MISTRESS OF FLAME

The biting chill of the moonrite prison was a constant companion, its oppressive aura seeping into Sollel's very bones. For a century, she had been a captive, a living exhibit, her once vibrant red hair now dull, her body a canvas of old wounds and fresh cuts. She knelt, chained, her strength leached away by the cursed mineral.

Footsteps approached, heavy and familiar. Two guards, callous and unfeeling, entered her cell. "Make another cut," one grunted, his voice laced with disdain. "We need more blood for the new batch of weapons." The blade bit into her flesh, a pain she no longer registered, only a dull confirmation of her continued existence as a resource.

They spoke of her as a myth, a forgotten tale, yet their words were a twisted testament to the lies spread about her people. 'It was them who dared invade our lands,' one spat, striking her face. She remained silent, immobile, her eyes closed, but inside, a furnace raged. Her fury, contained for so long, threatened to consume her.

Then, a new sound. Not the jingle of keys, but a deafening crash, as if stone itself cried out. The prison door, supposedly impenetrable, was being torn asunder. Sollel, too weak to move, could only listen as the sounds of battle erupted, grunts and screams replacing the usual silence. A new presence, powerful and swift, moved within her chamber. Then, a soft murmur, barely audible, as strong arms caught her falling body: "I finally found you, Sollel."