Cherreads

She Who Was Flame

Ajibada_Ewona
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
In a kingdom where truth costs your voice and fire is forbidden, one girl is marked by both. Raised in silence. Whipped for disobedience. Hunted for a birthright she doesn’t yet understand—Seraphina was never meant to survive. But when her blood ignites with ancient flame and a prince with secrets offers her more than freedom, rebellion sparks. As temples burn and kings tremble, Seraphina must decide: become the weapon they fear… or the fire that remakes the world. A dark, romantic fantasy for fans of The Poppy War, The Shadows Between Us, and burn-the-world heroines.
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1 The Birth Of A Curse

The golden moon wasn't just bright—it burned.

Like the sun in the middle of the night.

Its light slithered through the palace windows like molten gold, smearing the velvet drapes and pooling across the marble floors. It painted blood a color too beautiful for the moment it stained. The white linens of Queen Lira's bed had long surrendered to crimson, thick and wet. The air was thick with the smell of copper and sweat.

"Breathe, Your Grace," murmured Jessa, the royal midwife, an acolyte of the temple. She pressed a warm, wet cloth against the queen's fevered brow. Her hands trembled. Not from the gore. From the moon, the sun in the midnight sky.

Outside, the city held its breath. Everyone knew what a golden moon meant—death.

Lira's scream split the silence.

Her spine arched. Fingers clawed at the mattress, ripping its seams apart. Jessa leaned close, whispering calming lies as she readied for the final push. The child was crowning.

The chamber was dim, quiet save for Lira's labored breaths and the distant clang of steel on stone. The king was not at his wife's side. He was at war with rebels near the outer gate. That had been his convenient excuse. But Lira knew the truth. Varys feared this birth more than battle.

She gave a guttural cry.

Little and mingled with blood, the baby slid into the world not wailing, but gasping, as if she'd swallowed light. Jessa turned her over, wiping her clean with shaking hands. The child—a girl. Alive.

Queen Lira, slick with sweat and tears, lifted her head. "Let me see her."

Jessa hesitated, clutching the infant close. "Your Grace..."

Slowly lifting her body, supported by her elbows, Queen Lira demanded. "Let. Me. See."

Jessa slowly turned the child.

The golden light caught her skin—but it wasn't the sheen of birth, neither was it the glow of the moon. It was the mark.

A flame, etched and living, curved just beneath the baby's ribs. It pulsed like a second heart, veins glowing beneath her translucent skin.

Queen Lira exhaled. Her lips muttered desperate prayers, not to the gods her kingdom worshipped, but to a name no longer spoken.

"Hide her," Lira said suddenly, grabbing Jessa's wrist. Her nails dug in, slicing skin.

Jessa flinched, fear written all over her face. "My queen—if the king sees—"

"You owe me," Lira snarled. "For your brother."

The room seemed to darken, the moonlight pooling harder against the bed.

Footsteps illuminated by torchlight drew near.

The door burst open without permission.

King Varys strode in, steel breastplate streaked with red. Fresh blood. His gray eyes gleamed like sharpened steel. Behind him, two guards lingered, their faces shadowed beneath helms.

"A girl?" Varys demanded, his voice heightening with slight disdain.

Jessa tucked the infant against her chest. Her mouth opened but no sound came forth.

Varys stepped forward. Armor glistening in the moonlight. "Show me."

Lira's eyes locked with Jessa's.

"Protect her," the queen whispered. "Please."

Jessa hesitated. Then, heart racing, she slowly turned the child.

The golden flame shimmered. Alive.

Varys recoiled.

"Abomination," he breathed. Then louder: "That prophecy—"

His sword hissed from its scabbard.

Lira surged upward despite her torn body. "Esh Emet sees you, husband."

The room froze. That name—forbidden, dead, sacred.

Even the guards backed away.

Varys' face twisted. Not with fear, but fury. "You treasonous wh—"

His blade rose.

But Jessa moved first.

From her sleeve, a knife flashed. Not large, but sharp. It sank swiftly into King Varys' side with a meaty thunk. The steel slid between his plates, sinking past bone.

Varys staggered, eyes wide with disbelief. He looked down at the blade jutting from his side, and then at Jessa—as if only now realizing she had never truly bowed to him.

Jessa didn't wait. She yanked the knife free and ran.

Blood sprayed across the floor, a black trail in the torchlight. Behind her, the king stumbled backward into the wall. His sword clattered to the ground.

He stumbled, blood spilling like ink on his armor.

Jessa bolted.

The child muffled against her chest, she darted past the stunned guards, down the servant's corridor, vanishing into shadow as Lira collapsed, her tired body finally giving way, blood gushing from both womb and throat.

Her last whisper echoed in the chamber:

"She will burn you all."

For the first time, the child's voice was heard.

It wasn't the weak, choking rasp of a newborn not meant for this world. It was a full-throated, furious sound—too alive, too loud for the silence that followed the king's entrance.

Jessa stood, spaced out, eyes searching for answers to questions she never asked, fingers trembled against the infant's spine. The palace, so full of death only moments ago, now pulsed with something hotter than breath—terror.

---

The babe's sudden cry pulled Jessa back into the reality of her unfinished business.

She clutched the infant tighter, trying to quiet the child, as she flew down the back passage, breath ragged, skirts soaked with blood—some hers, some the queen's, some that of the king. The newborn's wails echoed through the narrow, dust-choked corridor like a curse loosed from a sealed tomb.

Behind her, shouts erupted. Metal boots scraped over stone. "Find her!" someone barked. "She has the child!"

The palace was coming alive with fire and fury. She had minutes. Maybe less.

Jessa didn't pray. There were no gods left in this house that would hear her pleas—only monsters crowned and veiled. But she ran as if salvation waited just around the next corner, feet pounding past storerooms, flickering torches, and cold, silent statues of long-dead kings who had ruled from their tombs as surely as they had from their thrones.

She rounded a final bend, escaping the palace and making her way into the Temple of Smoke through a hidden passage—she waited for no urge, her steps were quick, quiet and filled with desperation. Head bent, eyes straining to see the stairs beneath her feet—her head unexpectedly collided with something solid.

A cry escaped her lips as she reeled back. Her knife was already rising before recognition dawned on her.

"Liora," Jessa gasped.

The priestess stood still as a stone in the moon-drenched hall outside the temple storeroom. Her white veil was stained—crimson and slick. In her arms, she clutched a bundle. Linen. Hers. Small. Still.

A child.

Dead.

Jessa stared.

"No," Liora whispered. Her eyes locked on the squalling, flame-marked child pressed to Jessa's chest. "No... no, no, not tonight. Not under this moon."

"They'll kill her." Jessa's voice broke. "I stabbed the king—he saw the mark—she's the one from the prophecy—"

"The golden moon," Liora murmured, almost to herself. "A girl-child born beneath its eye. Branded with fire. The last light. The cursed truth."

The baby in Jessa's arms writhed. Her cries weren't fading—they were sharpening, fueled by pain or hunger or rage. Her ceaseless cries would bring death down on them both.

Liora's grip tightened on the stillborn in her arms. Her fingers trembled. "She didn't even breathe," she said softly. Tears streamed down her face. "She was already cold when I held her." Voice nearly lost in a sob.

Jessa stared at the two babies. One silent, shrouded in death. One blazing with too much life.

She made the decision before her mind caught up.

"Take her," she said hoarsely, placing the living child in Liora's arms. "She's yours now, you're a priestess. You can hide her. She won't survive in the palace."

Liora hesitated—but not for long, fueled by hope in freedom, in prophecy. She adjusted the child in her arms with practiced grace, the sacred folds of her robe swallowing the squirming body. The cries muffled instantly beneath the silk and spice of temple garb.

With dry eyes and shaking hands, she passed Jessa the stillborn.

"She was a girl," Liora said with a sniff. "Unmarked. She'll do."

Jessa looked down at the cooling weight in her arms. The linen had started to seep. The illusion wouldn't hold for long.

Footsteps thundered in the distance. Orders were shouted. Closer now.

Liora turned, already vanishing into the shadow of the temple stairwell.

But then—a voice like cold iron sliced through the corridor behind her.

"Priestess?"

Both women froze.

That voice could chill marrow.

The High Voice.

He stepped forward from the darkness, flanked by torchbearers and silent temple guards. His veil was thick as smoke and carved from silver-threaded wool. His staff tapped once against the marble. He did not wonder towards Jessa—only at Liora.

"You weep," he observed.

Liora bowed her head. "The mother died," she said. "So did the child. I came to pray."

He moved closer. "You lie poorly, Liora. This passage is not a place of prayer. Your shoulders are too still."

A torchbearer lifted his light. It fell across Liora's robes. She had tried to clean herself, but there were signs—a streak of blood, too bright. A faint smear down her forearm where the infant's tiny mouth had latched as silence took her.

"Who bore the child?" the High Voice asked, tone as casual as someone inquiring after the weather.

Jessa stepped forward, clutching the stillborn tightly. "The queen's," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "She—she delivered a girl. The babe didn't survive the birth. Her Grace... died moments after."

The High Voice studied her for a long, terrible moment. "Why do you carry the child?"

"The queen asked me to," Jessa lied. "She didn't want the babe burned by a stranger's hand."

There was a pause.

Then, to her horror, the High Voice extended a hand. "Let me see her."

"No," Jessa said, her voice escaped her lips too quickly. "She... she's wrapped for burial."

He did not lower his hand. "The king will wish to see the body. Give her to me."

Jessa hesitated. The stillborn girl weighed less than the living one had. Her limbs had stiffened. She could not be mistaken for anything but what she was.

But the lie had already been spoken. There was no path back.

Slowly, she stepped forward and placed the wrapped body in the High Voice's arms.

He unwrapped the linen one careful fold at a time, as though unbinding a sacred relic. The torchlight flickered across the stillborn's cold, lifeless skin.

The High Voice stared.

Then nodded slowly.

"So ends a cursed line," he said. "The queen lies dead. Her child unmarked. The bloodline extinguished beneath the golden moon, as was foretold."

He rewrapped the body without a flicker of emotion.

"Burn it," he told the guards. "And cleanse the birthing chamber of the palace."

As the guards took the body from his hands, the High Voice turned back to Liora.

"And you," he said softly. "Come with me."

Liora bowed—but did not move.

"I must remain," she said. "There are rites to perform."

The High Voice tilted his head. "You mourn a stranger's child so deeply?"

"I mourn all who die in silence." Her voice was emotionless.

He watched her for a beat longer, then stepped aside.

"Very well. Pray. But when the moon sets, you will answer my questions."

His footsteps faded.

And then they were gone.

Only once the corridor emptied did Liora breathe again. Jessa glanced over at her, goodbyes were said with an exchange of blinking eyes.

From beneath her robes, the hidden child shifted. Her fists pressed against the priestess's ribs. She made no sound.

"Good girl," Liora whispered with a faint smile on her face. "Sleep while you can."

She stepped into the shadows, the stolen flame hidden beneath sacred cloth.