MISTRESS OF FLAME

The chill of the night air was a familiar companion, though not as biting as the chains that had once held her. Sollel lay on the rough, wooden bed, the thick, dark red cloak a poor substitute for the warmth of true strength. Her eyes, half-lidded, traced the faint cracks in the shack's ceiling, each one a reminder of her precarious freedom.

It had been days since her unknown savior had left her here, alone in this dilapidated hovel nestled within the apple woodland, a hundred kilometers from the city of Faberion. A week, perhaps, since she last felt the soul-crushing drag of moonrite.

Her body, still weak, yearned for the full return of her power. She lifted a trembling hand, attempting to conjure a flame. A tiny, flickering ember sparked in her palm, barely enough to light the darkness around her. It was a pathetic display, a stark contrast to the inferno she once commanded.

Fear, a sensation she rarely allowed herself, gnawed at her. If she couldn't conjure more than this pitiful flicker, her escape would be meaningless. They would drag her back to that hell, back to being a mere nutrient for the empire.

Sollel closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply, to push down the anxiety. Patience. She needed patience. Revenge would come, but only after her strength returned. She just had to wait. And hide.