Page 2 of Bound in Flames (The Savage Hearts #1)
Chapter 2
Cleo
T he guards were on me before I could get far. Their attack was swift and precise, like predators targeting defenseless prey. Their boots slammed against the cobblestones, each step a thunderclap that seemed to shake the ground and fill the air with tension. The crowd had broken apart like scattering birds, but not all of them had fled. Some lingered, their faces twisted in disgust or grim fascination, as if they couldn’t resist watching me be cuffed and dragged through the streets like some kind of dangerous monster.
The enchanted cuffs wrapped around my wrists seemed alive, buzzing faintly with energy, as if mocking me. The emptiness they created was terrifying, a hollow silence where an undiscovered magic had once pulsed steadily through me. I barely understood the power I held, let alone how to control it, but the thought of being cut off from it felt like losing a part of myself I hadn’t realized I couldn’t live without.
Rough hands latched onto my arms, yanking them behind me with a brutal strength. Pain shot through my shoulders as my arms were wrenched into an awkward position that forced me off balance. The pressure of their grip made my skin feel raw. I thrashed instinctively, trying to twist free, but their hold was ironclad. My panic seemed to amuse them, drawing laughter and cruel remarks that cut deeper than any physical restraints ever could.
These cuffs weren’t just tools of imprisonment—they were legendary. The Crown’s enforcers used them to suppress conjurers, and the rarer wild shamans, making it impossible for them to access their magic in custody. I had overheard whispered rumors of the cuffs in tavern corners, tales of how brutal and effective they were, said to not just sever access to magic, but hope itself. Now I was wearing them, and every faint hum against my skin was a reminder of my powerlessness and the Crown’s dominance. They had been right. I felt completely void of hope. Of a life free of oppression, of pain and cruelty. As they clicked shut around my wrists, I felt the weight of finality press down on my chest.
“Think she can wiggle free?” One guard sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “You’re wasting your energy, bitch!”
Their boots scuffed the cobblestones as they pushed me forward, the harsh scrape echoing alongside the pounding of my heart. With every jerk of their hands, I could feel the fight draining from my body. My breath came in sharp gasps, and my pulse raced, driven by a mixture of fear and fury. Each step was a struggle, my feet dragging against uneven stones, yet I couldn’t stop trying to resist, even knowing it was hopeless.
The crowd’s murmur never ceased, growing louder and more pointed with each passing moment.
“She’s dangerous.”
“A wild shaman in Sleek Valley? Is nowhere safe?”
A woman was clutching her child tightly, knuckles white as she glared at me. “Keep your distance. Nothing good comes of your kind!”
I stumbled forward under the guards’ grip, the cuffs digging into my wrists with every step. Sharp pain shot down to my fingertips, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation. They paraded me through the streets like a caged animal, every whispered word and scornful glare cutting deeper than the metal around my skin. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t block out the judgment etched in their eyes or the venom in their hushed voices. Their hatred clung to me like a suffocating cloak, tightening with every word, every sneer. Friends and neighbors turned on me so easily, their betrayal settling in my stomach like acid.
“Hold still.” One of my captors cursed, his rancid breath feathered across my face as he sharply twist my arm.
“Let go of me!”
“Look what she did to her father! And to think one of them was hiding amongst us all this time?—”
I could feel my panic rising, and the world seemed to tilt. My breath hitched as I frantically searched inside myself for the familiar and comforting warmth I had always felt beneath my skin, a low and steady rhythm I had assumed everyone felt. It was as though someone had ripped away a part of me. My body sagged in the guards’ grip as I felt the aching absence of that peaceful presence. My skin felt wrong, too tight and too empty all at once.
“Get her moving. The Crown doesn’t pay for you to coddle shamans!” barked a brutish man with a twisted sneer that screamed of his prejudices.
He jerked his head toward the old guardhouse, and they dragged me forward, my heart pounding, a drumbeat of defiance buried deep beneath the mounting dread. The crowds’ whispers followed me like a ghost.
“A menace?—”
“—should have been drowned at birth. Nothing natural about her eyes!”
“She’s dangerous! Get her out of here!”
“Nothing but trouble!”
The words cut through the crowd, each one a fresh wound that made my stomach twist. The hatred branding their words into my heart. I bit back a sob as my gaze landed on my father, disheveled and trembling in rage. His shirt was torn, remnants of vines that had wrapped around him still clung to his pants. His face was flushed, and when his eyes met mine, they were filled with nothing but contempt.
I hated him for what he had become, for the drunken rages and the bruises that had shaped much of my life. But beneath that hate, a part of me still clung to the father he used to be—the one who had held me as a child, his voice soft and steady as he told me stories of the world before darkness crept across Ostelan. That part of me ached, even as his words and fists had struck me like whips for years.
He stepped forward, and my stomach twisted in dread. His lip curled as he spat at my feet, the sound echoing louder than any of the whispers around me. “I should have known. Twenty-five years old, unwed, and a burden from the start. I should have seen the signs! And now a shaman?! A fucking stain on our good family name!”
His words lashed me, but it wasn’t just the accusations. It was the complete lack of the man I had once loved, the father who had guided me in my studies before he was consumed by his drinking. Replaced by this hollow, hateful shell of a man. And yet part of me still mourned for what I had lost. Each word struck me like a blow. My knees threatened to give, trembling under the weight of his hatred. My chest ached with the effort to keep the tears at bay. I looked for a flicker of the father I once knew, but there was nothing.
“You’ve bought shame on this family. On me !”
My eyes burned as I ripped my gaze from his, and the cobblestones blurred beneath me as I fought back the tears threatening to fall. I was determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Confusion churned in my chest, tangled with anger and grief. How could I mourn someone who had caused me so much pain? And yet, there it was—a deep ache for the father I used to know, the one who laughed easily, who held me when I cried. Before the anger. Before the alcohol. That man was gone, lost to his demons, and yet part of me still clung to the hope that he might return. The hope made the pain sharper, cut deeper. I startled when the guards pushed me forward, laughing at my faltering steps.
Worse than the whispers was the hollow ache where the magic had been. The steady warmth was gone, leaving me raw, exposed. Shame scorched through me, laced with the bitter sting of betrayal. But even as humiliation threatened to drown me, I held on to my defiance. They wouldn’t see me break.
The jailhouse loomed ahead, its stone walls cold and unwelcoming, a fortress of despair. The guards shoved me through the heavy wooden doors with a force that sent me sprawling, their laughter echoing in the dimly lit cell. My knees hit the filthy, straw-strewn floor, my palms scraping against the uneven stones. The cuffs around my wrists buzzed faintly, a cruel and constant reminder of the power they had stolen from me, the power that was no longer mine to wield. The flickering torchlight threw jagged shadows on the walls, my nose crinkled at the reek of sweat, rot, and hopelessness.
“Caught yourself a live one.” A guard chuckled, his eyes lingering on me in a way that made my skin crawl. “Shame. Pretty thing like her could’ve been fun to play with.”
My pulse thundered in my ears, instincts screaming at me, and I felt like a trapped animal. Every muscle in my body was tense, the weight of their leering gazes coiling around me like a noose. The way they moved, the casual cruelty in their words—it wasn’t the first time they’d done this. I could feel it in the air, thick with unspoken violence, and the realization made me sick.
“You call this pretty?” Another guard stepped closer, grabbing a handful of my curls. Yanking me back to my feet so roughly my neck screamed in pain. “Looks more like a feral beast to me. You see the way she snarled out there?”
I wrenched away from him, pain lancing through my scalp as his grip tore free, a clump of hair. The sting brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. My pain only fueled their laughter—a sound cold and jagged, brimming with malice. It clawed at my nerves, scraping against the raw edges of my fear.
Before I could recover, a hard shove sent me stumbling back. My feet faltered, and my head bounced off the stone with a sickening crack that reverberated through my skull. Stars burst behind my eyes, blurring the world into jagged shapes and shadows. Warmth spread across the back of my head, the faint smell of blood mixing with the dust and grime of the street. An itch prickled beneath the growing wetness, and I struggled to keep my focus as the nausea grew.
Pain and dizziness swirled together, threatening to pull me under, but I swallowed against the urge to vomit, forcing myself to stay alert. The guards’ cruel laughter still rang in my ears, and even as my vision swam, I tried to bite back the groan rising in my throat. I couldn’t give them the satisfaction.
The cell door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the tiny space. I staggered to the corner, the acidic burn rising in my throat as I sank onto the cold, filthy floor. My head throbbed, a dull but insistent ache, each pulse making the room spin. I reached up slowly, my fingers trembling as they brushed against the sticky warmth at the back of my head. The texture sent a shiver through me—matted hair and blood, crusted and damp. I winced, pulling my hand back to examine it in the dim light, but the shadows swallowed any detail.
The thin cotton of my dress offered no warmth against the chill creeping through the stone. It clung to my skin, slick with sweat and grime, doing little to keep the cold at bay. My boots were my only source of warmth, laced halfway up my calves. They felt heavy and stiff, caked with mud that cracked with every movement, the tight leather grounding me. I drew my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms tightly around them, but the cold still seeped in, gnawing at my bones.
The dimness seemed alive, swallowing nearly everything except the faint glint of iron bars and the decaying straw scattered across the floor. My chest tightened, and I pressed myself further into the corner, desperate for even the illusion of safety. The damp air clung to my skin like an heavy cloak. Somewhere in the distance, the steady drip of water echoed, each plunk hammering into my mind like a clock counting down to my inevitable fate.
Outside my cell, the guards exchanged crude comments, their voices carrying through the oppressive silence. “Looks like she’ll get real comfortable in here,” one said, his tone thick with mockery.
Another snorted. “Comfortable? She’ll be lucky to last the night without cracking. Shamans always break. Especially the new ones. They’re like fish out of water without their magic. It’s only a matter of time before the silence eats away at them.”
"She’ll crack even faster than most. You can see it in her eyes. Already hollow.”
The walls seemed to close in, the damp air pressing against my chest until each breath felt like a battle. My hands shook as I clutched at my knees, nails digging into the thin cotton of my dress in a desperate attempt to hold myself together.
Breathe, Cleo. Just breathe. Five things you can see.
My lips trembled as I whispered the words my mother had taught me. My eyes darted around the cell, latching onto anything: the glint of iron bars. The decaying straw scattered across the floor. The faint smear of blood on my fingertips. The jagged edge of a stone near my foot. The faintly glowing crack of light seeping under the door.
Four things you can touch. I let my fingers move, brushing over the rough stone at my back. The gritty texture of the straw beneath me. The soft fabric of my dress clinging to my skin. The damp, cold leather of my boots.
Three things you can hear. I strained my ears, focusing on the drip of water echoing in the silence. The faint shuffle of boots in the distance. The unsteady rasp of my own breath.
Two things you can smell. The sour tang of damp stone filled my nose. Mixed with the metallic bite of blood.
One thing you can taste. I swallowed hard, the coppery taste of my bitten lip lingering on my tongue.
Slowly, the storm inside me began to quiet. My heart still raced, but the edges of my panic softened, no longer razor-sharp. Mama’s voice echoed in my mind, steady and soothing. “When the world feels like it’s spinning out of control, you anchor yourself, Cleo. You find the things that remind you that you’re still here.”
Time passed in a crawl, my head fuzzy and still ringing with the barely controlled panic. Outside my cell the guards talked freely, their voices low but still audible.
“Knights Hold won’t waste time with her, shamans go straight to the gallows these days. Or worse. The crown doesn’t waste resources on their kind.”
“Good riddance, fewer of her kind, the safer we all are. They think their magic makes them special.”
Their words sent a fresh wave of fear coursing through me. Knights Hold. The name was whispered like a curse among those who dared speak of it at all. It was where the Ostelan Crown sent those accused of crimes too dangerous for local punishment—traitors, sorcerers, and shamans. None returned. Stories of public executions and the horrors that awaited there were told in hushed voices, the details grotesque enough to turn even the strongest stomach.
Even so, their words churned in my mind. I imagined the gallows, the crowds shouting for my death, my body swinging lifelessly in the breeze. Or worse, some experiment at the hands of the Crown’s Enforcers. The thought wrapped around my chest like an iron band, squeezing tighter with every passing second. I closed my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but their laughter dragged me back, a constant reminder that my fate was already written. I wouldn’t cry. I couldn’t. Not for them to see. Not for anyone.
Magic . The word itself felt foreign, like an accusation rather than a reality. My mind reeled, trying to reconcile the whispers of shaman with the life I had known. I had never seen myself as anything but a farmer’s daughter. I had spent countless days working the fields, my hands in the soil, feeling the steady rhythm of the earth beneath me. It was the closest thing to peace I had ever known. The vibrant energy I had felt while tending crops or walking the forests wasn’t magic, was it? I hadn’t thought so. It had simply been life, as natural as breathing.
Doubt clawed at me. Had it always been magic? The hum beneath my skin, the connection I’d always felt to the land. Was that what set me apart? The villagers spoke of shamans as wild, untamed forces, dangerous because they defied the Crown’s control. But I wasn’t some wild force. I was just… me. Wasn’t I?
The thought churned in my mind, bitter and heavy. The one thing that had ever made me feel alive, that had made me me , could it truly be the reason for all this? The idea twisted inside me, cutting deep in places I hadn’t known could hurt.
Time lost meaning in the darkness of the cell. Minutes stretched into hours, maybe even days, though I couldn’t tell anymore. Every part of me ached, my stomach twisting painfully with hunger, but none of it compared to the hollow void where my magic had been. The cuffs drained my strength, stripping away the energy I hadn’t even realized I’d come to rely on. With every passing moment, the absence of that steady, comforting hum left me weaker, as if I were slowly crumbling from the inside out.
The void was where my thoughts festered. They whispered darkly, twisted and refusing to give me any peace. I thought about the quiet buzz of my magic—how it had once been so constant I had barely noticed it. Now its absence gnawed at me like a phantom limb, a hollow space that couldn’t be filled. The silence was deafening.
I saw my father’s face twisted in anger as he called for my arrest. His voice, sharp and bitter, echoed in my ears, replaying his venomous words over and over until they became a chant I couldn’t escape. I heard the villagers, their voices rising in a hateful chorus.
But beneath the sorrow, anger burned like a low fire. It simmered, growing hotter with each cruel laugh from the guards, each jeering comment they threw my way. Anger at my father for the years of abuse, and for choosing his pride over his own blood. At the villagers for their cowardice, their willingness to turn on someone they had known for years. Anger at myself for being too weak to fight back, too scared to do anything but endure.
When they came for me again, dragging me out of the cell and into the harsh light of day, the anger had strengthened my resolve. It was quiet now, a smoldering ember in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t struggle as they chained my wrists to the bars of a prison cart, the ever present weight of the enchanted cuffs ensuring my compliance. A constant reminder of my powerlessness. I didn’t flinch at their jeers or react when they mocked me. I only stared ahead, my jaw tight, my green eyes burning with defiance.
Rain began to fall as the cart rattled down the uneven road. The first drops were cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of my anger. Soon the rain came down harder, soaking my hair and plastering the dirt of captivity against my face. The countryside blurred past me, dark and unwelcoming, but I didn’t let it pull me in. Instead, my gaze locked on the birds wheeling freely in the gray sky, their wings cutting through the rain with grace. A pang of longing pierced my chest. I envied their freedom, their ability to fly far away from this place, from this life. But I didn’t look away.
The guards' voices buzzed at the edges of my awareness, their words sharp and ugly. I tried to block them out, to bury their voices beneath the pounding of my heart, but fragments still slipped through. Crude remarks about my body. Mocking laughter that sent heat crawling up my neck. Bets exchanged over the violent fate that awaited me in Knight’s Hold. Each word struck like a lash, leaving raw wounds I fought to ignore. I clenched my jaw, forcing my focus elsewhere to quieten the simmering rage. I focused on the way the cuffs against my skin, a faint vibration I latched onto like a lifeline. Somewhere beneath the despair, something still stirred. My magic wasn’t gone. Not entirely. It was there, hidden and waiting, flickering just out of reach.
Fear, anger, and loss swirled within me, a raging storm tearing through me. How had it come to this? The end of my life before it had even begun. There was so much I had dreamed of—to see beyond the endless stretch of fields, to be more than a farmer’s daughter, to find a place where I truly belonged. All of it stolen from me before I’d even realized it was mine to reach for.
The thought burned, a fire that spread through the bitterness of betrayal and the sharp sting of fear. My nails bit into my palms, grounding me against the tide threatening to swallow me whole.
This wasn’t the end.
Not yet.
Not if I had any say in it.