The cold air of dawn seeped into the cracks of their home, bringing with it the bitter stench of damp wood and earth. Aira awoke with a start, her body drenched in sweat, her breath caught in her throat.

  The screams were still there. The smell of burning flesh still clung to her skin. The old woman’s eyes—sunken, pleading—stared at her from the darkness, hollow sockets where her face had once been. And then the fire came, swallowing her whole.

  Aira gasped, clawing at her throat, desperate for air. It took several moments for her to register that she was awake—that the horror was not real. But it felt real. It always did.

  Her hands trembled as she ran them over her face, wiping away the cold sweat. Her stomach churned violently, and she barely made it outside before vomiting into the dirt. Acid burned her throat, and when she was done, she collapsed to her knees, chest heaving.

  She pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to escape.

  The world she had once built for entertainment was now nothing but a waking nightmare.

  She curled up, pressing her knees to her chest, trying to drown out the memories. But no matter how much she tried to push them away, they clung to her like chains, shackling her to a reality she couldn’t escape.

  She had no choice but to continue surviving in this world.

  But survival alone wasn’t enough.

  The weight of helplessness pressed against her, suffocating her. She didn’t just want to live—she wanted to change things.

  But how?

  She was nothing more than a powerless commoner, a peasant girl who belonged to the lowest rung of society. Even if she held knowledge beyond this world’s understanding, what could she possibly do?

  Life in the village had always been harsh, but as the weeks passed, it became even more unbearable.

  The harvest had been poor this year, and food was scarce. The taxes imposed by the nobility had drained what little wealth the villagers had left. Many families were forced to ration their meals, cutting portions in half, then in half again, until a meal barely amounted to more than a few bites of stale bread and thin soup.

  Aira could feel her ribs pressing against her skin, her stomach gnawing at itself with hunger. She wasn’t the only one.

  The village children, once noisy and playful despite their poverty, now sat listlessly on doorsteps, their eyes hollow and dull. Some had already begun to show signs of starvation—swollen bellies, brittle limbs, lifeless expressions.

  And yet, the nobility feasted in their castles, throwing extravagant banquets while peasants wasted away in the streets.

  The church did nothing to help.

  Aira had seen it with her own eyes—a starving child, no older than five, shivering in the cold as he reached out to the priest, his tiny hands trembling. The child had nothing to offer, but he begged for food, for warmth, for anything.

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  The priest had merely smiled. A gentle, sickening smile.

  “Your suffering is a trial of faith,” he had said, placing a hand on the boy’s head in mock blessing. And then, as the child’s mother scrambled to hand over a single copper coin—their last—Aira had seen the priest tuck it into his robes.

  His hands, adorned with golden rings, had not even hesitated.

  That night, the child died.

  Aira’s rage festered like an open wound.

  One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an eerie orange glow over the village, a group of soldiers arrived.

  They wore the sigils of a noble house—a golden lion on a crimson banner. Their armor gleamed, untouched by the dirt and grime that coated the villagers. Their presence alone was enough to strike fear into everyone’s hearts.

  The village elder approached them cautiously, bowing deeply.

  “My lords,” he said, his voice trembling, “to what do we owe this visit?”

  One of the soldiers, a man with a cruel smirk and cold, dead eyes, stepped forward. “The lord has grown tired of waiting for his dues,” he said. “The taxes are overdue.”

  Aira’s heart clenched. She had known this was coming.

  The village elder swallowed hard. “We have given everything we can, my lord. The harvest was poor this year, and—”

  “I did not ask for excuses.” The soldier’s smirk disappeared, replaced by something far more dangerous. “The lord will be compensated. If you have no coin, then we will take something else.”

  A chilling silence fell over the village. The villagers looked at one another, fear stark in their eyes. They all knew what he meant.

  The soldiers turned their gazes upon the villagers, their eyes scanning for something—or someone—of value. Aira felt bile rise in her throat as she realized what was about to happen.

  Then, they moved.

  A man was dragged from his home, his screams echoing in the night. A mother wept as her son was taken. A young girl no older than fourteen was pulled from her family’s arms, kicking and screaming, her cries for help falling on deaf ears.

  No one fought back. No one even dared to move.

  Aira wanted to rush forward, to stop them. But her mother grabbed her wrist, squeezing it tightly. When Aira turned to look at her, she saw the sheer terror in her mother’s eyes. A silent plea.

  “Stay silent.”

  Aira gritted her teeth, her nails digging into her palms so hard that she broke the skin. The metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils.

  The soldiers left as quickly as they had come, dragging their victims with them. The village was left in silence, broken only by the muffled sobs of those left behind.

  And Aira could do nothing.

  Days passed, but the weight of what had happened never lifted. It sat heavy in Aira’s chest, suffocating her.

  The world she had created was cruel beyond reason. It crushed the weak beneath its heel, and no one dared to fight against it.

  But was there even a way to fight back?

  She had no power, no strength, no allies. The nobles controlled the land. The church controlled the people’s faith. The soldiers controlled the people’s lives.

  And she was just a peasant girl.

  The thought made her stomach churn with helpless rage.

  That night, Aira left a small bundle of food outside the door of the family whose son had been taken. It wasn’t much—a half-loaf of bread and a small portion of dried fruit. It wouldn’t save them. But it was something.

  She did it in secret, moving like a shadow, her breath caught in her throat as she listened for footsteps. If she were caught, she would be punished.

  Her hands trembled as she placed the bundle on the doorstep.

  She wasn’t brave. She wasn’t strong.

  But she wasn’t heartless.

  She turned to leave, only to freeze as she spotted movement in the darkness.

  The village priest stood beneath the dim light of a torch, watching her.

  For a long moment, neither of them moved.

  Then, slowly, the priest smiled.

  And Aira knew.

  She was being watched.

  Her heart pounded violently in her chest.

  She didn’t know how. She didn’t know when. But one day…

  She would break these chains.

  One day, she would make them pay.