn stared tensely at her father. He arched an eyebrow, still indifferent.

  In a blink, she withdrew her hand, twisted it, extended it toward him. Heat surged through her veins, racing along her arms and fingers until her skin burned. A jet of fire burst from her fist, roaring into the air. Blake deflected the blaze, gripping her forearm with surgical precision.

  There were no rules. No school technique, no manuals, no protective gear. Any professional duelist would have gawked—these sessions were a complete danger disguised as routine.

  Risks of first-degree burns, blows to the face, knives aiming at the guts, and the shared certainty that pain was just another lesson. In Soleria, to survive, one had to bleed first.

  The girl’s fire came like that of a furious dragon. She struggled, growled, trying to break her father’s grip. The flames were wild, chaotic, without contour or aim.

  “Don’t waste so much mana,” he corrected. “You’ll tire yourself.”

  He released her—and in the same motion, his right fist ignited and struck, delivering a powerful burst to her torso.

  Feralynn barely had time to guard with her raised arms. The impact shoved her back, her boots sliding across the snow. Pain clenched her teeth, furrowed her brow.

  Sweat ran down her forehead; their mingled breaths fogged in the air, forming vapor clouds that collided like their bodies.

  No space for words. No comforting gestures, no sweets from long ago. Only that instant of mutual understanding, when father and daughter stopped being people to become living weapons.

  She wiped her sweat with the back of her hand.

  They began circling each other, measuring steps, breaths, gazes. Hunting for the smallest error. The invisible slip that would open the next attack.

  Feralynn lit her hands ablaze. Pain followed immediately—that familiar sting she’d learned to endure, the one she had to welcome if she wanted to reach his level. Blake froze in place, eyes never leaving hers.

  In less than a blink, he was in front of her.

  “Gah!”

  Fer gasped in shock, terrified for an instant. A loaded kick. Lethal. Direct.

  The air whistled as though lashed by a whip.

  Instinct spoke before thought could reason: Fer ducked, the blow slicing just above her head with enough force to split a tree in half.

  She felt the gust of impact graze her nape, the vertigo, the tremor, the pure adrenaline surging through her veins. And for a heartbeat, she saw a proud smile draw itself across her father’s face.

  Feralynn backed off instantly to gain enough distance, thrust both palms toward him. Together, they boiled her skin until another burst of fire erupted—

  Fire Style: Dragon’s Exhale!

  She clenched her teeth hard as she let her hands channel the directed blaze. Blake formed a barrier that contained the flamethrower. He felt his shield crack at the center; when it split, he rolled to the side and dashed toward his daughter to land a strike.

  Their fists collided, releasing a shockwave that shook the snow from the branches all around. Neither could help but smile—he, out of pure pride at seeing her grow faster with every session; she, because it meant one more shared moment with him.

  That morning, the red eyes of both burned over the snowy arena.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  …

  …

  …

  Fire devoured the air, and when it died down, only smoke remained. Smoke that, years later, still slipped from Feralynn’s lips in the shape of a cigarette.

  Birds sang, calm in their homes among the trees. The afternoon light was warm on the two of them. Feralynn’s cheeks were still wet. Her gaze was distant; her pupils barely moved. Beside her, Romina shared the same raw look of depression.

  Neither spoke. Why would they? What words could mean anything after what they had just seen? A shared breath held in by both—one of those you keep when you’re still trembling inside, trying to reassemble the scattered pieces of your soul.

  The elf woman blinked slowly, heavily. Her mouth hung half open; she hadn’t even noticed her cigarette burning down between her fingers. Of all the sessions she’d ever had with troubled students, this was the first time she herself needed a therapist. Maybe more than one. An adult traumatized by the memories of a child.

  The screams—throat-shredding, primal—of a thirteen-year-old Feralynn murdering an armed man. His throat stabbed again and again until the knife grew so soaked in blood it lost its edge.

  The next morning had begun with a fight outside the house. When she’d tried to peek through the window to check if her father was all right, she was met with a rain of shattered glass. The shards cut her face, and the blast wave threw her to the ground, knocking her out cold.

  That day, three years ago, they were supposed to escape the country. The truck was ready, the tank full. Even a map secured at the cost of many supplies. But the fight between Blake and that white-haired woman changed everything. A burst of black, cursed fire engulfed him, devoured him—and took him away.

  Feralynn waited through endless nights, crying herself to sleep, praying for his return. Hector cared for her as best he could, with the affection of a grandfather who’d never had the chance to meet his grandchild.

  They clung to hope. Until Velkrian soldiers found the house, lost among the snowy forests of the Aelbrunn valley. Hungry. Frustrated. Abandoned men boiling with the hatred of war.

  The old man’s skull burst like a watermelon. His eyes popped from their sockets as the bullet pierced his forehead. Martha, his wife, met the same tragic fate.

  The huskies tried to attack the soldiers, barking, biting, resisting. They fell one by one, massacred at point-blank range. The snow turned red with the bodies of the slaughtered dogs. The sky knew no color but a grotesque gray.

  That morning, Feralynn hid in her room, under the bed. She prayed to every god she knew, begging for her life, begging for her father to appear in time.

  She screamed when one of them grabbed her by the ankle. They laughed.

  “Well, fucking finally something to have fun with!” one shouted with a wicked grin.

  The rest joined in—howling laughter, beastlike breaths. They were already planning to take turns raping her, maybe all at once.

  The shock of seeing Hector’s corpse—and Muffin’s—paralyzed her. She could scream, but not move. She feared dying, but feared killing even more. Until now she had only hunted deer with her father, never humans. Words about survival were nothing compared to staring death in the eye.

  They seized her by both arms. She struggled wildly, nearly breaking free—until one aimed a gun directly at her forehead. They tore off her shirt, exposing her undeveloped chest. A rifle butt slammed into her abdomen to shut her up.

  “Damn Solerian whore!” one shouted in his native tongue before striking her across the face, blood spilling from her nose.

  She sobbed, begged for mercy. Another blow—her eye swelled purple, the cornea reddened.

  Their filthy hands slid disgustingly over her nipples. Pinching them. They slid on her bare stomach, towards her crotch. Rubbing it, getting under her underwear with their stained fingers. All while they were licking her ears, biting them. Whispering filthy promises of twisted lust.

  When they yanked her pants down, instinct finally took control. Fire. Too much. From her hands, unrestrained. Scourging flames coiling around the bodies of the men who held her in that infernal embrace.

  The one with the rifle stumbled back, terrified. His finger was on the trigger, ready to shoot—but it was too late. She crouched, extended her palm, and burned him alive. She screamed as she did it—screamed until her voice nearly tore apart her vocal cords.

  The burning men crashed into furniture, toppled cups and ornaments. They collapsed to the floor, writhing, voiceless, while their skin peeled like wax. The stench of charred meat and melting fat filled the living room.

  A fourth soldier burst through the front door. He froze at the sight of his companions convulsing in flames. He didn’t check the corners—that was his mistake. He turned just in time to see a battered girl, clothes ripped to shreds.

  Feralynn, almost naked, moved like a cornered animal. A small bullet of fire shot from her index finger, hitting the man’s arm and blowing it off up to the shoulder. Before he could scream, she was on him. She drove the knife into his throat.

  The sound was brief, wet. Then only gasps—her breath, her fury, the echo of her own name. Voiceless, she gnashed her teeth as the cabin floor turned a sick red with every motion of her hands tearing at the man’s larynx.

  No transitional object. No white flash. No healing scar. And surely no emotional hug. Only a deep funeral silence. Only Romina’s horrified face, holding the collapsing present-day Feralynn in her arms as the girl vomited that thick, twisted tar that seemed to pour straight from the soul.

  Fer lit another cigarette. That evening she shared them with her teacher; both needed the dopamine of nicotine to survive what they’d seen. The girl’s scarred thumbs traced the faintly rusted engraving of the wolf on her father’s metal zippo.

  “It’s funny,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “He gave me his lighter before that day, after our training in the woods. Made no sense to me, since I could light anything with my fingers. He said it brought him good luck.”

  Then she rested her head, mute and exhausted, on her teacher’s shoulder. Romina didn’t know what to say. Her gaze was just as lost, as if the warm autumn air were mocking them both.

  “I’m sorry,” whispered Feralynn. “I didn’t know I had a memory like that. I didn’t remember.”

  The woman slowly blinked, unable to understand how that girl could even feel guilty for something no one in the entire world could have controlled in the slightest.

  She sighed softly through her nose, hugged her, and kissed her forehead. They stayed like that for several minutes, smoking together. The habit the elf reserved for grown friends, she now shared with her student.

  “Why do you help me so much all the time?”

  The question fell like breaking glass. Romina tightened her jaw, searching for the right words. She laughed—short, really anxious. Took a deep drag before answering.

  “Because you remind me of my little lion.”

  Her voice was hoarse as well, almost drained. Fer lifted her head, confused. She looked at her, frowning, not understanding. Romina placed a hand on her abdomen, caressing it with a wistful smile.

  “Elves and humans can’t have children,” she said quietly. “A couple of years ago, Bernt and I were together.”

  She smiled a little more, as though the memory lit her from within—the life in that apartment, the lunches cooked together through laughter, the intimate movie nights with ice cream, their legs intertwined beneath thick blankets.

  “We were deeply in love. We wanted a family really bad. So we adopted a human boy. His name was Leo. He had dark hair, and a serious look at first. Just like you.”

  Hearing the name was a cut for them both. Feralynn didn’t blink; she swallowed before asking:

  “What happened?”

  She said it with the voice of someone who already suspects half the tragic answer. Romina’s smile slowly dissolved.

  “I was busy at school, so Bernt took him to the mall for me. That’s when a drunk truck driver crashed into them. He did all he could, but his healing spells weren't as strong as mine. And the damage was too sudden, too much for his young body…”

  She sighed, flickering her cigarette.

  “He blamed himself to the point of almost taking his own life. I asked Smiley to alter his memory, so he could forget that phase of our lives. Only the headmaster and I remember what truly happened. And I want to keep it that way, forever.”

  A gentle breeze lifted the dead leaves from the ground; in that brief whirl, the world seemed to hold its breath, afraid to break them. Romina pressed the cigarette against the balcony rail until the metal glowed with a black fire.

  “After that…” Fer began slowly, each word measured like someone lowering a heavy load. “After that, I survived on my own for a long while. Stayed in the cabin, waiting for Dad. He never came back. I went down to the valley town and ran into a platoon of Solerian soldiers.”

  She exhaled a long stream of smoke, dissolving into thin threads over the cold air.

  “Dad taught me since I was little to always cut my hair. He said that around men, I had to speak with a deep voice. Pretend to be a boy. He said girls died first, or worse.”

  Romina made no sound; her elven ears didn’t let even a sigh escape. She stared at the trees in the castle garden as if searching for that old scene among their branches.

  “When they asked my name, I said ‘Ferndel.’ I showed them I could use fire magic without gloves, and they let me join right away. They had food, supplies. I was really hungry. My plan was to travel with them to the border and escape to anywhere. But…”

  Fer clenched her fists until the skin on her palms tightened. Her jaw trembled slightly, as though anger were a restrained muscle, ready to snap.

  “I wanted to see every single one of those disgusting fuckers dead.”

  “Having no place left to go, I didn't know what to do. I felt lost. Destroying targets kept me alive. They fed me, gave me shelter. That was enough for me. If it wasn't because I found mom in that civilian camp…I don’t know how far I could've gone.”

  The words struck like a blunt blow. In the silence that followed, the falling leaves sounded like tiny bells, nailing the world into that impossible wish.

  In the Aelbrunn valley, the snow kept falling. Not to cover the bodies, but to try, in vain, to cool the fire still alive inside her.

  “The heart we saw in your soul is red.”

  Fer barely lifted her brows before lighting another cigarette.

  “Aren’t they all the same damn color?”

  Romina tilted her head, a weary smile curving her lips.

  “Mine is blue. Means my greatest virtue is patience.”

  “Please, just tell me mine isn’t something like ‘massacre’ or ‘gutting’... I’ve already had enough front-row slasher films for today...”

  Romina laughed softly at her sarcasm.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “So what is it?”

  The woman smiled, deliberately waiting until her student’s curiosity deepened. She brushed a hand through the girl’s black hair, the same way she used to do with Leo.

  “Determination.”

  Feralynn’s eyes widened; the cigarette slipped from her fingers and fell off the balcony, extinguishing midair.

  Embarrassed, she looked away, watching her black boots dangling as she gently swung her legs. They stood in silence for more minutes, digesting each other’s pains.

  “Professor, do you think I…” she coughed, her throat still dry from screaming, “...do you think if I work hard enough, I could get into the Elemental Tournament?”

  Romina raised her brows, surprised at first by the decision. But then she understood. She wanted to belong. To be part of the world around her, beyond the cold corridors and the wary stares of the academy. She didn’t know how to adapt without relying on Annya—or on the few hands that still held her up.

  She wanted to prove she could be good at something that didn’t involve taking lives. She’d spent years surviving alone; what better stage to prove herself than a tournament, filled with trials and duels that would test her in front of everyone?

  Romina knew it wouldn’t be easy: they’d have to work hard, heal wounds, teach Feralynn not to lose control when the past still burned through her veins.

  It wasn’t a search for glory or reputation. It was the need to prove self-control—to show she could live without fearing herself. The seal on her abdomen was already a constant reminder of what she could do to anyone. Romina watched her in silence, exhausted from the session, wearing the same expression she’d once seen in the orphanage, when she met Leo.

  Fer felt a light, friendly tap on her shoulder. Gentle, yet warm enough to spark a feeling of relief and companionship.

  “We’ll leave that heart of yours with more stitches than a rag doll in a madhouse.”

  They both laughed—briefly, but sincerely—starving for that small burst of release. Romina pulled out another cigarette and, this time, lit it with Fer’s zippo.

  “Another transitional object,” she murmured, the filter between her lips as her fingertips brushed the lighter’s metal surface. “Don’t smoke so much. I doubt my miracles can cure cancer.”

  Fer smirked sideways, sharing the guilty habit that both of them indulged in—of all places, at school.

  “Oh, shut up. You probably smoke three times more than I do.”

  Romina feigned indignation, pressing a hand to her chest with an exaggerated gasp worthy of a bad soap-opera actress.

  “I’m an adult. You’re a child. Completely different story.”

  Feralynn rolled her eyes, smiling.

  “Same day, same time,” clarified the woman with a firm but affectionate look. “For now, one session per week. Go home, lioness. You must be exhausted.”

  The girl’s cigarette died against the white-painted concrete; ashes fell like the tears of that afternoon. Before leaving, she hugged Romina tightly, without a word. Romina chuckled softly and ruffled her hair, somewhere between tenderness and encouragement.

  Fer entered the classroom, picked up the sleeves scattered on the floor, and stuffed everything into her backpack. She slung the strap over one shoulder, turned the doorknob, and before leaving, glanced back.

  Romina was still smoking alone, exhaling soft clouds that dissolved into the golden light of autumn. Fer smiled faintly—tired, but at peace.

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