"Wake up, sleepy eyes. You don't want to miss your own birthday, do you?"
Nysa's lashes fluttered open, sunlight spilling across her face in warm, golden stripes. Her mother's soft voice coaxed her fully awake.
"I'm five today," Nysa whispered, grinning.
"Yes, you are." Her mother leaned in to kiss her forehead. "My little firefly is five years old."
Her younger brother, Taren—just three—burst into the room, barefoot and sticky from jam. "Nysa! Mama said you get a shiny! Where is it?"
"Shhh!" their mother laughed, lifting him into her arms. "You'll ruin the surprise, little troublemaker."
Just then, their father stepped in, tall and strong, smelling of pinewood and sawdust. He held a small wooden box tied with twine.
"I made the box," he said with a wink. "Your mother picked what goes inside."
Nysa sat up quickly, wide-eyed, and untied the string. The lid creaked open to reveal a silver pendant, shaped like a flame, its center set with a deep red gem that shimmered like an ember.
"It's beautiful..." she breathed.
"It's more than that," her mother said, kneeling beside her. "This flame is part of you now, Nysa. It carries warmth, strength and something you'll understand when you're older."
"I don't want to be older," Nysa giggled, clasping the pendant to her chest. "I like being little."
Her parents exchanged a quiet glance.
Outside, Dunvalle was already waking. The simple village bustled with the sound of carts rolling across dirt paths, roosters calling from fences, and the blacksmith's hammer echoing faintly in the air. They weren't rich, but they had everything that mattered.
That night, they celebrated with warm bread, dancing, and music played by the old fiddler who lived near the well. Taren declared he'd grow up to be a knight and waved a stick around like a sword. Nysa just held her pendant and smiled, feeling it pulse softly against her skin.
She had no idea how quickly everything would burn.
---
It began with the thunder of hooves.
Not from the sky, but from the ground—dozens of horses, fast and loud. Nysa woke with a start as the earth itself seemed to shake.
Her father rushed into the room, face pale. "Stay here. Lock the back door."
"Davran, what's happening?" her mother asked, pulling Nysa and Taren close.
"Raiders," he growled. "Upper-class mercenaries. Looking to 'cleanse the border villages,' they say."
Her mother's face went pale. "We haven't done anything wrong."
"They won't care. Get the children out. Now."
Outside, flames were already rising above the rooftops. Screams rang out. Blades clashed with metal. The scent of smoke curled through every crack.
"Come, quickly!" her mother shouted, grabbing their hands.
Taren stumbled as they ran, his tiny legs barely able to keep up. Nysa tugged him along, her pendant bouncing wildly against her chest.
"Davran!" her mother called as they reached the edge of the forest. "Come!"
"I'll hold them off!" he shouted. "Go!"
They didn't argue.
Until the arrow struck.
Her mother gasped, stumbling, her hand releasing Nysa's.
"Mama?" Nysa turned back, frozen.
Her mother fell to her knees, blood soaking the hem of her skirt. "Run—Nysa, please—run."
But she couldn't. She screamed and tried to hold her, but her mother's eyes had already dulled.
Then—Taren's hand slipped from hers.
She turned.
He was gone.
---
The sun rose over Dunvalle's ashes.
Nysa wandered aimlessly, barefoot and alone, clutching her pendant. She waited beside her ruined house for someone to find her but no one came.
Three days later, a merchant caravan passed through. One recognized her name and sent word to a man living in Windale.
Her uncle, Uncle Jorren.
---
Windale was colder and sharper, a stark contrast to the warmth of Dunvalle. It was the only town nearby that housed the palace, its stone streets resonating with the clatter of boots and the murmurs of noble gossip. In comparison, Windale felt like a gilded cage.
Uncle Jorren's expression didn't soften when she arrived.
"She's too thin," he muttered to Aunt Mara. "And too quiet."
"We'll find something for her to do," Aunt Mara replied with a decisive nod.
Nysa stepped inside their home—larger than her old cottage, but noticeably empty. Her cousins observed her from the stairs.
Kaeli, the older one by mere weeks, frowned. "She'll just get in the way."
Lina, the quiet one, said nothing, her gaze fixated on the ash still clinging to Nysa's dress.
"She can clean," Aunt Mara suggested confidently.
"Or she can help in the shop," Uncle Jorren added with authority.
Nysa remained silent. That first night, she lay on a mat near the fireplace, tears soaking her pillow as she clutched the flame pendant tightly to her chest.
---
She asked about Taren once.
"Gone," Jorren answered sharply, eyes fixed on his tools. "Be grateful we took you in."
Nysa never asked again.
Windale taught her silence.
Uncle Jorren ran a woodworking stall near the market square, and Nysa was made to scrub the floors and run errands. She was too small to lift wood, but she learned quickly how to polish, clean, and fetch.
Kaeli took it upon herself to double her chores, embracing the challenge with determination. Meanwhile, Lina remained mostly quiet, observing everything around her but offering little in the way of words.
---
At night, Nysa would sit by the window, staring out at the rooftops of Windale glowing under the moonlight.
She clutched the flame pendant tight against her chest — the last thing her mother ever gave her, the last proof that her life had once been warm, whole, and hers.
Sometimes she imagined Taren's laugh again, the way his tiny hand used to slip into hers when he was scared. Other times, she tried to recall her mother's voice, soft and humming lullabies she couldn't quite remember.
She would cry quietly, alone in the cold room, muffling her sobs so Aunt Mara wouldn't scold her in the morning.
"I'll find you, Taren," she whispered into the dark. "I swear I will."
The pendant warmed slightly in her hand, but it was probably just her tears.
And as the wind rattled the shutters and the moon slipped behind the clouds, Nysa fell asleep, not knowing the long road that waited, or how far that flame would one day burn.