Forged in Fire #3
“Fear,” Jiah said softly. “Fear is a powerful weapon.
Montigo uses cruel punishments to keep his control.
When I was a boy, I watched his men burn our home—our barns, our crops.
They slaughtered our animals... because my grandfather and father refused to pay his taxes.
They believed in freedom. And Montigo made them pay for it.
“When people dare to speak their minds, to stand up for themselves—he doesn’t just punish them. He punishes the people they love.”
At that, Ismene gasped. Her eyes were wide with dread as she pulled Collin protectively into her arms.
“Jiah, don’t,” she whispered. “You mustn’t tell them such awful things. They’re too young.”
Collin didn’t quite understand the fear in his mother’s voice, or the terrible truth his father had just asked them to guard. But he knew it mattered. And he knew—deep in his chest, a secret burning quietly—that it must be kept.
In the weeks that followed, Jiah continued to bring home meat: stringy rabbit one day, a wild pheasant the next, even a slab of boar so rich in fat it crackled in the pan.
Sometimes fish, still glistening and limp, lined the counter before supper.
To Collin, it felt like magic. His father had become a provider of marvels.
Hunger became a forgotten ache, replaced by the thrill of not knowing what would be set on the table each night.
But as Collin savored his full belly, a quiet wrongness seeped into the corners of their home.
His mother no longer hummed old songs beneath her breath.
The lilting melody that once drifted from the garden vanished, swallowed by silence and wind.
She moved with a stiffness now, eyes flitting to the window at every passing footfall, every creak of the fence gate.
If Jiah was even minutes late, she’d pace the kitchen floor, fingers worrying the hem of her apron until the fabric frayed.
Collin began to wake to muffled footsteps and whispered arguments behind closed doors. Once, he crept from bed and saw her standing alone near the hearth, lips moving soundlessly in prayer or plea, arms wrapped tightly around herself though the fire was high and hot.
Her skin grew ashen, translucent in the morning light. She barely touched her meals, nibbling at bread crusts while urging the boys to eat more. Her eyes reddened from restless nights, and some mornings she seemed surprised to find the sun had risen at all.
Collin didn’t understand what had changed. All he knew was that his father whistled and brought meat, and his mother—once the light of the house—had grown thin, silent, and watchful, as if waiting for a terrible shadow to come through the door.
On a clear midsummer night, Ismene waited for her husband to return home after a long day of work. His dinner had grown cold and uneaten on the table, and still, Jiah didn’t come home. Finally, she put her sons to bed. With a forced smile on her tired face, she told them not to worry.
At dawn the next morning, Jiah still hadn’t come home.
Ismene wrung her hands as she moved distractedly through the kitchen, eyes darting to the window more often than the food she stirred. The smell of breakfast hung in the air, but no one was hungry.
Collin wanted to ask where Da was, but a fist in his chest clenched too tightly. The question caught in his throat like a thorn. He already knew what Mother would say—“He’s fine.” She’d force a smile, but her eyes would betray her. They always did.
A sudden, rapid knock exploded against the front door—frantic, relentless.
Collin and Connor both jumped in their chairs. Their mother gasped, sharp and strangled, dropping a spoon that clattered to the floor. Then she was moving—rushing to the door with a kind of desperate speed Collin had never seen in her before.
A small woman stood on the threshold, bathed in the trembling light of morning. Her pale yellow hair caught the sun, burning white around the edges like flame. Her chest heaved with sobs, her face streaked with tears.
“Lue!” Ismene cried. “What’s happened?”
Lue didn’t answer. She shook her head violently, words tumbling out between gasps.
“Come quickly—come now! The town square—hurry!”
And she turned and ran.
Ismene’s scream followed a moment later—a raw, broken sound that cracked through the air like lightning. Collin felt it hit his chest, felt it twist something inside him.
A chill rushed down his spine, fast and cold as a river in winter. His body knew before his mind did—something was horribly wrong. The fear bloomed in his mouth like a bitter fruit, thick and sour. He could taste it. His stomach lurched.
Connor grabbed his hand. “Come on!” he barked, yanking Collin after him.
They burst from the cabin into the bright haze of morning, their mother already far ahead, her dark skirts flying as she ran toward town.
The boys stumbled through the wet grass and dirt, barely able to keep up, hearts pounding, feet slipping.
The road to Chroma stretched ahead, but they had no sense of distance.
Only the thunder of panic in their blood.
In the mist-draped hush of morning, a crowd pressed into the sprawling town square. Six men stood rigid beneath the shadowy outline of the clock tower, their bare chests slick with sweat, wrists bound tightly behind their backs.
Jiah stood motionless, a deep gash running across his shoulder, bruises blooming dark across his jaw and cheek. Beside him, Izin swayed slightly, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
The others were no better—battered and broken, their bodies marked with lash wounds and open cuts, faces mottled with bruises. Together, they formed a silent tableau of defiance and suffering, framed by the pale light and the murmurs of the gathering crowd.
Collin clung to his brother’s hand as if it were the only solid thing in the world. Both boys trembled, eyes locked on the six men lined up before the clock tower’s looming silhouette.
He knew them all.
The baker with honey-colored hair who once gifted him sweet bread on his birthday. The steward’s son with the soft red curls now matted with blood, one eye swollen shut. His mother’s oldest friend, who used to braid wildflowers into her hair. Fathers. Neighbors. Friends.
Good men—all of them.
Around the square, iron-shod hooves struck sparks against the cobbles. The draft horses reared and snorted, muscles taut, eyes wide with agitation. The wagons they dragged loomed behind the guards—hulking.
Uniformed men prowled the perimeter, shoving the crowd back with flat blades and grim warnings. The townsfolk muttered in waves of unease, craning for a view, the tension rippling like storm wind through wheat. Some whispered names. Others said nothing, lips pressed tight with fear.
“What’s happening?” Ismene cried, her voice fraying as she shoved her way to a guard. “What’s my husband’s crime?”
The guard sneered and shoved her hard enough to make her stagger. “Silence, woman!”
“Please! He’s done nothing wrong! Please!”
“They are thieves,” he snapped. “And they will be punished.”
Ismene let out a scream that turned heads. She clutched her face, sobbing openly, but no hand reached for her. No voices rose in her defense. The guards remained still and cold as stone.
Then the noise died—snuffed out in an instant, as if the square itself inhaled and held its breath.
The crowd parted in a slow, fearful ripple.
From a polished black carriage, a tall man emerged, draped in deep red velvet trimmed with silver.
His face was hard, his hair thick and slicked back with precision.
A child’s delicate hand appeared at the carriage door, and then a girl stepped down after him, helped gently by a servant.
She looked no older than Collin, but where his fingernails bore dirt from the garden, hers shimmered with gold dust. Precious stones glittered at her neck and wrists, threaded through her dark braids. Her eyes—unlike the man’s hard, dark ones—were a vivid green, curious, warm.
As they passed through the quiet crowd, the villagers closed behind them like a wave.
Head Captain Sol stepped forward and bowed low, his tone clipped and devoid of sympathy.
“My Lord Montigo. The rebels we’ve been hunting were apprehended late last night.
All carried unreported game—pheasants, rabbits, fresh eggs.
We found a cache of cured meat—boar, venison—hidden in the baker’s shed. ”
Montigo’s gaze was unreadable as it swept across the line of battered men.
“You all know the cost of theft,” he said to the crowd, his voice cool and steady. “Every time one of you hoards what belongs to the state, you steal from each other.”
He looked down at the girl at his side and allowed a flicker of something resembling a smile. “Today, my daughter, the village becomes your classroom. Pay close attention. This is how we preserve order. And what becomes of those who resist it.”
Collin trembled violently. Something terrible was coming—he felt it in his chest, but the shape of it eluded him.
“Close your eyes,” Connor choked out, wrapping both arms around him like a shield.
Collin twisted against him. He had to get to Da. Had to reach Mam. Mam was still sobbing, still pleading with the guards. Her voice was raw now—ripped from her throat—but she wasn’t turning away. He screamed for her, but the noise swallowed his voice whole.
“Aries, my boy, be brave!” Izin’s voice broke across the crowd, blood spilling from his mouth. His words rang out—not just for his son, but for everyone.
Then Jiah’s voice cut through the rising swell of panic.
“Do not allow them to take freedom from your children! My boys, my sons! Fight for your future! Do not be a bystander, stand up for what is right!”
A boot struck his stomach mid-sentence. He folded forward with a grunt. The sound of the whip cracked like thunder. Ismene cried out, her voice torn with terror.