Page 103 of Thunder's Reckoning

I didn’t speak at first.

I was curled in the corner, knees drawn to my chest, skin cold and clammy against the wall. I hadn’t moved much since the last “meal”—bread gone stale, water gone sour. Sleep hadn’t touched me, not with the weight of the chamber pressing in. The cot behind me offered no comfort. No blanket. No pillow. Just a slab wrapped in thin cloth, as bare and stripped of warmth as everything else here.

She stepped through the threshold carefully, eyes lowered. Shoulders stiff. Back straight. A posture carved into her bones by years of doctrine. But there was something in the way she carried herself that didn’t match the mask. Silence clung to her, but it wasn’t hollow—it was charged. Watching. Measuring.

That’s when I noticed her hands.

Red. Blistered. Healing.

Burns. Fresh ones.

I knew those marks. I’d seen them before, on girls who’d dared question, even for a breath, the Prophet’s teachings. Doubt was treason here, but rarely fatal. Instead, they were dragged before the flame. Not consumed entirely—no, that would end the lesson too quickly. Just scorched enough to leave a reminder etched into flesh. Purity bought with pain.

I remembered the sound. The hiss of skin against heated stone. The smell of it searing the air. And the Prophet’s voice, smooth as oil, whispering about fire being both punishment and salvation.

Her fingers tightened around the tray she carried, trembling just enough for me to notice. Bread. Water. A folded cloth. The ritual of survival, served without kindness.

But then her gaze flicked up. Brief. Almost imperceptible, and in that instant, I saw it.

Defiance.

She dropped her eyes again just as fast, as though regretting the lapse, or fearing someone had seen.

“What’s your name?” My voice cracked from disuse, hoarse and raw, but I forced the words out. I leaned forward just enough to show her I wasn’t afraid. Not of her. Not of speaking. Not anymore.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch.

She set the tray against the wall with practiced grace, her eyes fixed downward. That’s when I saw more, the faint line of a long burn that traced down the side of her face, healed but impossible to hide. Not just her hands. Her jaw was clenched, her arms rigid. Her body carried wounds the cloth couldn’t cover.

She turned to go.

“Wait.”

The word slipped out before I could stop it.

She froze.

I stood, not fully, not close, but enough to rise above the crouch of fear. My voice softened. I didn’t want to scare her.

“I know what they told you,” I said. “You’re not allowed to speak to me. I remember how it works.”

Still, she didn’t move. But her breath caught, a harsh, almost hidden sound. To anyone else it would have been nothing. To me, it was everything.

“I just need to know,” I whispered. “The children. Are they okay?”

Her grip on the tray whitened. The tendons in her hands stood out. Her spine went rigid, but she didn’t turn. Not yet.

Her head lifted, just barely. Enough for me to see the outline of her expression. She didn’t meet my eyes, but the emotion was there, burning behind her stillness. Not fear of me. Rage at this place.

She held herself there for one more heartbeat, locked in a war only she could fight. Then she turned, walked to the door without a word.

But right before it closed, her eyes flicked toward the tray.

A small, piercing glance. Intentional.

And then she was gone.

The lock clicked back into place, echoing through the chamber like a final breath.