Flames (Under Revision)

Chapter Ten: Shadows of Vrine

Freya’s days in Vrine stretched into an endless blur of agony and monotony, each passing moment a heavy weight that threatened to crush her spirit. The once-glorious city, now a hollow shadow of its former self, was suffocating under the iron grip of the Dracotaur King. The streets, narrow and suffocating, seemed to close in around her with each step, the towering walls of the palace looming overhead like a prison. The air was thick with the stench of decay and oppression, and Freya could almost taste the despair that clung to the very stones beneath her feet.

Her life here was simple—grueling, soul-crushing work from dawn to dusk. Every morning, before the first light of day, the guards would drag her from her quarters—no, her cage—and march her along with the other slaves. The barracks where they were kept were nothing more than cramped, cold stone cells, their flickering torches casting grotesque shadows on the walls. There were no windows, no hint of sunlight, just the oppressive weight of darkness pressing in from every side.

The work was endless. Hauling broken stone, scrubbing filthy palace floors, sorting through refuse—tasks designed not just to wear down her body, but to strip away her dignity, her humanity. Each day, Freya’s hands bled from the rawness of labor, each night, her body ached with exhaustion. And yet, amidst the endless toil, she couldn't shake the feeling that something inside her still burned, a flicker of defiance buried deep beneath the surface.

The kingdom of Vrine, once vibrant and alive, had been reduced to a fortress of fear, its heart pulsing with the cruel rule of the Dracotaur King. The streets were filled with the clink of chains and the cold gaze of the dracotaur guards. These towering creatures, their scales glinting like iron, patrolled every corner, eyes sharp with suspicion. They ruled with brutality, and for every sign of rebellion, no matter how small, their punishment was swift, merciless. Whippings, starvation, death—these were the rewards for those who dared to resist.

Freya knew this all too well. She had learned the rules of survival quickly: keep your head down, stay silent, and never, under any circumstances, show weakness. Fear was her constant companion. Every day was a gamble—one wrong move, one wrong glance, and she could be punished, or worse. But in the darkest corners of her mind, the fire still burned, refusing to die, even as it was smothered by the crushing weight of her imprisonment.

She had never imagined a life like this. Once, she had been free—free to dream, to chase her ambitions, to think of a future beyond her past. Now, the days bled into one another, indistinguishable and heavy. The palace loomed over her, its black stone walls a constant reminder of the Dracotaur King’s unyielding control. The king’s power was absolute, his rule a suffocating shadow that loomed over every corner of the city. His army, made up of fearsome dracotaurs, was an unshakable force, and their presence turned Vrine into a prison where no one dared to challenge him.

The king himself was a dark figure, his very existence a symbol of destruction. Freya had heard the whispers—the rumors that he had once been a conqueror, a force of nature who had swept across the land with his army of dracotaurs, leaving a trail of death and despair in his wake. His rise to power had been swift and brutal, and his reign was a reign of terror. To him, Vrine was nothing more than a piece of his empire—a kingdom to be molded to his will, to be bent and broken until it served his purpose. And Freya? She was just another tool in his machine, another nameless soul to be crushed underfoot.

But even in the face of such cruelty, Freya felt something stir within her. It wasn’t just a flicker of rebellion, though it was that too—it was the slow, steady growth of something far more powerful. It was the fire she had always carried within her, the one that had once burned bright and fierce, and now simmered beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to ignite.

At night, when the palace guards retreated and the streets grew silent, Freya lay awake, her mind racing with thoughts of escape. She knew it was a foolish dream, a dangerous one. There were no cracks in the walls, no hidden exits. She had been trapped in this prison for too long to believe in miracles. But as the days passed, something within her began to shift. She started to notice the small things—an exchange of glances, a whisper in the dark. The slaves around her, broken as they were, still held on to something—a fragment of hope, a glimmer of resistance. It was a dangerous thing to nurture, but it was there, nonetheless.