Ashfire Requiem

As the chains drag behind me. They have worn patches through my skin around my ankles, raw ,bloody. As my blood trickled down towards the ground leaving bloody foot prints behind me. The rope wrapped around my neck like a noose for the next hanging. I’m not getting hanged, just pulled like livestock from the market. The smell coming off me, makes my eyes sting and my stomach lurches forward. I have to breathe from my mouth to try and keep the dry moldy stale bread down. I have been in this group for a long while. They broke into my home when everyone was asleep. So around 10 to midnight I would think. The memory of that night is still fresh in my mind. My mom, a strong witted person, takes no shit from no one. Just put my baby brother to bed with his teddy bear and kissed his sweet chubby check and whispered “good night sweetheart see you in the morning.” He nuzzles into the kisses and says “night mom.” rolls over and passes out. She turns to me as I’m the oldest out of the two of her children. Give me the look of Go to bed or else. While raising her one eyebrow while staring daggers into my eyes. I start lowering myself onto my cot. pulling the furs up to my chin. She walks over to my cot. smooths my out of controlled red hair. While saying “ Freya sweetheart if anything happens run fast and take your brother.”

I didn’t understand then why she said it. Now, I can’t stop hearing it. Those words echo in my skull louder than the drag of my chains.

That night the door splintered like a thin bone. Iron boots thundered against the dirt floor and torches set the shadows screaming along the walls. They came cloaked in black, their faces half hidden, eyes gleaming like animals sniffing prey.

My mother didn’t scream. She moved. Fast. She shoved me down, pressing my chest into the first, hissing in my ear to stay quiet. She grabbed the knife hidden in the hearthstone, the one my father had forged before he died. Her figure stood tall, blocking the hallway to my brother’s room.

But there were too many of them.

I remember her swinging fast, precise with the knife slicing across the first man’s cheek. His howl filled the house. Blood splattered the walls. But then another slammed into her, pinning her arms, while more poured in behind them. I remember the crack of wood as her head was struck, the knife clattering the man who attack us were not human.

I remember my mother’s eyes meeting mine. Just once. She mouthed one word. Run.

I didn’t run. My legs wouldn’t move.

The memory blurs after that, drowned in shouts, the crush of bodies, my brother’s crying. I know they dragged us out, kicking, screaming, our home fading behind us as fire picked the sky. That smell of burnt wood, hair, flesh has never left my nostrils.

Now, weeks later, I stumble in chains through mud and ash, driven like cattle in a caravan of brokenness.

The other is marching beside me. Ghost and flesh. Men with backs whipped raw women with mouths stitched in silence, children hollowed eyes stumbling. We are marked all ruined. Some have given up face falling face first in the dirt until our last tears their skin to force them forward again. Others whisper prayers not realizing that the gods have long abandoned this road.

The men who guard us are not human. Or if they are, they shut their humanity long ago. Their armor is black Iron beaten and scarred from battles, their cloaks stiff with dry blood. They reek of smoke and something fouler rot beneath steel. Their faces are covered with masks shaped like beasts, wolves, ravens, and boars. They say it is to frighten us but I know better. They wear those masks because beneath them is worse. Sometimes when the torches burn low at night I see the glow of the eyes through the slits yellow. Hungry.

The chains yank me for it and I stumble. My knee scraped against the ground, skin tearing open. The man holding my rope doesn’t slow. He drags me until I claw myself up right again, coughing blood from the pull around my throat.

The others don’t look at me. They have learned not to. To take care is to die faster.

But I still care. That is my weakness. Every child’s sob cracks me. Every woman’s muffled cry lingers. I think of my brother. Where is he now? Did they take him to? Is he still alive, clutching his bear, whispering to me? Or did he burn with the house, his small body curled in the smoke? The thought nearly drives me mad.

Days playing tonight. We march through swamps, forests, planes where the wind screams across the grass like voices of the dead. Food rarely comes with moldy bread, foul water that makes my stomach cramp.

And the visions begin. At first, I thought of them as dreams brought by hunger. Shadows stretching too long, reaching for me. Whispers slithering through the dark, curling in my ears like worms. But then I realized others didn’t hear them. Only me “Freya” the voice hissed in the night “daughter of fire…bloodborne of ash..”

It comes when I try to sleep, when the chains bite deepest. Sometimes I see the figure at the edge of the firelight, tall, cloaked, eyes like amber’s. Always watching. Never stepping closer.

I should be afraid. I am. But I am also drawn.

Because the voice promises things “strength, freedom and revenge.”

One night, when the moon bled right across the sky, we made a camp in the ruins of some forgotten village. Crumpled stone walls, broken wells, bones scattered in the grass. The guards laughed across the fire, tearing meat with their teeth. The smell of burning fat twisted my gut and I was hungry. I curled into myself, shivering under the chains. And then, I heard it again.

“You cannot stay in the chains forever, Freya. You will die as your mother did. Do you want that?”

I pressed my hands over my ears as I said “leave me alone.”

The Shadows stir. The figure steps closer, just beyond the firelight. Cloaked whispering like smoke.

“I can help you. Call me, and the chains will break.”

“Who are you?” I whispered.

No answer. Just a faint sound of chains breaking.

The next morning, one of the children collapsed. His legs wouldn’t move. He sobbed, too weak even to crawl. The guards didn’t hesitate. One raised a sword. Something inside me snapped. I lurched forward, chains clattering, and screamed, "stop!”

The blow froze midair. The guard turned his Beast mask towards me. Slowly, he lowered his blade, not in mercy but in calculation. His head tilted, as though studying me. The other stared. No one ever stopped them. That night, the whispers came louder. “ Yes. I felt it. The fire inside you. Let me in, Freya. Let me show you what you are.”

I didn’t sleep. The guards made sure I didn't as it was my punishment for stopping them from hurting the boy. My back still stings from the wipe licking my back. The wipe had barbs so when they hit you it tears your flesh like butter. The voice hissed with angry "They will burn for touching you."

The journey stretched on. My body was weak, my back throbbed from the wipe, but the whispers made me strong. They taught me to endure pain, to bite down on hunger, to move when I should collapse. They taught me to watch the guards, to notice their eyes glowing brighter, when their voice is rasped like beasts. They weren’t men anymore. They became something else. And maybe I was too. Sometimes, when rage filled me, my chains grew hot, burning against my skin. I should have screamed, but the fire didn’t hurt me. It hurt them. The guards hissed when they touched the metal, jerking their hands back like it scalded them. One guard with a serpent mask didn't let go and burned from the inside out. Watching his flesh melt like candle wax isn't something a normal person would smile at but I hide my smile when it happen. My revenge was starting.

We reached the Black Keep after what felt like an eternity. A fortress carved into the side of a mountain, its towers jagged like broken teeth. Smoke poured from the cracks in the Stone, carrying the stench of burning flesh. Screams echoed faintly from within. This was where they took us. The one who no one survives. The gates groaned open and shadows swallowed us whole.

Inside, the world was worse. The cells stacked high, filled with people. Experiments carved into flesh. Marks burned into skin. I saw one woman chained to the wall, her eyes white and glowing, mouth split wide as if she had screamed until her jaw locked open. I saw men drag into the pits, never to climb out again. I knew this was where my story ended.

Unless I listened to the voice. The first night in the Keep, they chained me to the alone. The storm was cold, damp with blood. Something scratched the walls, something alive. And then he came.

The cloak figure. Not a vision this time. Real. He stood outside the bars, taller than any man, his face hidden beneath the hood. Only his eyes burned molten red.

“Freya,” he said, his voice like fire crawling over stone. “You called me. I am here.”

I pressed back against the wall, trembling. “Who are you?”

His smile was sharp in the dark. ” Your salvation. Your curse. The one who will burn this place with you.” He reached out of hand. Black flames curled from his palm twisting into shapes of wolves, serpents chains snapping one by one. “Take my hand, and I will break your chains. But once you do, there is no turning back.”

My breath shook. My mother’s voice whispered in my mind, run fast, and take your brother. I reached out. And touched the fire.