Flames

Chapter One

Cherry blossoms danced in the breeze, their petals drifting lazily through the air, painting the courtyard in soft hues of pink and white. It was a perfect spring day in the kingdom of Gavaline, where the sun was gentle and the world seemed at peace. Inside the manor on the hill, a young girl, no older than six, raced through the marble halls, her laughter echoing in every corner. A wide smile spread across her fair face as she clutched a bundle of dolls to her chest, their limbs dangling like a motley crew of wooden soldiers.

She skidded to a halt in front of a door, her little shoes squeaking against the smooth floor. With one arm still hugging her dolls, she carefully pushed the door open, revealing a nursery painted in soft shades of green. A white cot stood in the center, the soft sunlight filtering through the windows and casting a warm glow over the room. The soft murmur of an infant's babbling drifted from within, filling Freya’s heart with a sense of excitement.

Closing the door quietly behind her, Freya tiptoed toward the cot, her sapphire eyes sparkling with delight. As she gazed at the infant lying there, her smile widened even further. The baby, no older than a year, was in the midst of discovering her tiny hands and feet. Her soft skin shimmered under the midday sun, and her small fingers grasped at her own feet, struggling to bring them to her mouth.

Freya giggled, the sound light and infectious. The baby’s teal eyes locked onto hers, and she let out a happy coo, clearly intrigued by her sister’s presence.

"Hello, Amelia," Freya whispered, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from the baby’s forehead.

Amelia’s face lit up, and she reached her small hands toward Freya, her eyes pleading to be held. Freya smiled warmly but shook her head, wagging a finger in front of Amelia’s curious face.

“No, no, no, Amelia. I’m not allowed to hold you. Mommy doesn’t even know I’m here,” Freya whispered, glancing toward the door as if to reassure herself.

Amelia, undeterred, stretched her arms even further, letting out a joyful gurgle. Freya sighed, then looked down at the dolls in her hands.

“But we can play with these,” she said brightly, holding up the dolls and making them dance in the air. “See? We can make our own fun.”

The two girls played together for hours, the room filled with the sounds of laughter. Freya used the toys to create elaborate stories, making funny voices for each character. Amelia giggled at the antics of the dolls, clapping her hands as if she understood every word. Freya danced around the room, spinning and hopping with joy, lost in the world she had created.

But as she jumped higher, her foot caught on the edge of a rug, sending her tumbling forward. In the chaos, the doll she was holding flew from her hand, hitting Amelia gently on the head. The sound of the impact was barely audible, but Amelia’s face crumpled, and then the crying began.

Freya’s heart dropped into her stomach. She rushed to the cot, her little hands trembling as she tried to calm her sister. She made silly faces, she hummed a song, and she gave Amelia every toy she could find, but the crying only grew louder.

Her panic rose. Her breaths became shallow, her palms sweating. She felt a sudden, desperate urge to stop the tears, to do something—anything—to make it stop.

“Shh, don’t cry, Amelia,” Freya murmured, her voice frantic. “Look at this!”

Freya opened her hands, and a tiny flicker of flame appeared in her palm. Amelia’s eyes went wide, her cries pausing for a moment as she gazed at the dancing fire in wonder. But as Freya tried to steady the flames, they grew. They spread, rising higher than she had intended. Her heart raced in fear. No, not again. She tried to blow them out, to make them disappear, but the flames only grew, twisting and curling in the air.

Panic surged through Freya’s veins. She waved her hands wildly, but the fire didn’t stop. A ball of flame shot from her hand and landed on the nearby curtain, catching it alight. Her stomach lurched with dread as the fire began to spread faster than she could react.

“Amelia!” she cried, her voice rising with desperation.

Freya dashed to the window, tugging at the curtain, trying to pull it down and stop the flames from devouring the room. But it was too late. Smoke began to billow, and the room filled with an acrid, choking haze.

Tears spilled down Freya’s cheeks as she turned toward the cot. Amelia, still crying, stood unsteadily in her cot, holding onto the beams for support. Freya’s heart twisted with guilt and fear. She couldn’t let her sister get hurt. Not like this.

She rushed forward, scooping Amelia into her arms with all the strength she could muster, and bolted for the door. The fire was still growing, but there was no time to stop it. She burst out of the room, her footsteps heavy as she ran down the hallway, Amelia clutched tightly to her chest.

Her father and mother were rushing toward her, their faces filled with alarm. The servants had already started hauling water barrels down the hall, shouting commands to put out the fire. Freya’s breath hitched as she saw the looks of terror in their eyes, and then her father’s gaze met hers.

The look on his face made her heart sink. It was a mix of disbelief, fear, and something far worse—disappointment.

Her hands shook as she looked up at him, her tear-streaked face full of guilt. She didn’t know what to say. What could she say? She had tried so hard to keep it under control. To hide it.

Without a word, her mother took Amelia from her arms, her voice barely audible as she comforted the baby. Freya’s father knelt down to her, his voice cold and harsh.

“Freya,” he said, his words like ice. “What have you done?”

Freya lowered her gaze to the ground, her small hands clutching at her dress. Her chest tightened as silent sobs wracked her body. The shame of it all—the fire, the fear, the disappointment—was too much for her to bear. She cried silently, alone in the gaze of her father’s anger.

This was just the beginning of a story that would shape her life, a life bound by the very flames she couldn’t control.