Fire in the Soul

Chapter 1

Vesta had always been more of a morning person. If she wasn't, she wouldn't be reading to take her mind off of things.

There had been many dark, chilly nights when she was younger where the girl had laid on her bed of linens wide awake and stiff with worry. Raiders or desert bandits could arrive any moment. After all, danger was known to show itself in the dark, when everyone was blind to their surroundings.

It was one of those nights. Vesta swallowed nervously and shifted on her thin blankets, turning away from the shadowy canvas wall of the tent she shared with her father. He was perfectly fine, snoring softly beside her. The girl laid her head on her hands and watched his still features. Night was the only time his face looked this peaceful. When he woke up, his worry lines and harsh gaze would be back, just like every day.

Vesta supposed it was because of his position as leader of their nomadic desert tribe. He was proud to lead them, but the weight of the responsibility burdened him heavily.

A small smile tugged the edges of his cracked lips. Vesta smiled back wistfully, as it was for her. Deep down, though, she knew it wasn't. There was only one person who could've ever made him smile, even in the slightest, and that was her mother, Arya, who had loved them both as if they were the only important things on this earth. She was gone now. Vesta's heart ached for her, and for her love, which she hadn't felt since she was young.

She squeezed her eyes shut, burying the pain she'd worked so hard to keep down. Not now, she pleaded with herself, not on top of her fear. Her thoughts ignored her. The memories kept surfacing, pulsing one after another, some just pictures, and some she recalled so vividly they replayed in her mind, and scenes moved and spoke. Each contained a special memory of her mother, the most beautiful woman Vesta had ever seen.

Her mother's hearty laugh echoed, as if it was far away, or perhaps underwater. Vesta closed her eyes tighter as she envisioned her flowing crimson locks, a common color among the eastern tribes. They never exactly straight, but instead flowed like a wildfire that refused to be tamed. They had hung to her mother's waist. That was one of the many things the girl wished she had inherited from her, instead of the rich dark curls she was given from her father.

Vesta shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts and carefully climbed to her knees, kneeling on her bed mat and blankets. She peered through the darkness at her father, checking to see if he was still asleep. He remained quiet. She let out a quiet sigh of relief and stood up, making her way through their large caravan tent and to the door flap, which lightly fluttered in the breeze. She ignored her pounding pulse and slipped through the doorway.

The moon was full, and it's silvery glow washed over the golden sands. Vesta grabbed her wrist and rubbed the unusual scar on the underside, a nervous habit she'd come to adapt to. The night was cold, and Vesta sucked in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the chill. She welcomed it, a stark contrast from the sweltering heat of the desert under the flaming sun.

Slowly, she felt her racing heartbeat ease. The ever-present warmth on her skin drifted away into the night, but the faint rush of fear still lingered, whispering in the back of her mind. Diluted, but still present.

Sand shifted behind her. Then, a footstep. Vesta went rigid. A light breeze tickled the hairs on her neck, dancing through her dark locks and out into the dark. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Her pounding heart raged, seeming to echo into the silent night. She could sense heat moving behind the tents. The warmth softly drifted across her skin. There was around six people back there, from what she could roughly tell.

Who was back there, and what would they do? Invaders would kill her. Bandits would kill her. Warriors or scouts from a neighboring enemy tribe would kill her. There wasn't very many options.

Vesta ducked behind a different tent, making sure to remain soft on her feet. She kneeled, watching her father's tent nervously. If those intruders were any of the groups she suspected, they wouldn't hesitate to slaughter them, and everyone in the tribe. She needed to alert him, but how could she enter the tent without making herself known to whoever was behind it?

Her gaze flicked to the canvas flap over the entrance and the side of the structure. She'd have to run, no matter the risks. The invaders were slowly moving closer to the door. It was now or never.

Vesta lunged forward, her feet hitting the sand rhythmically as she sprinted towards the tent. The canvas walls grew closer and closer, but so did the enemy. Vesta bit back her fear and leapt for the door as fast as she could. They were already too close for comfort. Stealth was no longer an option.

As soon as her fingers brushed the flap, she pushed it back and stumbled in. Her heart leapt into her throat, and for a second she forgot how to breathe. Standing over her father was a huge man, and in his hand was a sword that glittered dangerously in the dark, raised, and prepared for the killing blow.

"No!" She cried out in desperation, stepping closer to the attacker. At the piercing cry, her fathers eyes flashed open, and he jerked up, shock written in his expression. His gaze flicked to Vesta, and then to the man, who was staring darkly at her. She took a step back, suddenly aware of the danger she had put herself in.

"Vesta, behind you-" Her father warned, barely dodging an incoming blade.

Cold metal touched her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. Rancid breath filled her senses, and a slithery voice whispered in her ear. "Stay still, and I'll consider not killing you right here, right now."