Crimson Bonds

Prologue: A Night of Flames

The world was ablaze. Flames licked at the night sky, crackling and roaring as they devoured the house. Inside, everything was chaos. Shadows danced on the walls, casting distorted images of what was once a happy home. Somewhere deep within the fiery inferno, a little girl cried, her tears mixing with the acrid smoke in the air.

It was dark. The little girl in the box couldn't see anything, but she was crying. She didn't know what it was, but something was suffocating her. The air, thick and heavy, burned her lungs with each breath. Her tiny hands pressed against the walls of the crate she had been stuffed into, her fingers trembling as she felt the rough wooden surface beneath them.

She had no sense of time. Every second seemed to stretch endlessly in the darkness. She could hear the muffled sounds of the house around her: the distant shattering of glass, the roar of flames growing louder, and the faint but heart-wrenching sound of screams.

Her mother's voice—so distant, so terrified—echoed in her memory.

"Stay here, sweetheart," her mother had whispered frantically, her hands trembling as she lowered the girl into the box. "Don't come out, no matter what. I love you. We love you."

And then she was gone, leaving the little girl alone in the darkness.

The air grew thicker, the sound of the fire more terrifying, and the little girl's cries turned into desperate sobs. She couldn't understand what was happening, why the world outside her wooden prison was burning, or why her parents had left her alone. All she knew was that she was scared—terrified—and the darkness was closing in around her.

Somewhere, beyond the crackling flames, there were voices. Deep, gruff voices. She strained to hear, her heart thudding loudly in her chest.

"Is anyone in there?" a man's voice shouted, his words cutting through the noise of the fire. "We need to clear this room! Now!"

Footsteps pounded across the floor above her, quick and frantic. Then the sounds of splintering wood and falling debris as the house crumbled around her. The crate shook slightly, but still, the little girl remained hidden in the dark.

"Over here! There's a child!" another voice yelled. "Get the hose ready! We need to contain this!"

The lid of the crate creaked open suddenly, and light—flickering and orange—flooded in. The little girl blinked up at the towering figure above her. A firefighter, his face smudged with ash and sweat, leaned down to scoop her out. His gloved hands were surprisingly gentle as he lifted her from the box and cradled her against his chest.

"It's okay, kiddo," he whispered, his voice rough but soothing. "We've got you. You're safe now."

But she wasn't. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

As the firefighter carried her outside, past the burning remains of her home, the little girl's eyes scanned the chaotic scene around her. The night sky was a sea of black smoke, and the air was filled with the deafening wail of sirens. She could see firefighters rushing back and forth, battling the blaze with all their strength, but she couldn't see her parents. No matter how hard she looked, they were gone—swallowed by the flames.

"Mommy?" she whimpered softly, but no one answered.

The firefighter held her tighter, shielding her from the worst of the scene. "Shh, kiddo. Just keep your eyes closed."

But the little girl didn't. She couldn't.

The flames reflected in her wide, terrified eyes as she clung to the firefighter, her small body trembling in his arms. She couldn't stop searching for them—for any sign that they had made it out alive—but all she saw were ruins. Broken windows, collapsed walls, and the charred remains of the life she had known.

They were gone. She didn't understand it fully yet, but deep down, something inside her told her the truth. The truth that she would never hear her mother's voice again, never feel her father's arms around her.

And then, just as suddenly as it had all begun, the world seemed to fall silent. The fire still roared, but to the little girl, everything grew distant, like she was trapped in a dream she couldn't wake from.

Days passed in a blur. The authorities were kind but distant, their faces blurred by her tears. One moment she was sitting in a hospital bed, her tiny fingers wrapped around a stuffed bear given to her by a nurse. The next, she was standing in front of a tall, gray building that smelled faintly of old wood and dust.

"This is your new home for now," a woman with kind eyes and a tired smile said. She knelt to meet the little girl's gaze, brushing her hair back from her tear-streaked face. "You'll be safe here."

The little girl nodded silently, clutching the bear tightly against her chest. Her small hands trembled as she glanced up at the towering building. It loomed over her like a shadow, cold and unfeeling, a stark contrast to the warmth she had once known.

"Do you remember your name?" the woman asked softly, trying to coax a response from her.

The little girl hesitated. Her lips parted, but no sound came. The memories of her life before the fire felt distant—blurred and half-forgotten, like the edges of a fading dream.

The woman sighed softly, standing up again. She gently took the girl's hand and led her inside. As they crossed the threshold, the door creaked shut behind them with an ominous finality, the echo of the lock clicking into place sending a shiver down the girl's spine.

The darkness welcomed her again.

But this time, it was different. This darkness felt permanent. Inevitable.

And in that moment, the little girl knew—deep inside her heart—that nothing would ever be the same again.