Page 113 of Thunder's Reckoning

They took my family.

And I’d die before I let it end that way.

No setup, no ambush, no trap in the shadows was gonna stop me.

I was comin’.

And whoever stood in my way was gonna burn.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

THEY LET MEout not long after Gabrial left,no warning, no explanation, no ceremony.

Just a knock. Sharp. Soft. Like a signal meant only for me.

The same young woman with the burned hands stood in the frame, her eyes downcast, her posture still as stone, her mouth pressed into the kind of line you learned in this place: not sorrow, not anger, just the absence of both. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The message was clear. Follow or be made to.

I stepped into the hallway, blinking against the gold-washed morning light bleeding through the narrow windows. It wasn’t silence that filled the space. It was worse. A curated stillness. Ahush so carefully arranged it passed for peace, when in truth it was control dressed in linen.

The compound hadn’t changed in its bones.

Chalk-white walls, corners flaking like old skin. Windows that let in light but none of its warmth. Floors polished to a shine so sharp every step echoed, reminding you the walls were always listening, even when no one stood behind you.

I used to think those echoes meant the Flame was alive, walking with us. That every footstep was a prayer answered. As a child, I pressed my palms to the walls and whispered my hopes into them, believing stone could carry my voice to the Flame God.

Now I knew better. The walls didn’t speak. They just kept secrets.

The woman with the burned hands led me out into the open air.

The grounds spread wide like a village carved from obedience, rows of small cabins for “family units,” roofs sagging under age, walls too thin to hide a whisper. A single dirt path wound between hand-tilled gardens and woodpiles stacked with military precision. The smell of ash clung to everything, threaded through with lavender like someone thought flowers could erase the smoke of punishment.

And looming above it all was the Flame Hall. Copper roof blazing in the early light, front steps fanned wide as if welcoming the whole world into its mouth. That was where Gabrial preached. Where his voice soaked into wood and flesh, branding itself deeper than fire ever could.

I remembered standing on those steps as a girl, my dress starched stiff, my hair flowing freely since it was worship day. Gabrial’s eyes sweeping the congregation until they landed on me. I thought being seen by him meant I was chosen—special. That it was holy.

It wasn’t holiness. It was possession.

The place breathed like a single body.

Women moved in cream-colored dresses, hems brushing the dirt, baskets balanced on their hips. Their heads bent low, their steps measured, always two paces apart as if stitched together by invisible thread. Men hauled buckets and crates, sweat darkening their shirts, but their eyes never strayed. Children filed out of the dorms in rows of ten, bare feet padding in near silence as they followed Guides with copper pendants at their throats. Their lips moved in unison, murmuring prayers that curled like smoke in the air.

No one lingered.

No one faltered.

And no one looked at me for long.

But I felt it, their attention brushing over me like a cold wind. Recognition without acknowledgment. They knew who I was now. The Wayward Flame. The one who had belonged and ran. The one Gabrial had chosen and lost and reclaimed.

I was proof that even the chosen could fall. And a warning that no fall went unpunished.

We crossed the central garden, where rosemary and sage and marigolds grew in precise rows, their scent too sweet, too heavy, cloying like a lie repeated until it felt holy. At the garden’s center rose the Pillar of Purity, a column of stone wrapped with silk streamers, each one painted with scripture. The Flame’s mark carved into the base, blackened by old scorch marks.

I used to kneel there. I used to press my palms against the carvings until they burned, telling myself the pain meant cleansing. I’d leave my skin raw and blistered, desperate to prove I was worthy of the Prophet’s gaze.

And I remembered the first time they led me there. I couldn’t have been more than six. My knees shaking, my braids slipping loose as the women pressed down on my shoulders and told meto hold still. Gabrial’s voice filled the courtyard, deep and steady, promising the Flame would lick away my childish sins.

I’d cried when the stone seared my palms, but I swallowed the sound, terrified of being seen as weak. When I pulled my hands back, the skin was red and swollen. He smiled at me then—Gabrial—and told me I was “closer to pure.”