Flames (Under Revision)

Chapter Two: The Spark of Defiance

Freya sat on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, hands tightly gripping the fabric of her dress. Her auburn hair, still damp from the tears she couldn't stop shedding, hung in wild strands, casting a shadow over her face. The dim light of the late afternoon filtered through the window, but it only seemed to make the room feel smaller, more suffocating. The walls, once familiar and safe, now pressed in on her as if the very space could feel her father's anger.

She could sense his presence even without looking up. Damocles stood at the door, arms crossed, his broad frame filling the doorway. His eyes were fixed on her, unblinking, and though he said nothing, his silence roared in her ears. The weight of his gaze was a living thing, a silent accusation that made her skin crawl. Every breath she took felt too shallow, too fragile, like it might snap in the face of his unspoken judgment.

Freya’s mind spun, every thought a chaotic swirl of guilt and regret. Her body trembled, her hands shaking with the force of the emotions she couldn’t contain. She had failed. She had lost control, and the consequences were a fire that could have killed her sister.

Tears fell, even though she tried to will them away. She didn’t want to be weak in front of him, but the weight of everything—her power, her mistake, her father's disappointment—crushed her. She tried to look away, but it was impossible to escape the tension, the suffocating pressure that seemed to radiate from him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Damocles spoke, his voice low but unmistakably edged with fury. “What happened?”

The words hung in the air, slicing through the silence. Freya choked on her words, trying to find the right ones, but they scattered like broken pieces of glass. Her mouth went dry, and her chest tightened.

“I-I just wanted t-to play with Amelia,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “B-but I tripped, and... and my doll hit her, and then... and then—”

Her voice faltered, and the more she tried to explain, the more the tears streamed. She could see him stiffen, the muscle in his jaw twitching, and she knew the worst was yet to come.

“And then?” Damocles pressed, his voice taking on an edge sharper than before.

Freya swallowed, her throat tight. She didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to admit it. But the words spilled out before she could stop them.

“A-and then I tried to make her stop crying,” she choked out. “She was crying so loud, and I—I was scared, and I just wanted her to stop. So... so I made fire. In my hand.”

The words hung in the air like an unforgivable stain. She could see his face change, eyes narrowing as he absorbed the weight of her confession. The space between them felt impossibly vast, the silence more oppressive than ever.

“But?” Damocles’ voice cut through the tension, cold and controlled.

Freya trembled, her thoughts scattering as she replayed the nightmare in her head. “B-but I lost control,” she whispered, barely able to breathe as she spoke. “A fireball flew at the curtain... and the whole room... it started burning, and I couldn’t stop it.”

Her voice broke on the last words, and she collapsed into herself, her sobs breaking free as the weight of the chaos she’d caused consumed her. She buried her face in her knees, her body wracked with guilt. Every tear felt like it was pulling her further down, and she couldn’t escape the suffocating sense of failure.

Damocles remained silent, unmoving. He just stared at her, his gaze unreadable, but it felt like he was seeing through her, beyond the tears and the brokenness. His silence stretched on, thick with an unspoken anger that threatened to drown her.