Devouring Hollow Hearts || ONC'24

》Chapter Two《

Grit pressed against Chyrie's cheek, soot and ash wisping apart under her lips.

A soothing chill birthed gooseflesh along her arms and she stiffened, nose pressed to the ground. Dry, crusted eyes shifted to check the hearth.

Low.

Her breath snagged.

The forge dimmed to a low rumble now, a thin band of golden light flickering softly against the gaping mouth of brick. Steam no longer wafted from the steel plating and the chill-

Chyrie was cold.

She rubbed the scraps of roughened cotton against her arms, trying and failing to warm up as she lifted herself from the ground to heat the forge. Uncontrollable shivers rocked her core and weakened her legs until she could only think of heat and where to find it.

The molten pool behind her rippled and teemed with smoke, beckoning her skin even as her mind raced.

She couldn't.

Chyrie's frozen form refused her as she stared after the magma, subtle warmth leaking into the air only to dissipate. No. She refused to go near it after the attack, her shoulder still aching with each sweeping pass she made from the forge to her bedroll.

A bedroll she seemingly missed last night due to unconsciousness.

Her mouth was dry, her lips cracking apart.

Darkness bloomed against the corners of her vision, faint stars tingling within sight. She was malnourished and dehydrated and that tool of a king hadn't brought her breakfast.

Or water.

Punishment.

For the spitting or simply to weaken her further, she didn't know. The patch of land he'd placed the tray each day before was empty, only an outline pressed into thickened ash remaining.

Chyrie's legs buckled beneath her and she lunged for the lake of bubbling sediment. Her knees connected with sharp stone, near enough the warmth rippled over her body. Only a minute. She only needed a minute to heat up, then she'd find the charcoal and coat it in sap and fireweed.

An old trick her father swore by.

She just needed to stop shivering.

Chyrie lifted her hand to the billowing cloud of smoke and called to her magic. The kernel of embers now left at her disposal, a gift from Setryr himself.

While she'd taken her prayers to Niukka, urging the goddess of hearth and heart into her corner, Chyrie still beseeched the god of earth and land to spare her land. Her people.

Only through their powers combined might they survive.

Her concentration wavered as the steam curled around each fingertip, weaving along her arms and wrapping down her torso. The blanket grew dense and cloaking, obscuring the lightweight wrap shielding her breasts from molten ore. The sleeve of fabric protecting her sternum coiled around her neck, protecting the vital organs and leaving her belly exposed. The clouds extended down to slick, breathable cotton pants, her knees braced with leather to match the flame-guards along her forearms.

Chyrie knew without calories in, her work would suffer, but manipulating the heat within the forge chamber offered her a strength shivering would not.

She rallied her strength and pulled the materials from a tiny cabinet under the counter-weight, quick to place them deep in the cast plate and stoke the embers.

The wind tunnel coaxing the pot sputtered and rattled beneath her, a sound she'd fretted since Anryth tossed her into Courmasse' mines. With no apprentice or mastersmiths, the help she'd need would only come with a well-bidden storm.