3. Chapter 3
I ron clashed with magic, the air thick with screams and the roar of panicked horses.
Ren yanked at the chains, pulling so hard that the edges bit into her skin, drawing blood.
And then Ren heard heavy, pounding strides that made the ground quiver. Each step was followed by a low, guttural hiss of breath. The foul stench of rot and sour decay hit Ren next, like curdled dairy left in the sun. Ren knew that smell; everyone who’d survived the border raids did.
Ogres .
Forest-dwelling brutes with bone-crushing clubs and maces, and a taste for chaos.
They didn’t fight for gold or land; they fought for the thrill of it.
Ogres hunted anything that crossed their grounds – humans most of all.
They were said to hang human skulls from trees to mark their trails home or territories.
A scream tore through the air as an ogre slashed through the bars in the front of the wagon, sending a frail woman scrambling back.
But she wasn’t fast enough.
The ogre’s claw hooked her neck and sliced through flesh and bone with brutal ease. Blood splattered the iron bars.
Up ahead, Ren caught sight of fae guards shouting orders, trying to herd the prisoners forward. But it was no use. One of the ogres barreled through the ranks and ripped a fae clean off his horse with a sickening crunch .
The guards fled, abandoning their orders and leaving the shackled prisoners to face the creatures alone.
This wasn’t a brawl.
It was a slaughter .
“Don't kill too many of them!” one ogre called. “Some fetch a good price.”
A few chuckles answered. Another gleeful voice added, “Humans make good pets if you train ‘em young.”
Ogres keeping humans as pets wasn’t just some cruel joke. It happened. Still happened.
They’d drag the living back to their camps and keep them in cages until they got bored, or until the novelty wore off and hunger or sick curiosity took over. Some were tortured. Some were eaten. Some withered away from neglect.
There was a bark of laughter. “Got me one back home who pours wine and whimpers pretty when I beat her.”
Ren looked up as a female ogre with rotting teeth and a hooked spear yanked open the wagon door.
She towered above them, an ogre twice a man’s size, her gray skin slick with sweat and gore.
In one hand, she gripped a massive cleaver of blackened iron, chipped at the edges.
The blade was thick, crude, but sharp enough to split bone.
It dripped with blood, bits of flesh clinging to the iron.
The ogre’s eyes raked over the chained prisoners, appraising livestock. She pointed the tip of her cleaver at the small girl beside Ren. “This one’s a bit scrawny, but I like ‘em young. Easier to break in,” she sneered.
The girl shrieked, trying to scramble away, but she had nowhere to go.
The girl looked barely on the cusp of adulthood, her limbs still coltish, her face untouched by the years, yet she carried bruises already blooming beneath the dirt on her skin. For a split second, Ren saw herself before she picked up her first blade in the fighting rings.
When the female ogre reached for the girl, filthy fingers stretching, Ren surged forward with a feral growl, baring her teeth. A crack echoed as the manacles scorched around her wrists, iron warping under heat .
“Touch her, and I’ll carve your name into every bone I break.” Ren growled. The temperature around her spiked.
The ogre’s eyes widened, her smirk dissolving into a flicker of something darker. Fear . The ogre stumbled back, gaze locked on something just beyond Ren’s shoulders.
“Or what, human? You gonna cry?” Two other ogres lumbered up behind the female ogre, weapons in hand — one with a jagged club spiked with rusted iron, the other dragging a hooked chain still wet with blood. Their eyes gleamed, pupils wide with the thrill of the fight.
From the corner of her eye, Ren caught sudden movement – one of the ogres had unshackled a frail, old man and shoved him forward with a laugh, telling him to run as fast as he could.
The old man tried to flee. Another ogre struck him down mid-sprint, the chain snapping forward with a sickening crack .
It wrapped around the man’s leg, yanked him off his feet, and dragged him back across the forest floor.
The first ogre brought his club down on the man’s skull before he could scream.
Bone and blood exploded across the earth, spraying the nearby stones with crimson.
The ogres cackled.
Ren felt the young girl clinging to her from behind.
Ren thought of every stolen moment that girl fought to keep herself alive.
If Ren yielded, they might let her live.
Or they might not. Perhaps one of their blades or clubs would slice through her throat or smash in her skull in the chaos, and that would be the end of her story.
But if they took her instead, it might be months, or even years before death finally found her.
Better a clean cut of steel at the butcher’s block than the slow rot of captivity in the hands of monsters who would savor every second of her suffering. The flame in Ren’s palms flared, scorching away doubt.
Ren knew that the ogres were eager to see her beg, plead, to grovel for her life.
But Ren Harper didn’t bow to monsters.
If she was going down, she’d set the world on fire first. She rose, ready to burn the world down if it meant breaking herself free.
The iron shackles glowed red-hot, their grip loosening, cracking. With a shuddering wrench, the chains shattered like brittle twigs. Flames erupted from her palms. Heat shimmered in waves around her as she drew the inferno close, shaping it, feeding it with every heartbeat of rage and defiance.
Then, with a cry that rattled the air, that rattled the world , she hurled the fire forward.
And the world didn’t just burn; it bowed before her.
Moments later, when the flames flickered and died down, the ogres who had taunted her were now charred husks scattered across the scorched earth.
Ren stood frozen, chest heaving. The air shimmered where her flames had been. She stared at her hands as if they belonged to someone else. This was the first time she’d ever unleashed her fire like that .
For years, she’d kept it buried. She’d singe the edges of playing cards at taverns whenever her temper flared, sweeping the ashes into her pockets before anyone noticed.
Once, she’d even set her own braid smoldering when a drunkard tried to tug her close, pretending afterward that the candle had tipped too close.
She could recall countless moments when the fire had risen, hungry and insistent, and each time she’d forced it back into the dark where it belonged.
Each time, the same erratic thrum had pounded in her ears, a pulse that did not seem quite like hers — hungry, coaxing.
And this time, she hadn’t fought it. She’d yielded to its call.
Now, staring at the ruin around her, her heart pounded with something between awe and terror.
No human should wield fire like this. The fae, maybe.
But not her. Some humans tried delving into magic, but their power came only through carefully written spells that demanded years of study to master and even longer to control.
Ren had never met anyone who could actually do it.
Ren didn’t know much about magic, only what she’d seen once in the market square in one of the western outposts — a fae tax collector who froze a man solid when he couldn’t pay.
She’d watched frost crawl over his skin until he shattered like fragile glass.
She’d thought such power belonged only to the fae.
And yet, the scorched earth around her spoke otherwise.
Steel flashed from the right, pressing against Ren’s neck before she could breathe.
“What the hell are you?” a low voice demanded in her ear.