The Primordial Flame

Tears carve glittering, silent paths through the powder on my cheeks, catching the pale glow of the vanity candles. In the gilded mirror, the reflection staring back is unrecognisable. My lips tremble against fair skin, and my thick auburn hair has been wrenched into a suffocating crown of pearls and pins. I am draped in forty yards of stiff ivory satin and gold thread. It is not a bridal gown, it is a gilded burial shroud. In less than an hour, the royal cathedral bells will toll, and my father will drag me down the aisle to King Alaric. To a sadist who whispers promises of chains, broken bones, and dark cellars. Never. CRASH. The heavy oak chamber doors groan as an iron ram strikes the centre beam. Armour clatters violently in the hallway. "Princess Amelisse!" the Guard Captain bellows from the corridor. "Stand away from the terrace and open this door by order of His Majesty!" My fear snaps, forging instantly into white hot defiance. I gather the heavy, voluminous folds of satin in both fists. I don't grab jewels, I don't grab a cloak. I sprint toward the balcony, kicking the glass doors wide into the screaming night air. Wind lashes my face, tearing loose strands of hair from their pins. Behind me, the lock shatters with a deafening splinter of wood. "She’s on the balustrade! Seize her!" I don't look back. I hitch the skirt past my knees, swing one leg over the carved stone railing, look down into the dizzying, shadow drowned drop of the palace gardens, and leap into the black void. Branches whip and snap violently against my skin as I crash through the canopy of the royal courtyard hedges. The impact knocks the wind from my lungs, but I roll onto the turf, scramble to my feet, and throw myself toward the stable paddocks. My hands tear the latch of the gate, and within seconds, I am on the bare back of my royal steed, kicking his flanks into a blind gallop. We clear the courtyard gates just as the alarm bells begin to toll. The forest becomes a nightmare of black pine trunks and whistling wind. I cling flat against the stallion's neck, bare fingers knotted into his coarse black mane, the heavy satin of my wedding train snapping behind us like a banner. Behind us, iron horn blasts pierce the night, accompanied by the savage, frenzied baying of hunting hounds. Faster, I pray, burying my face into the horse's sweating neck. Faster. If Alaric takes me back, death will be a luxury. He will have me chained to his bed, broken until I can barely whisper, and bred like livestock. I would rather shatter every bone in my body against these mountain rocks. FWWIP. A high pitched shriek splits the gale. Blinding fire slices across my cheekbone as an iron arrowhead grazes flesh. "Ah!" The horse rears in panic, hooves flailing at the shadows. The sudden wrench throws my balance wide. My grip slips from the coarse mane, and the world tilts violently. I slam into the forest floor with bone-crushing force, tumbling through jagged roots, thorns, and wet slate until the breath is driven completely from my chest. Blood wells hot and thick along my jawline. "No! stop!" I scream, clawing at the dirt as I scramble onto trembling hands and knees. The stallion doesn't pause; spooked by the iron whistle of the arrows, he thunders deeper into the black timberline, his frantic hoofbeats fading into the distance. "She went down near the ridge!" a harsh voice bellows from the brush behind me. Heavy boots crush dry branches barely fifty yards away. Panic surges through my veins, cold and violent. I force myself upright, but my right ankle buckles instantly with a sickening, fiery twist. White hot pain shoots straight to my hip, but I grit my teeth until they creak, haul the mud drenched hem of my dress into my arms, and limp blindly into the deepest, darkest hollow of the woods. Branches claw at my skin, shredding the bridal lace to ribbons and tearing away the pearl pins. Every breath burns like acid in my lungs. Just when my leg is ready to give out beneath me, an amber glow flickers through the dense trees ahead. A low, timber built cottage. "Gods... please," I whisper through bloody, split lips. I stumble toward the clearing, desperate to throw myself against the wooden threshold, but before my boots can clear the tree line, a dark shape detaches itself from the trunk of a massive oak. A leather clad arm lunges from the blackness, locking around my ribs like an iron band. Before I can scream, I am yanked violently backward into the deep hollow between two twisted trunks. Cold, honed steel presses firmly against the fragile skin of my throat, and a massive, calloused hand clamps ruthlessly over my mouth, suffocating my cry into silence. "Be quiet," a low, gravelly voice rumbles into my ear, so deep it vibrates straight through my spine. I freeze. The razor edge of the blade bites just deep enough to draw a single, warm bead of blood down my neck. Seconds later, armoured men burst into the small clearing. Torches cast harsh, bloody light across the damp pines as six royal knights charge the cottage porch. "Surround the perimeter!" the Captain shouts, drawing his broadsword. "Check inside! Tear down the doors!" With a violent crash, an iron boot kicks the cottage door inward. The timber splinters, and half the squad pours into the house. Furniture overturns, pottery shatters, and torchlight flickers through the broken windows just feet from where we stand coiled in the dark. "Empty!" a knight bellows from within the ruins. The Captain curses viciously, spitting onto the grass. "She's on foot! The horse threw her down the ravine! Fan out across the ridge!" Their heavy armour clanks as the squad charges off into the forest, their calls and torchlight slowly fading down the mountain path. The blade at my neck does not lower an inch. The stranger drags me out of the oak hollow by my arm, hauling me through the splintered doorway of his ransacked home. He shoves me inside onto the floorboards, slams the broken door shut, and drops the iron bar into place with a hollow thud. I hit the floor, catching myself against an overturned bench, the heavy, mud-soaked satin of my gown pooling around me in ruin. I scramble backward, holding up bruised hands, fully expecting an outlaw ready to slit my throat for my crown. Then my eyes adjust to the amber glow of the dying hearth. He stands over me like a creature carved out of the wilderness itself. Broad shoulders, a lean, corded frame, and a lethal presence that commands the room without a sound. Dark, unruly hair brushes the nape of his neck, framing a sharp, chiseled face coated in dark stubble. But it is his eyes that make my breath lock in my chest. They burn with an unnatural, luminous gold, like molten amber catching fire in the dark. They sweep over my face, over the blood dripping from my cheek, and down to the ruined bridal lace with terrifying intensity. He slowly slides his hunting blade into the scabbard at his hip with a faint, metallic hiss. "You brought an army to my doorstep, little bird," he rumbles, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely stripped of mercy. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you back out to those hounds."