Ashes of vengeance

--- The night began with laughter. It was the kind of laughter that curled through the wooden beams of their small countryside home — warm, alive, carrying the smell of roasted yam and her mother’s spiced stew. Elara was only eight then, her legs tucked under her as she sat cross-legged by the hearth, sketching crude flowers into the dirt floor with a stick. Her father’s voice drifted from the next room, deep and steady, talking about “business” with a man whose tone made Elara’s skin prickle even though she didn’t understand the words. Her mother’s hands moved quickly, laying plates on the table, pausing every so often to push a loose strand of hair from her daughter’s forehead. That was the last moment Elara could remember feeling safe. The first c***k came as a sound — wood snapping sharply, too loud to belong to the fire in the hearth. Then another. And then the smell. It was wrong. Thick. Bitter. A scent that clawed at the back of her throat. Smoke began to seep under the door like something alive, curling along the floorboards. > “Mama?” she whispered. Her mother’s head snapped toward the window. Her eyes widened, not with confusion, but with recognition — as if she’d been waiting for this moment, dreading it for years. > “Elara, listen to me,” she said, her voice steady but trembling beneath. “Whatever happens, you run when I tell you. You run and you don’t look back.” The air was already warming, turning heavy. Shadows on the walls began to dance violently. Then came the shouting. A man’s voice — not her father’s — bellowing from outside. Another voice answered, sharp and cruel. Glass shattered. Her father appeared in the doorway, face pale, eyes fierce. > “They’ve come,” he said. “Get her out!” Her mother grabbed Elara’s hand. The heat hit them like a slap the moment they stepped into the hallway. The ceiling above groaned, a deep, aching sound, as black smoke began to pour downward. The fire wasn’t slow — it was hungry. It leapt from one wall to another as though it had been waiting in the wood for years, just for the chance to devour everything. Her mother shoved her toward the back door, but a figure blocked their way — a man in a dark coat, his face half-hidden by the shadow of the flames. He grinned at her mother, a grin that made Elara’s stomach twist. > “Running won’t change what’s owed,” he said. Elara’s mother didn’t answer. She pulled something from the shelf — a heavy iron pan — and swung. The man staggered, cursing, and she dragged Elara past him. Outside, the cold night air hit like a bucket of ice water. The stars were cruelly bright above the red glow of the burning house. Somewhere inside, her father’s voice roared — a sound of defiance, then abruptly… silence. > “Mama—” > “Go!” her mother cried, shoving her toward the road. “Run to your uncle’s! Don’t stop. Don’t come back.” Elara’s feet pounded the dirt, but after only a few steps, she turned. She couldn’t help it. Through the doorway, her mother stood framed by firelight, her hair glowing like molten copper. She smiled — a sad, knowing smile — and then the roof collapsed behind her. The flames swallowed her whole. Elara screamed until her throat tore. By the time her uncle’s house came into view, her legs were trembling so badly she could barely stand. He stood on the porch, a lantern in hand, his face set in an expression she couldn’t read. His wife stood beside him, lips pressed into a thin line. The last thing Elara remembered before the darkness took her was the smell of smoke still clinging to her skin… and the taste of her own tears. ---