"A Flame that Fades"

Chapter 5: The Price of Obedience

Azgar's POV

It had been a week since the blackout. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I slowly peeled the bandages from my wrists, revealing the burn scars beneath. A faint grimace tugged at my lips as I stared at the damaged skin. The texture was rough and uneven, as if the wounds had only partially healed.

The burns were still swollen, the edges a deep, angry red that faded into purple bruises at the sides. I hesitated before touching them, my fingers brushing over the raised skin. It felt dry and tender, the scars still warm beneath my fingertips. I stretched my fingers, trying to ease the stiffness in my hands, but it hurt—my dry skin protested with every movement, tight and unwilling to flex.

A quiet knock echoed through the door, followed by Zoron peeking his head into the room. "Young Chief," he began, his tone respectful but tinged with urgency. "I've been informed that your younger brother, Agnar, will be returning from his raid. The one he led by himself for the first time. It was a success. He also sent word through a messenger hawk—he'll be home soon and wishes for you to be there to greet him. Apparently, he's brought a special gift for you."

I stared at him with dull eyes, saying nothing. I could see the anticipation in his posture as he opened his mouth, likely to repeat himself, thinking I hadn't heard him. Without a word, I lifted my hand, flat into the air, silencing him. "I heard you. I'll be there."

His gaze shifted to my wrists, a flicker of sadness and guilt passing through his eyes. It was brief, but enough for me to notice.

Zoron swallowed hard, visibly struggling to keep his composure. He straightened, nodding in silent agreement before quietly closing the door behind him.

I decided to clean myself up, hoping to mask the pain and discomfort I'd endured in my brother's absence. The last thing I wanted was for him to see my weakness.

I rolled up a small cloth and bit down on it as I braced myself. With trembling hands, I began scrubbing the week-old grime from my damaged wrists. The pain was unbearable. Each stroke felt like torture, the raw skin pulling and burning as I tried to wash away the discoloration. I could see the faint scrapes of my scars shedding, a cruel reminder of the healing I could never forget.

My knees buckled, and I collapsed to the floor, the pain from my wrists nearly overwhelming me. With shaking hands, I tore a long cotton cloth into strips and wrapped them tightly around the raw wounds. The pressure was almost unbearable as I struggled to steady my trembling limbs.

Slowly, I limped over to the wardrobe and selected a long-sleeve shirt to cover the bandages—but not the shame that clung to me.

*** 

I sat in my assigned seat next to my father, the weight of resentment simmering in my chest. It wasn't something I fully understood—not yet—but it was there, a quiet discomfort that lingered like an itch I couldn't scratch. But then again, maybe that was just how things were supposed to feel. After all, wasn't this the price of becoming strong? Wasn't this the price of being someone who would one day lead?

His voice broke through the silence, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Are you alright? You seem gruff."

The question was familiar, the tone almost... concerned. I should have felt comforted by it, but instead, I felt a strange pang of guilt. How could I feel anything but gratitude for him? How could I resent him when everything he did, he did for me, for my future? He wanted me to be a strong leader. He wanted me to be respected. His coldness, his harshness—it was all part of the process, wasn't it? To shape me into someone worthy of our tribe. To ensure I'd carry on the legacy and protect the future of our people.