Page 1 of Bound in Flames (The Savage Hearts #1)

Chapter 1

Cleo

B lood smeared the horizon, the dying light of dawn struggling to pierce the heavy mist that smothered Syn Farm. I crouched by the hearth. Rough stone bit into my knees, and my hands trembled as I coaxed reluctant embers to life. The acrid scent of charred wood clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of my own sweat. My arms ached from the endless labor of yesterday, but it wasn’t the weariness in my body that pressed down on me. It was the shadow of my father’s voice echoing in my mind: You’ll never amount to anything. His words were chains, binding me to this dying patch of land, to a future I was powerless to escape.

“Cleo, water on for tea.” my father’s voice was as rough and unyielding as the stones in the hearth. The demand yanked me from my thoughts, a sharp reminder that here, my rebellion lived only in silence. It wasn’t a request. It never was.

“Yes, father,” I said, the words hollow, my voice little more than a breath as I reached for the battered kettle. The motions were automatic now, drilled into me like the ache in my bones. I poured the water, watched the steam rise, and when the kettle began to scream, I bit back the urge to do the same.

I swept a hand back through my hair, catching painfully on a knot in the messy braid. I winced but didn’t stop, yanking the tangle free with a sharp pull. The sting in my scalp was a fleeting distraction from the clawing ache in my chest. But then, there was something else—a faint, tingling warmth at the edges of my senses. It wasn’t the fire, and it wasn’t the chill of the morning air. It was something deeper, something I couldn’t quite place. It stirred uneasily just beneath my skin before it faded into the noise of my thoughts. Last night’s betrayal sat heavy in the air around me, thick and suffocating, as if the shadows of his deal had crept into every corner of the room, whispering of a future I could no longer escape.

A marriage. Arranged in whispers over a grimy tavern table, sealed with the scratch of a pen and the clink of a debt repaid. My father’s gambling had been the noose, and I was the tethered goat. The man he’d sold me to was old enough to be my grandfather, his eyes hungry with greed, his smile a promise of misery. I had one week of freedom left.

The kettle’s shrill whistle yanked me back to the present. I poured the tea and carried it to him. His cold gray eyes flicked over me, sharp and appraising, like I was a bushel of grain to be weighed and sold. His gruff orders blurred together into background noise. The market. The debts. Don’t come back empty-handed.

“Yes sir,” I murmured.

As I turned toward the door, I felt his heavy gaze follow me. Shackles had less weight. Everything about Syn Farm was a reflection of him: withered crops, crumbling walls, and choices that spiraled endlessly downward. The dowry Mama had saved was long gone, gambled away on promises as empty as the coffers. And me? My worth had been measured and sold to the highest bidder.

The neighbors liked to whisper about me, how my looks were unusual, too bold for their delicate tastes. At twenty-five, my age only seemed to amplify their judgment, setting me further apart in a society that prized youth and conformity in women. They never said it to my face, but I knew the truth. My wild auburn curls had a mind of their own, always a frizzy mess no matter how hard I tried to tame them. Add to that my freckled face and green eyes that seemed to scream defiance, and it was no wonder the neighbors looked at me like I was trouble waiting to happen. Not exactly the meek and mild daughter anyone hoped for. Too strong, they said. Too willful.

Mama had understood me. She used to call my spirit a blessing, not a curse. She’d sit with me by the hearth, whispering stories about women who bent the world to their will, who didn’t wait for permission to claim their power. She’d speak of how they could feel the pulse of the earth, the breath of the wind, and the steady rhythm of life coursing through them—and how, one day, I might feel it too. But those dreams had faded long ago, lost to time to his bitterness. I couldn’t even visit her grave without his sharp words ringing in my ears, reminding me of how little remained of her in our lives. He saw her in me, in the shape of my face, the curve of my smile—and hated me more for it. As I grew older, the blows came harder, as if he could beat her memory out of me.

I paused in the hallway, the rough wood of the doorframe biting into my palms as I gripped it for balance. My breath hitched, and the walls pressing closer, suffocating me. Something had to change. It had to. Because if this was all my life would ever be, I wasn’t sure I could bear it much longer.

The heat of the market pressed down like a living thing as I wove through the throng of bustling villagers. The air carried the tang of spiced meats, the earthy scent of freshly dug turnips, and the acrid undertone of livestock. I walked alone, each step heavy with the weight of what I carried.

Every movement burned with purpose. My pocket held the last of Mama’s jewelry. Its presence both a comfort and a wound. She’d once worn the ring with pride, a symbol of love and hope. The thought made my stomach twist with regret.

The whispers of the market goers prickled at my ears as I passed, their words like nettles brushing against my skin.

“That’s the Syn girl. I heard she was to be betrothed to?—"

“Shame about her father. She’ll end up just like him, I'm sure.”

Their eyes lingered, but I forced myself to keep walking, my chin held high even as my heart hammered in my chest. The market’s vibrant chaos did little to distract me from the gnawing sense of unease that had settled deep in my bones.

I approached the jeweler’s stall. The weight of the ring in my pocket seemed to grow heavier, an anchor of memories I couldn’t let go. I pulled it out with trembling fingers, the gold catching the sunlight in a way that pierced straight through my chest. It wasn’t just a piece of Mama's jewelry—it was her. Her laughter, her warmth, the way she’d smile and say everything would be okay. Now, it was all I had left of her, a fragile link to a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. Now, it was nothing more than a means to pay another debt I hadn’t incurred. The ache in my chest deepened, and I couldn’t breathe past the grief. The jeweler’s sharp eyes assessed it with cold precision, his lips pursed in judgment.

“I can do three gold pieces, not a copper more.” He placed a few coins in my hand. Not enough. It was never enough.

Clutching the coins tightly I turned away and made my way toward the food stalls. The air grew thicker with the mingling scents of fresh bread and roasting meats, but even the warmth of the aromas couldn’t ease the chill in my veins.

A ragged group of children wove through the crowd like shadows, their thin faces a mixture of desperation and fleeting triumph as they clutched stolen loaves of bread tightly to their chests. The baker’s outraged shouts cut through the air, but no one moved to stop them. My steps faltered as I watched them vanish into a narrow alley, their small forms swallowed by the darkness. Their gaunt frames and wide, hollow eyes stayed with me, silent cries for help that clawed at my conscience.

My hand tightened around the coins in my pocket. I could feel the press of my father’s expectations like a noose around my neck, but a sharp bitterness cut through the fear. He’d find a reason to beat me anyway—whether I came home with less coins or the wrong tone in my voice. The realization twisted into a defiant thought: if I was going to suffer, why not let it be for something that mattered? I closed my eyes briefly, and their faces swam in the darkness—gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes, desperation clinging to them like shadows. A memory of Mama’s voice rose unbidden, her gentle words wrapping around me like a balm. My throat burned with unshed tears as I recalled her voice as clearly as if she stood beside me. No one should go hungry, Cleo. Not if we can help it.

Before I could think, I turned toward the nearest stall and handed over a gold coin. The merchant handed me a basket of meat, fruit and bread, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Generous of you,” he muttered.

I didn’t answer. My heart pounded as I made my way to the alley. The sounds of the bustling market faded into a low hum as I focused on the children huddled in the doorway. They froze when they saw me, their eyes wide and wary, suspicion sharpening their gaunt features. In this dark and violent world, I knew trust was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

“Here,” I said softly, setting the basket down and stepping back. “Take it.”

None of them moved. Their gazes flicked between me and the basket. Slowly, a boy—thin, no older than ten—inched forward, his movements cautious as if he expected the offer to be snatched away. He grabbed the basket and retreated quickly, his eyes never leaving mine. The others crowded close, their wary eyes broke my heart, their suspicion and hunger cutting deeper than any blade. They moved with the hesitancy of creatures long used to traps, their fear so palpable it seemed to bleed into the air around us. I wished I could offer more than a small meal, but in this world, even kindness had its limits.

As the boy tore into the basket’s contents, the others swarmed like starving crows, their small hands clawing for scraps with a desperation that tugged at my chest. Their ravenous gaze burned itself into my memory, the desperate glint in their eyes echoing the frantic, wet smacks of their chewing. Each hurried bite gnawed at my conscience, a weight I couldn’t dislodge no matter how hard I tried.

“Why?” the older boy asked.

I hesitated as a lump formed in my throat. “Because it’s what my mother would have done,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. Knowing I could do some good, however small, was enough to make me smile. The world was cruel, and I couldn’t change it, but helping them, even in this tiny way, felt like defiance—a rebellion against the darkness.

The boy’s grip on the basket loosened as he passed out food to the others. The youngest clung to his side, their small hands clutching at the meat like it was the most precious thing in the world. Their hunger was so raw, so real, that I felt my own bitterness surge again. My father’s voice echoed in my mind, berating me for wasting his money, for daring to make a choice of my own. He’d beat me for this, but I didn’t care. Let him. At least this would be worth it.

“Thank you.” His was voice barely audible, but the gratitude in his eyes burned brighter than any words could convey.

I nodded, stepping back further. “Stay safe.” The words felt hollow as I said them.

As I turned to leave, I felt their eyes on me. It wasn’t judgment or fear, but something softer. Hope, perhaps. It was a fragile thing, a flickering candle against the encroaching dark, but it was enough to fuel a warmth deep in my chest. My fingers tingled as it rushed through my bloodstream, burning away the lingering chill of my own hopeless fate and it numbed the ache that gnawed at me.

But the warmth didn’t last. As the shadows of the alley swallowed me, the weight of the world pressed against my shoulders once more. That small spark of hope felt almost cruel, a reminder of everything this wretched world had stolen from them. My jaw tightened, and my hands curled into fists, nails digging into my palms. Hope was all I could give them, but it wasn’t enough. Not for them, and not for me.

When I returned to the square, the world came rushing back. The stench of unwashed bodies mingled with the tang of sour ale and the coppery bite of freshly butchered meat. The air was heavy, thick with smoke that curled lazily from vendors' makeshift stoves, the bitter scent of charred bread mixing with the sharper aroma of overripe fruit. My boots scuffed the uneven cobblestones, each step punctuated by the distant clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer and the braying of a mule too stubborn to move.

The crowd pressed in on all sides, voices rising and falling in a chaotic symphony. My father’s figure loomed at the far end of the plaza, a storm of anger barely contained in the rigid lines of his posture. His face was a mottled shade of red, the kind that made me want to flinch before he even spoke. His boots struck the ground in a steady, deliberate rhythm as he marched toward me, his presence cutting through the chaos.

The noise of the market dulled, muffled by the pounding in my ears. My heart hammered against my ribs, the sound so loud it drowned out the world, and I felt as if I were walking through water, each step dragging me closer to the inevitable.

“What is this?” he barked, his voice low but venomous. His eyes fell to my empty basket and the few coins clutched tightly in my hand. “Where is the rest?”

I swallowed hard, gripping the basket tightly against my hip. The echo of the boy’s thanks rang in my ears, a fragile shield against his anger. “It’s what I could manage.” My voice was steady despite the tremor in my chest.

“Don’t lie to me, Cleo,” he snapped, stepping closer. His lips curling into a sneer. “You think I don’t know you’ve wasted what little we have? What did you spend it on? Trinkets? Yourself? ”

“No,” I said quickly, the defiance I’d felt earlier curling into something sharper. “I gave it to people who needed it.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. Then the fury returned, it was white-hot. “Ungrateful little bitch!” he spat, his voice rising enough to draw the attention of passersby. “You think you’re better than me? Throwing away money we can’t afford to lose on beggars? You’re as worthless as your mother!”

The words hit me harder than the slap that followed. Pain flared across my cheek, hot and sharp, but it was his words that burned deeper. The market seemed to tilt for a moment before I steadied myself, the dropped basket laid forgotten at my feet. The onlookers turned away, faces blank or carefully neutral. No one intervened.

“She would have done the same.” I kept my voice low but audible. I didn’t look at him, focusing instead on the uneven stones beneath my feet. “Children should never be hungry.”

He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising as he leaned closer, his breath hot and soured by day-old malted ale. “Don’t you dare talk about her,” he hissed, each word laced with venom. “You are a fool.”

Heat prickled behind my eyes, but I blinked hard to chase the tears away. His fingers dug into my arm, each press sending a fresh jolt of pain rippling to my shoulder. My teeth ground together, muscles taut with defiance. A tremor threatened to betray me, coiling tight in my throat, but I shoved the words past it. “You can beat me, but you can’t decide who I am.”

His cruel laugh drew a larger crowd of market-goers. “You think this will save the farm? They are nothing! It will never be enough. You will never be enough.”

Something inside me snapped. The anger that I’d been holding back surged forward like a storm. “I’m doing what I can! You’re the one who gambled everything away! Why am I the one paying for your mistakes?” I shouted, the words trembling with a mix of fury, desperation, and disgust.

I watched as his jaw tightened, the muscles rippling beneath his skin as his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Shadows seemed to gather in his eyes, swirling like the sky before a violent storm. “How dare you! Just like your mother. Good for nothing but spreading your legs and causing trouble."

The second slap snapped my head to the side, heat exploding across my cheek. The sharp crack echoed through the square, freezing the bustling crowd in its wake. My breath hitched, the sting of the blow clawing at my composure, but the murmurs that followed hit harder. Each whisper pierced like a needle, threading humiliation through my skin. I bit down hard, teeth grinding, as my anger surged to meet the shame, locking my spine straight when all I wanted was to shrink into nothing. They just watched. Faces a mixture of pity and morbid fascination. None of them stepped forward. Cowards .

“You’re a disgrace,” he spat. “You’ll bring nothing but ruin to this family. I should have sold you off when you were younger and worth more coin.”

my vision tunneled and the world around me blurred. Something rose within me, an anger I couldn’t control. My hands clenched into fists, and the air around me seemed to shift, heavy with unseen energy. A low hum began to vibrate through my body, growing stronger with every heartbeat, coming from the curled warmth inside my chest.

The ground beneath us groaned, a deep vibration that seemed to echo through my very bones before it cracked open Energy surged through me like a fire roaring in my veins, both terrifying and exhilarating. Thick green vines erupted from the cobblestones, their movements fluid yet deliberate, as though they had a will of their own. I could feel their presence—alive, connected to me—as they coiled around my father’s boots.

The heat inside me surged, my fingers tingling and my breath quickening. The vines twisted higher, their grip tightening, and I felt the strain of the cobblestones groaning beneath their weight. My father’s eyes were wide with shock, a flicker of fear breaking through his fury as he stumbled back, clawing desperately at the magic. His panicked movements only seemed to provoke them, their coils tightening in response to his struggle like a predator closing in on its catch.

The crowd gasped, stumbling back in a frantic wave, like prey scattering from a predator. Some clutched their children, dragging them away, while others craned their necks, drawn by a mix of fear and fascination. Whispers rippled through them, cutting through the chaos.

“Dark conjurer,” someone muttered, the word laced with dread.

“Dangerous—”

I stared at the vines in horror, my chest heaving as the energy surged through me, unrestrained. I hadn’t meant to do this. I hadn’t even known I could. My father’s face twisted with fear as he tore at the vines, his panicked voice rising above the crowd.

Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. My chest tightened, each breath coming fast and sharp as fear twisted in my stomach. My hands trembled, the hum of power still buzzing under my skin, a stark and unshakable reminder of what I had unleashed. I didn’t regret defending myself—but the magic, wild and uncontrollable, had shaken something deep inside me. “I?—”

“Guards!” he roared.

The crowd split as two guards cautiously approached, their deliberate strides and grim expressions cutting through the square. My chest tightened, panic flooding my veins in a suffocating rush. My breath hitched, shallow and ragged, as the world narrowed to their advancing forms. Before thought could catch up, my body took over. My legs burst into motion, driving me forward, blind and desperate. Cobblestones jarred beneath my feet, each step a frantic slam, as the market dissolved into a blur of noise and color. Stalls flashed past in jagged streaks, faces turned toward me in shock, but I saw nothing—only the path ahead and my instincts to escape.

Behind me, the sharp clatter of armor and the barked orders of the guards grew louder. My father’s curses sliced through the air, but I refused to look back. My breath came in ragged gasps, my chest heaving with the effort of escape. Fear clawed at me, but something deeper, something unfamiliar, pushed me forward.

For the first time, I was running from and to something, That unknown may hold freedom, and I wanted to grasp it firmly with both hands and never let go.