Fire Caught in Glass #2
Clive’s shoulders lifted in a shrug, his face unreadable. “She still wakes up crying some nights. I don’t think she’s ever really stopped grieving my father’s execution. But my aunt is staying with us for now. She brings some light when she visits.”
Once the last guest had gone, silence descended—too still, too loud.
Collin stood alone, staring at the blood on the mosaic rug.
It had soaked into the wool and silk like rain into cracked earth.
There was no native red in that weave—only whites, blues, greens, browns.
The blood didn’t belong. It glared back at him like a foreigner left behind after the war, stranded in an unfamiliar land, staining everything it touched.
Where it met the pale blues, it shouted. Against the greens and browns, it pretended to blend.
“I can try soaking it,” Hadria murmured behind him. “But I don’t think it’ll come out.”
He didn’t turn. “It’s fine. I’ll throw it out. I bought it during some autumn fair. From the sister islands, I think. It’s nothing.”
He gathered it into a tight bundle, hiding the stain from view. Hadria took it from him without a word.
“I’ll give it to Nic’s mother,” she said gently. “She might salvage the threads. Make something new.”
She disappeared into the dining room, folding it neatly before placing it aside.
Collin turned to the hearth. The iron poker lay where it had fallen. He set it upright. Straightened the clock on the mantle. Adjusted a few sketches on the wall. When he dusted the shelf with his sleeve, his hand shook.
He jumped at a loud thud behind him.
Aries was dragging the armchairs back into place—loudly, deliberately—like noise might drown the aftermath.
Collin didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.
That night, sleep didn’t come.
He lay in the dark, eyes wide, staring into the beams above his bed. His thoughts marched across the dusty rafters, clanging louder than any sword.
Next door, Aries and Hadria shifted and whispered, their muffled voices creeping through the walls. The bed creaked. Covers rustled. Then—eventually—Aries’s snoring picked up, low and rhythmic.
But Collin remained still, unmoving.
The silence inside him didn’t sleep. It prowled.
A bird’s ardent song drew Collin from sleep. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains in radiant golden beams, painting the walls with warmth. He rose, the weight of the previous night somehow distant, dulled beneath an unusual clarity.
He felt... light. Energized. Strangely well.
Throwing open the curtains, he let the light flood in, washing every corner of his room in summer brilliance. He dressed quickly, calling out as he wrestled into a clean shirt.
“Aries! Hadria! You two up yet?”
No answer.
Curious, he stepped into the hallway. Aries’s bedroom door hung open. Empty. Probably out already for breakfast, though a flicker of disappointment passed through Collin. He always liked the way Hadria made scrambled eggs.
In the sitting room, the sun was so intense it burned white against the dusty windows. The panes glowed like fire caught in glass.
Collin grabbed his boots. Maybe he'd find them in town.
He opened the front door.
White light swallowed him. He blinked, staggered one step forward.
And then the world shattered.
A scream tore from his throat—raw, guttural. His chest seized.
The yard was unrecognizable. Gone was the tidy garden, the gentle rise of wild grass. In its place—bodies. Strewn in every direction, blood soaking into the soil, a battlefield carved into the bones of home.
And not strangers.
Aries—slumped over Hadria’s form, a sword skewering them both through the spine.
Clive, motionless, his honey-gold hair matted with blood.
Lekyi, a dozen arrows punched through his chest like stakes in a warning.
Collin spun, dizzy, stomach heaving—Dragonfly. Nic and Uriah. Each corpse worse than the last, each expression frozen in some final moment of disbelief or pain.
He couldn’t breathe.
And then—on the fence rail—Niall perched.
“Niall!” Collin cried, stumbling. “What happened? What—?”
Niall hopped down. He didn’t speak at first. His gaze swept over the carnage with quiet despair. Then he looked at Collin, blue eyes swimming with grief.
“I couldn’t save them,” he said softly. “Why didn’t you save me?”
Collin crumpled. “I tried—I was too late—” He pressed his hands to his face, trembling. “I went to Nic. I should have gone to you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Niall knelt beside him, his touch gentle on Collin’s shoulder.
“Nesaea was a test,” he said. “Montigo and Sol wanted to see who would rebel. But we failed. Every one of us. We followed orders—blindly.”
Collin looked up. “But not you. You refused to kill Logan. You were the only one who—who did the right thing.”
Niall’s smile was small, mournful. “And I died for it. I chose to. I’d rather die than kill a friend.” He paused. “Would you?”
“Nic said you wanted to be our martyr,” Collin whispered. “That you hoped to inspire us.”
Niall laughed softly, and the sound chilled Collin more than a scream.
“No. I’m no martyr. Just a boy with fire in his heart. But fire spreads, Collin. If you let it.”
Niall leaned in, eyes glinting with a strange, knowing light.
“Don’t let my death mean nothing. Don’t forget.”
And then the yard shimmered and faded.
“Collin, get up! You’re dreaming!”
A voice—a shape above him. Blinding light at the edge of his vision. His body jolted.
Collin’s eyes flew open. For a moment, the sunlight pouring through the window was too bright, too wrong. It slashed across the ceiling like a blade.
Aries hovered above him, his brow furrowed, his hand clamped tightly to Collin’s shoulder.
Collin sat up fast—too fast—and swayed. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. The sheets were tangled around his legs like restraints. He pressed both palms to the mattress to steady his breathing.
“You’re alright now,” Aries said gently, voice trying for calm. “Just a nightmare. You’re here. It’s over.”
But it wasn’t over. Not really. The yard—the bodies—Niall’s voice—it still echoed behind his eyes. His stomach churned.
He swallowed the taste of bile. His jaw tensed.
“We have to do it,” he rasped, voice too loud in the quiet room. “We have to finish what our fathers started. We can’t let it be for nothing. We can’t forget Niall. He gave his life... we have to make it matter.”
“We will,” Aries said, placing a steadying hand on his back. “But not now. Let’s eat. Hadria made breakfast. Food first. War later.”
Collin didn’t answer.
He got out of bed. The wooden floor felt oddly foreign beneath his feet—too smooth, too real. He wandered out of the house, shirt rumpled, sleeves uneven, sweat-dampen hair clinging to his temples.
Outside, the sun was climbing—but all he saw was the yard from his dream. He turned his gaze to the windows, each pane clouded with a fine layer of dust.
He grabbed a bucket. Cloth. Soap. He started to scrub, hard. Fierce.
The glass squeaked beneath his pressure. Water ran in thin streams down the sills. Dust became mud. And still he cleaned.
Behind him, Hadria’s voice came soft, “Collin? What are you doing?”
He didn’t turn. “Just... had a dream about dust.”
He wiped faster, because if he stopped, his hands would shake. As if, by making the glass shine, he could stop seeing the blood.
In the days that followed, Collin let the lake and his mother’s journals become his refuge. Sometimes he just watched the water, chasing peace. Sometimes, he read her words, one entry at a time, like it was medicine.
July 12, 488
I watch as the two little girls cry, their small hands reaching for their mother.
But the woman only scolds them, offering no touch, no comfort.
Then I see it—that cascade of golden hair.
I know that hair. Yes, I nursed the older girl for several weeks after she was born.
She has grown so much since I last saw her, and now she has a baby sister—a delicate, beautiful thing.
I will not tell Jiah. It would only break his heart to know he was part of an attack on their village. The stewards have found their mother, it seems, but she refuses to claim them.
Clutching my basket to my chest, I turn away and hurry out of the square. I try to block out the younger girl’s weeping. I am so grateful I didn’t bring Connor and Collin with me today. They must never see heartache like this. I vow again to protect them, for as long as I can.
Before I leave the square entirely, I glance back—just once.
I can’t help myself. The little one is sitting now, crumpled on the ground.
Her elbow is scraped, a thin trickle of blood running down her arm.
The blue ribbon in her hair droops like a flower wilting beneath the punishing sun.
My heart aches. No child should suffer such sorrow.
I want nothing more than to gather them into my arms, to love them, to whisper that they are wanted.
Back within the embrace of the house my beloved husband built, I call for my sons. They come running, eyes bright, faces open with joy. I gather them in, holding them close, loving them with every fiber of my being.
“What’s wrong, mam?” Connor asks. He’s beginning to notice everything.
Collin, still so small, winds a strand of my hair through his fingers. I’m thankful he is too young to understand my sadness.
I smooth Connor’s hair and whisper, “Nothing is wrong, my darling.” I smile, though fear prickles just beneath the surface.
The world is dangerous, so harsh and unkind.
I hate when Jiah tells them stories of death, fear, sorrow, and loss.
I don’t want my sons to know sadness. I don’t want them to carry pain.
I don’t want them to understand how brutal life can be.
I want to protect their joy, their boundless love, their innocent wonder.
How do I shield them, when there is so much cruelty in the world? How do I keep them safe?