Ashes Of The Bound

The scent of burnt wood clung to the morning air. It wasn’t strong—just faint enough to make Seren pause as she carried a bucket of water down the narrow dirt path leading from the well to the bakery. The dew hadn’t fully lifted from the grass, and the sun was still yawning over the distant hills. A pale gold light kissed the tops of the trees, and the world held that rare stillness that only came just before everything woke up. She inhaled again. No smoke. No fire. Just her imagination. Again. She kept walking. Ashveil Hollow was the sort of place no map bothered to mark. A patch of scattered cottages, a single crooked road, and the whisper of an old forest that stretched beyond sight. The kind of place where people minded their business, planted their own food, and prayed to the gods no one remembered. Seren had lived here for seventeen years—ever since she’d been left on the healer’s doorstep as a crying toddler with a fever and a necklace she no longer wore. The village had taken her in because that was the Hollow’s way. Quiet charity and silence. Nobody asked questions, and Seren never offered answers. She’d learned how to bake, how to clean wounds, how to stitch clothes and fix a leaking roof. She’d learned how to hide the way fire made her heart race. How her palms tingled when lightning cracked across the sky. How sometimes, when she touched a person, she saw things—just flickers. A shadow of a memory that wasn't hers. But those were things she kept to herself. She didn’t need to be another kind of strange in a village that already looked at her with quiet unease. By the time she reached the bakery, her arms ached from carrying the water, and her apron had caught a smear of ash from brushing past the forge on her way. She nudged the door open with her shoulder. “Late,” muttered Rina without turning from the hearth. “I brought the water,” Seren said, setting the bucket down. “No one's awake. You should be grateful I even got dressed.” “You live three cottages away.” “Still. It's effort.” Rina shot her a look, flour dusting her dark cheeks, eyes narrowed with the kind of exasperation only an older sister figure could master. “Bread doesn't wait for dramatic monologues.” Seren gave her a mock bow and tied her apron tighter. The dough was already rising in bowls near the windows, and the smell of rosemary and yeast was thick in the air. She moved into the rhythm easily, hands kneading, shaping, brushing flour across the wooden counters. It was in these quiet moments, elbow-deep in flour and warmth, that her mind usually settled. But not today. The smell of burnt wood lingered. And worse, the dreams had come again. She’d dreamed of a great hall made of stone, lined with fire that didn’t burn. Of a man whose face she couldn’t see but whose voice curled around her name like smoke. He whispered it again and again, until it didn’t sound like a name at all, but a memory. “Seren,” Rina said, pulling her out of her thoughts. She blinked. “What?” “I said don’t forget the market delivery this afternoon. Mrs. Dorne wants her usual by third bell.” Seren nodded, wiping her hands. “Got it.” Rina watched her a little too closely. “You look pale.” “I didn’t sleep much.” “Still dreaming?” She stiffened. Rina didn’t press, just turned back to the oven. “You should talk to the herbalist. She’s got something for dreams.” “I’m fine.” “You always say that.” Seren didn’t answer. By mid-morning, the village began to stir. Children shrieked down the muddy paths, women called greetings over fences, and the clanging of the blacksmith's forge echoed from the edge of town. Seren delivered warm loaves, traded quiet words, and kept her hood up when she passed the guards patrolling the merchant road. She didn’t like how they looked at her. Never had. They weren’t from Ashveil. None of the royal guards were. They were rotated in every three months—men in deep navy tunics with golden clasps and the sigil of the Crown stitched over their hearts. They never smiled. They never bought bread. They watched. That afternoon, Seren went to the riverbank behind the bakery to wash her hands. The cool water rushed over her skin, numbing her fingers. She stared at her reflection in the surface—dark hair braided back, pale eyes too light for anyone born in the Hollow, a faint scar cutting through her left eyebrow. She didn’t look like anyone here. She didn’t belong. She dipped her hands deeper, trying to ignore the tug in her chest—that strange, distant hum that only came when she was near fire or stars or something she couldn't name. She stood quickly and backed away from the water. The dreams would fade. They always did. She hoped this time, they would stay gone.