Vengeance Through Passion

Two words. Just two words, and the entire room was seized in a vice of silence.

“Shut it.”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it had a weight that demanded obedience. The clatter of mugs and plates ceased, and even the loudest in the room seemed to shrink back. The tension in the air thickened, becoming something almost tangible. It was quiet enough that the metaphor of a graveyard felt like an understatement. No, this silence was suffocating, as if the very walls were holding their breath. It was the kind of stillness where the drop of a pin would not just echo but scream across miles.

Aricia felt the chill of that voice before she even processed the words. It came from behind her, brushing her ears like a cold whisper. For a moment, she wanted to turn and see who it was that could command such authority, but her limbs were frozen in place, bound by some invisible force.

"You’re too loud." The voice came again, this time sharp enough to cut through the thick silence. The crowd parted slightly, eyes darting toward the source, but no one dared to move beyond that.

The Ice Queen, Lady Livia, stood at the head of the room. Regal, untouchable—until now. She blinked, visibly taken aback by the audacity of the stranger. Her shock quickly turned to anger as she straightened her posture, every inch of her screaming disdain.

"What?" Her voice was a frigid challenge, a dare for him to repeat himself.

"With all the noise you produce, it’s not surprising that you’re hard of hearing," the voice responded, just as gelid, yet with a tinge of dry humor.

"How dare—"

"Take this garbage somewhere else. Some of us are trying to eat."

The sharpness of his retort left Lady Livia momentarily speechless. No one ever spoke to her this way, not even those with high standing in the court. And yet, this stranger did it with such nonchalance, as if he was immune to her influence, her power.

For a fleeting second, Aricia, who had watched the entire exchange with wide eyes, thought the same thing as everyone else in the room: Whoever this man was, he was surely more feared than the Ice Queen herself. But what was more alarming was the fact that he didn’t seem to care about the fact that she was about to be slaughtered.

The apprehension in the room thickened further, the silence oppressive.

Aricia stared at the ground, trying to make herself as small as possible, her thoughts swirling. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the fear. Or maybe it was frustration. She didn’t know anymore. All she wanted was to leave, to disappear from this place.

Suddenly, her body responded to the urge. She stood up, but no sooner had she gotten to her feet than her legs buckled beneath her. It was as if her limbs had betrayed her, refusing to obey her commands. She couldn’t feel them—they felt foreign, distant.

She collapsed back onto the floor with a dull thud, the sound almost swallowed by the weight of the silence. Her vision blurred as her tears began to spill over, and her hands, shaking and numb, could barely wipe them away.

Laughter erupted from the crowd, first hesitant, but then quickly growing into a cacophony of mocking voices. They pointed, they snickered. Aricia, who had already been at her lowest, was now the source of their cruel amusement.

Then, as if from nowhere, Madame Freya appeared. The air shifted as she moved swiftly across the room, her face pale and desperate. She fell to her knees at Lady Livia’s feet, her hands clasped in a gesture of supplication.

“Have mercy!” Madame Freya’s voice cracked with desperation as she poured out a stream of praises and pleas. “Please, my Lady, have mercy… She is young and foolish, but she means no harm.”

Lady Livia’s gaze flickered, considering the woman at her feet. The suspense in the room hung on her next words. Aricia, still crumpled on the floor, barely had the strength to raise her head, but she watched with bated breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

Madame Freya was highly respected figure in Athame but it was hard to tell what would happen the next moment.

Seconds dragged, the Ice Queen finally sighed, rolling her eyes in a dramatic show of disinterest. “Take this thing away. She’s not worth the trouble.”

Freya didn’t hesitate. She helped Aricia to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist to support her. Aricia could barely stand, let alone walk, her legs wobbling beneath her like they no longer belonged to her. Freya’s grip tightened, her voice a low murmur of comfort as she led her out of the room.

Outside, the cool night air felt like a relief against Aricia’s flushed skin. Her body ached, every movement a reminder of how battered she had become. The mocking laughter from inside still echoed in her ears, but out here, under the moonlit sky, it felt distant, less real.

“Can I sleep at your place tonight?” Aricia’s voice was barely a whisper, hoarse from holding back tears. “I don’t want Martha to worry upon seeing me like this.”

Freya’s steps faltered slightly, and for a brief moment, Aricia thought she saw tears welling up in the woman’s eyes. But just as quickly as the emotion appeared, it vanished, and Freya shook her head slowly.

“I would love to have a sleepover,” she said, her voice soft, “but the place is packed with drunk merchants. I’ll be up all night helping them find their way home tomorrow.”

Aricia forced a faint smile, though it hurt to even do that. “It’s alright,” she said quietly. “I’ll go through the back of the cottage. Martha’s probably asleep already, and I don’t want to trouble you. You must be busy.”

Freya nodded but said nothing more. She gave Aricia’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning and walking toward the brothel. Aricia watched her leave, her eyes never leaving Freya’s back until she disappeared into the building.

“Thank you, Madame Freya,” Aricia whispered into the night. The words were barely audible, lost to the wind.

With a sigh, Aricia turned and began making her way toward the cottage. The path felt longer than usual, her legs giving out beneath her several times, but she pushed forward. When she finally reached the tree that grew next to her window, she used the branches to haul herself up, climbing with the last of her strength.

She tumbled through the window, landing ungracefully on the floor with a dull thud. Too exhausted to even move, she stayed there, curled up on the cold wooden floor.

Sleep came in fits, and when morning arrived, she hadn’t moved from where she’d fallen. The sunlight filtering through the window seemed almost cruel, casting a harsh light on her bruised and battered body.

***

For almost a week, Aricia had confined herself to her room, feeling the heavy weight of that humiliating night pressing down on her shoulders. Each morning, her legs were strong enough to carry her outside, but she refused to leave, as if the world beyond her door no longer wanted her presence.

She wasn’t just physically healing—there was a wound much deeper, one that festered in her heart. She drowned herself with books, finding a strange comfort in the pages, though they didn’t stop the torrent of self-doubt that plagued her mind.

Her thoughts were in constant conflict. One moment she would feel the stirrings of frustration, a heated annoyance bubbling under the surface, followed by long stretches of bitter self-reflection. She knew, deep down, that she wasn’t a strong person, not physically, not emotionally. But now, she felt something even worse. She felt insignificant, weak, as if she had no more strength than a bug crushed beneath someone’s foot.

No, that wasn’t right. Ants were resilient. They carried burdens far greater than their size would suggest. They were clever in their design and organization. And here she was, feeling not only weak but dull, as if her mind had failed her just as much as her body had.

Her thoughts circled back to the night again and again, picking apart every moment, every decision that had led her to collapse in front of everyone. She regretted going to that place, yes, but it was her own helplessness, her inability to stand tall when it mattered, that stung her the most.

Days passed in a blur of self-loathing and isolated reflection. Each hour felt both too long and too short, the weight of her emotions making time itself feel distorted.

But eventually, after what felt like an eternity, something inside her shifted. Perhaps it was the oppressive loneliness, or the frustration of feeling trapped, but she finally found the strength to step outside.

"Ah, this won't do."

She sighed as she stood up and walked to the living room where Martha was brewing cinnamon tea.

"Dear, finally you crawl out from that cave. When last did you have a nice bath." Martha remarked from the kitchen.

"Now that's just an exaggerating." Aricia firmly defended.

"The last time you behaved like this was after..."

There was a long pause before she continued;

"Have some tea, I'll be by the bakery if you need me. Oh and Freya had stopped by to relay a message. She said to tell you once you were feeling better, we should have a talk when I get back."

Aricia gave a slight nod, Not needing a response anyway, Martha hurried outside, yanking a warm winter coat from the coat hanger, steps uneven as she staggered down the stairs.

After a warm cup of tea, Aricia left the cottage, draped in a simple yellow dress and beige sandals. The winter breeze bit at her cheeks, chilling the air and cutting through the quiet stillness of the evening. She clutched her coat tightly around her, its fabric barely keeping the cold at bay as she took slow steps forward.

The frost-covered ground crunched softly beneath her feet, while the wind whispered through the bare branches overhead. Each breath she took turned to mist in the crisp air, and though her body trembled from the chilling draft.

Her destination was the old bookstore she had often visited . There was something she needed to know, something that had been eating away at her ever since her engagement ceremony had been interrupted by what people were now calling The Great Chaos.Whispers about the chaos had floated around for days afterward, with many claiming that it was somehow connected to a much older war, one that had taken place centuries ago—the legendary Great War.

Back then, she had been a child, barely old enough to understand what was happening, but now, she wanted to know more. She needed to understand the past, if only to make sense of the present.

The bell above the bookstore door jingled softly as she stepped inside, the familiar scent of musty pages and old leather washing over her in a wave of nostalgia.

"Hello, Ricia. It’s good to see you again," came the familiar voice of Mr. Edward, the elderly bookstore owner. He smiled warmly at her from behind his counter, his wrinkled hands clasped in front of him. "I didn’t think you’d be interested in my books after hearing about the news of your letter."

Aricia raised an eyebrow, though she couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. "News travels fast in this town. I haven’t even been out that long."

"Indeed it does," he replied with a chuckle. "But you’re here now, and I suspect you’re after something specific. Unfortunately, I don’t think the book you’re looking for is in stock or perhaps only a copy left."

She blinked in surprise. "And how do you know which book I search for?"

Mr. Edward laughed heartily, his deep voice echoing around the quiet shop. "You're quite readable, no?"

"I suppose not?"

A knowing look appeared on his face.

"Aye, it's The Dawn Of Dusk."