The silence after Arin's scream was deafening.
Not even the birds dared to sing. Not a whisper of wind passed through the cracked wooden slats of the barracks. It was as if the entire compound held its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Arin stood frozen, her chest heaving. Her throat was raw. Her scream hadn't been one of pain—it had been rage. Pure, ugly, shaking rage. And it had left everyone stunned. Even the guards.
Someone whispered her name. Another girl shuffled back, as if afraid the sound of her own movement might set something off.
Her mother, Mira, stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and terrified.
But Arin didn't look at her. She stared at her own hands. They were trembling. Not from fear—no. That feeling had passed.
It was something else now.
It was power.
For the first time in her life, she hadn't begged. She hadn't obeyed. She had screamed. Loudly. Without apology. Without permission.
And the walls hadn't caved in.
Yet.
Footsteps broke the moment.
Heavy. Purposeful. Boots grinding against the gravel.
A shadow appeared just beyond the corner of the barracks. Then another. Guards. Two. No—three.
Arin's breath caught. This was it.
They'd come for her.
She didn't run. She didn't cry.
She squared her shoulders. If she was going to die, she'd die standing. Like her mother should have, before they broke her.
But the guards didn't storm in.
They hesitated.
One of them—Leif—looked straight at her. His jaw clenched, but something in his eyes flickered. Not fear. Not pity. Something else. He turned to the others and muttered under his breath.
Then they walked away.
Just like that.
Arin's knees nearly gave out.
Why hadn't they dragged her off? Why hadn't they punished her? Why did they look… uncertain?
Behind her, Mira whispered, "You shouldn't have done that."
Arin turned slowly. "They didn't stop me."
"Not yet," her mother said, stepping forward. Her hands were trembling as she reached out, brushing Arin's arm as if to check she was still whole. "You don't understand. It's never instant. They wait. They let you believe you've won. Then they break you quietly."
"Let them try," Arin muttered. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was solid.
"You don't mean that," Mira said, her voice shaking. "You think this is a game? That this will earn you freedom? It'll get you killed, Arin. They'll take you to the Lower Rooms."
Something cold twisted in Arin's stomach. She'd only heard whispers about the Lower Rooms. Girls sent there didn't return. Or if they did, they came back hollow-eyed and silent forever.
"I'd rather die trying to live," Arin said. "Than live like this and die anyway."
Her mother turned away, grief stretched across every line of her face. "You don't know what they're capable of."
Arin stepped closer. "Then tell me."
But Mira just walked away.
That night, the camp was unusually quiet.
Arin didn't sleep. She kept her back pressed to the wall, her eyes open. Watching. Waiting.
Whispers passed through the barracks like ghost winds. Some girls looked at her differently now. Like she'd grown wings—or horns.
But none dared speak to her directly.
Until the girl from the far cot—the one with the scar across her lip—crawled over in the dark.
"My name's Lina," she whispered. "You got fire. You scream like someone who remembers."
Arin stared at her. "Remembers what?"
Lina leaned in. "That they weren't born to be slaves."
Arin blinked, and something hot and terrible twisted in her chest. No one had ever said that out loud.
"I'm not the only one," Lina added. "There are more of us. Scattered. Waiting."
"For what?" Arin whispered.
"For someone to start the fire."
The next morning, everything changed.
Arin was summoned.
Not by the guards. Not by the usual whip of routine.
But by him.
Master Dareth.
The compound's overseer. Ruthless. Ice-blooded. He rarely involved himself with the girls unless they were being selected for punishment—or for pleasure.
And Arin wasn't naïve. She knew what being summoned by Dareth usually meant.
Mira begged her not to go. Clutched her arm and sobbed, silent tears soaked into her daughter's skin.
"I'll come back," Arin whispered, though the lie sat heavy on her tongue.
Two guards escorted her through the inner gates—past the rows of rusted cages, past the whipping post, into the stone hallways that only the elite walked freely.
Her heart pounded. Every step sounded like it echoed off the walls of a tomb.
They led her to a tall door. One of the guards opened it and motioned her forward.
She stepped in.
And stopped.
It wasn't Dareth behind the desk.
It was someone else.
Younger. Sharper. Dressed in all black, with a single silver ring glinting on his finger.
His eyes were like frost under moonlight—beautiful, cold, and dangerous.
He looked up from a file. Her file.
"You're Arin," he said simply. "The girl who screamed."
She didn't respond.
He stood slowly, walked around the desk, and stopped inches from her.
"You've caught the wrong kind of attention."
His voice was low, quiet, yet somehow terrifying.
"Who are you?" Arin finally asked.
A small smile touched his lips.
"Someone with more power than Dareth. And more reason to be curious about you."
He stepped back.
"I'm not here to punish you, Arin. I'm here to see what you'll become."
Her breath hitched.
"I'm offering you a choice," he continued. "Obey me… or defy me and see how far your fire really burns."
Her mind raced.
Was this a trap?
Or was it… something else?
Before she could answer, he turned to the guards.
"Take her to the old wing. Put her in isolation. No one sees her. No one touches her."
Arin's pulse jumped.
The man looked over his shoulder.
"Let's see what happens when we break the chain in private."