Crimson Reign

The child who is not embraced by the village

will burn it down to feel its warmth.

-African Proverb-

The city burned like it had always been meant to.

Lyra stood on the jagged spine of the cliffs above Caerlin's outer walls, her silhouette a lone figure against the smoke-choked dawn. Wind clawed at her red cloak, whipping it around her boots like a shadow given form. Her hair-a deep, blood-red braid trailing down her spine. Swaying like a banner in the wind, thick and deliberate, a line of fire against the ash-stained sky.

Stray strands had broken free in the chaos, curling like wild embers around her face. It caught the dim, fiery light giving her the look of something untamed, something divine. The braid itself shimmered with a molten sheen, as if it had been woven not with silk or thread, but with flame and fury, forged in the same fire that now consumed the city below. Her nose and cheeks flushed red from the cold, but her bones warm with the fire at her feet.

Below her, the city blazed. Violet fire tore through stone and timber, leaping like a living thing from rooftop to rooftop, devouring all in its path. Watchtowers collapsed in showers of sparks. The once-grand banners of Caerlin once rich with the gold and silver heraldry of its lords now hung in tatters, scorched and forgotten. The scent of burning oil clung to the smoke, thick and acrid.

And the screams—gods, the screams. Echoing through the valley, raw and desperate. Human and mortal.

Beautiful.

Lyra closed her eyes and let the chaos settle into her bones. Let the taste of victory savor on her tongue, hot and metallic. Her pulse thundered beneath her pale skin, matched by the slow, thrumming hum of magic still simmering in her veins. She had torn the sky open with her spells, pulled fire from the heavens and shattered Caerlin's gates in a single breath. They'd thought her dead. Forgotten. Buried beneath years and ash.

But she had survived.

She had endured.

"This is madness," said a voice behind her.

Lyra opened her eyes, turning only slightly, her gaze sliding to her second: Eron. He stood a few paces back, blood staining the steel of his armor, streaking his jaw, splattered across the black leather of his gloves. None of it was his.

"Madness?" she echoed, her voice soft as a blade unsheathing. "No. Madness was the day I begged for mercy as they slit my mother’s throat.”

His eyes, however, remained on her. He wasn't afraid to look when he questioned her, unlike the others. The wind howled in the silence that followed. Eron's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak. He didn't need to.

Lyra's lips curled into something like a smile—cold and hollow. She tilted her head back to the sky, inhaling the winter air deeply: smoke, blood, and her magic. It filled her lungs like incense, consecrating the moment. She had waited ten years for this. Ten years of exile, of hiding in shadows and trading pieces of her soul for power.

But it had been worth it.

Caerlin: the birth place of her hatred, of her fire.

It had always been the gate, the stronghold guarding the western path to the capital. With it in ruins, the people will drop one by one, as if the earth itself yanked the ground from beneath them. Villages would surrender before a single blade was drawn. And the capital: Evaris—arrogant, bloated Evaris—the place she once called home, would kneel. She would make sure of it.

Eron stepped closer, his boots crunching on scorched stone. "How does it feel. "

Lyra said nothing. Her magic pulsed through her fingertips like a second heartbeat, quieter now but no less demanding.

"Like retribution."

Eron challenged, "When will you be satisfied?"

She turned, staring at him coldly, the wind shifted causing her hair to lift in front of her. Whipping - curling and dancing with an almost feral elegance, echoing the storm of emotion behind her steely eyes.

But still, he didn't waver.

That was why she kept him close. Despite his hesitations and his conscience, she trusted no one more. Eron had been there the night she fled. He had pulled her from the falling debris and thick smoke of her childhood home, he carried her through the forest with his own broken ribs and burning fever. He had never asked for anything in return.

And now, she would give him a kingdom. Whether he wanted it or not.

Lyra's gaze drifted back to the city. A section of wall crumbled in the distance, smoke billowing into the morning air. Far beyond the flames, she could see the faint outline of the forest, dense and ancient. The rebels would retreat there come nightfall; regroup, scavenge whatever's left when the fire settles and plan the next strike.

But for now... she let the stillness wrap around her. Let herself savor it.

After all…

They had taken everything from her.

“And now I will take everything from you.”

She smiled as she looked over the kingdom stopping as her eyes gazed over the castle.

As the flames died out over the days, the people’s fear only grew.

“She came out of the trees like a spirit," the scout said, breathless and soot-streaked. "Wreathed in flames, cloaked in red. Like something old."

The king's expression was thunderous.

"They call her the Crimson Witch.” he continued.

Theron snarled now, voice echoing off the marble pillars. "Do you know who she is?" Looking to his guard, Darian.

Darian didn't answer at first. He had heard whispers. Whispers that had grown teeth.

"No, my lord.” he said blankly

"You will find her," the king said, interrupting his thoughts. "You will end this rebellion before it spreads."

Darian bowed his head. "As you command."

The Crimson Witch, a name that spoke fear.

A name earned.