Vengeance Through Passion

Everyone has a task they are assigned to in their lifetime. For a long time, I never believed in that... but a question was thrown into my life and now;

I begin my journey to find.

Answers...

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At the break of dawn, the world stirred in quiet harmony. The soft chirping of birds blended with the rustling of fragile branches, their brittle frames dancing under a cold, biting breeze. The chill was enough to pierce bone, yet a lone figure remained unmoved. A young woman stood tall, her dark and scarlet curls a sharp contrast to the pale sky. The wind played with them, sending the strands cascading like waves, threatening to steal the brilliance of the dim clouds. She stood firm, her posture resolute, arms crossed behind her back in an almost regal stance. Her eyes, sharp as an arrow, pierced through the lingering mist, glowing.

Today, she would succeed. Whether her body was ready or not, she had sworn to endure the longest this time. She had been standing since sundown—now, with the sunrise, her test had yet to break her. Sweat mingled with the morning dew, each drop rolling down her glowing skin, shimmering in the pale light.

What had started out as regular lessons as a child had become more like a mission.

Like other people she was going to learn to stand for longer periods, as painful and resistant her legs were to be.

Her breathing slowed, steadying with each controlled exhale through barely parted lips. Her heart raced beneath her chest, but a faint smile curled on her lips. She was satisfied, if only for a fleeting moment.

"Aricia!"

The name, a distant memory, sliced through the air. As if it carried an inevitable curse, her knees buckled instantly.

The strength she had fought so hard to maintain crumbled beneath her, and she collapsed to the ground, falling like a tower of stones reduced to rubble.

"Oh dear..."

A voice full of concern floated across the yard. From the shadows of a small cottage, a woman emerged. With graying hair and kind, timeworn eyes, she hurried forward, the basket of freshly baked bread slipping from her grasp as she rushed to Aricia’s side.

It had been years since she heard that name but it somewhat felt like lifetimes. Once hers, felt foreign now—buried beneath layers of time and grief.

The Kingdom of Athame had united its five elemental clans—Fire, Earth, Water, Air, and Spirit—under one Empire after the Great War that had nearly extinguished humanity itself. Peace had come, but it was a fragile and false peace. Beneath the surface of unity, unrest simmered, threatening to erupt once more, a threat that loomed constantly over Aricia’s existence.

"Ricia, Milady."

"Martha."

Aricia's voice was soft but steady as she caught the concerned look in Martha’s eyes, the woman kneeling beside her, gently probing for injuries.

"I'm fine, It's fine." she insisted, her voice firmer. "You don’t have to correct yourself. It's not like anyone here remembers who I was back when I was still... Aricia."

She had cast aside that name and had taken on the name her mother had once whispered lovingly, Ricia.

A faint smile touched her lips, but it did little to lift the heavy atmosphere.

"Is it already time for breakfast?" Aricia muttered, casting a glance at the ruined basket of bread. "I haven't eaten in days, but it seems I've wasted this batch, how foolish of me."

Martha frowned, her brows knitting together in concern. "You're pushing yourself too hard, child. The average man couldn’t stand for hours like this, let alone through the night."

Aricia rose slowly, her legs still trembling from the exertion. Dusting off her gown, she moved toward the cottage as she slowly gathered her strength. At the door, she paused, turning to Martha with a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Thankfully, nothing about me has ever been average."

***

The four-wheeled cart screeched to a violent halt, the horses rearing and neighing in protest as the reins tugged them back sharply. Dust swirled around the carriage wheels, and the driver let out a strained, nervous laugh, his eyes darting towards his passengers.

"Uhh... seems like we'll be waiting here for a bit." His voice wavered, betraying his unease. "The roads in this part of town... well, they're less roads and more like patches of unpaved wilderness. Unless you’re up for a detour, we might have to enjoy the scenery until we can get to the downtown station."

His awkward gaze shifted towards the pair seated inside the carriage. The first, a young girl, swung her legs idly in the open air, her hands hanging loosely at her sides as if the world beyond the carriage held no interest.

She was remarkably calm, her expression vacant, as though the chaos of their sudden stop hadn't even registered.

The latter, however, sat lost in thought, his intense gray eyes fixed ahead, piercing through the thickening afternoon haze. His silver hair shimmered in the dim light, hanging in loose, tattered waves around his shoulders. After a moment, he broke the silence.

"I'll walk." His voice was smooth, but nonetheless, hoarse. Without a glance back, he stepped out of the carriage, his hair catching the fading sunlight as it settled against his back. He paused briefly, surveying the village that stretched out before him.

The scene was unsettling. Cottages were scattered along the uneven, rocky road, their rooftops leaning into one another like old companions. Narrow pathways threaded between them, and makeshift stalls crowded the corners, merchants yelling over one another, vying for attention.

Despite the obvious poverty, the outskirts had their own strange charm.

"Looks like you'll be staying with me, Lady Gwendolyn," the driver muttered to the young girl, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "At least until we can get some better-trained horses. I knew the outskirts were a little underdeveloped, but this..." He gestured towards the rough road. "This is horrendous."

His bitterness lingered in the air, but the young girl didn’t seem to hear him. Her focus had shifted to the hem of her dress, her fingers running over the fabric as though it were the most important thing in the world, while the man with silver hair disappeared into the crowd.

Meanwhile, across town, Aricia stood by her window, observing the bustle in the distance.

She was new to town. To be exact, it was the fourth time they had moved and she wasn't sure it would be the last

It was quite peaceful here. The villagers were humble, living simple lives. Though disputes arose from time to time over petty matters, the air remained thick with camaraderie.

With a sigh, she hastily tied her hair back, letting the shorter strands fall free around her face. Without bothering to brush it, she secured the rest into a loose band at her nape, the front slipping across her cheek like a stray breeze. She didn’t care about appearances today; she had too much to do.

She threw on a straight lilac dress, its soft fabric skimming her ankles as she adjusted it quickly, and lastly her familiar green gloves, then headed out the door.

The market would close soon, and she had no time to waste. The streets were crowded, a flowing stream of villagers moving to and fro, their voices mingling with the scent of fresh bread and herbs.

Aricia wove through them with practised ease, her heart racing as she tried to make her way to the stalls before they shut down for the evening.

"There it is," Aricia murmured to herself, a wave of relief washing over her.

She waved urgently at the stall owner, her hand slicing through the air as if to command his attention not to close his stall. Without wasting a moment, she hurried toward the stall, weaving through the thinning crowd.

"Oh, Ricia dear," the stall owner called out, his deep voice laced with amusement as she approached. "In a rush so late in the afternoon? And look at you—seems like you forgot to brush your hair."

Aricia's brows furrowed.

"Still," the man continued, undeterred, "you look as radiant as ever. Your hair—it's even more scarlet than it used to be. Soon enough, there won't be a trace of black left in it."

Ignoring his commentary, Aricia turned her attention to the items laid out before her. She began picking out the baking ingredients she needed with deliberate care, her fingers gliding over the produce as she mentally checked off her list.

"It’s rude, you know, to leave a man hanging without so much as a word," the stall owner remarked, his bearded face twisting into a playful frown. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, with a weathered face that betrayed years of hard work.

Aricia looked up, her voice crisp. "How much for these?"

The man grunted, gathering the ingredients she’d selected and wrapping them in brown paper. "Fifty waters," he said.

She handed him the coins, but before she could turn to leave, she paused. "Oh, and Mr. Barnaby, as obvious as it might sound, I didn’t ask for your opinion on my looks." Her voice dripped with quiet sarcasm. "Have a pleasant day."

Before she could make her exit, something—or rather, someone—crashed into her, knocking her to the ground. The sudden impact sent a shock through her system, and she gasped as she hit the dirt, her glove slipping off her left hand in the chaos.

Dazed, she glanced up just in time to see a figure draped with a fox fur coat dart away, slipping something—was it jewels?—into her discarded glove. Aricia's heart raced as she processed what had just happened. Panic flooded her senses, her breath quickening as her eyes frantically searched the crowded street for any sign of the thief.

She stumbled to her feet, ignoring the stares from passersby, and broke into a run, her mind racing.

The crowd seemed thicker now, like an ocean of bodies preventing her from catching even a glimpse of the man who had stolen her glove—and whatever he had hidden inside it.

"Stop!" she shouted, her voice barely rising above the noise of the market. But the thief was already lost in the sea of people, vanishing into the distance like a shadow in the fading light.

Aricia pushed through the throng, her pulse pounding in her ears as she searched desperately for the mysterious figure, the glove thief.

The silver-haired man had already made his way halfway through the buzzing village, weaving through the throngs of people, his steps unhurried yet calculated.

He was searching for something—something elusive—but after scouring what felt like a thousand stores, none had what he sought.

It was already atrocious enough that he stood among such rabble, the very air around them thick with the stench of poverty and grime. Their crude stares only served to deepen his disdain, their eyes lingering on him as if they had never seen someone of his stature before. The audacity they had to gawk at him, as though they were entitled to even a glimpse of his presence, made his blood simmer with annoyance.

His fine, tailored clothing—crafted from rich fabrics that gleamed even in the dull light—stood out in sharp contrast to the rags and worn leathers they wore. Every thread, every stitch, spoke of wealth, and it had caught their attention like vultures to carrion.

"Petty miscreants," he hissed under his breath, his voice dripping with contempt.

Later, as he stood outside a modest shop, his eyes lazily drifted over a jade locket dangling from his fingertips. The sunlight caught its polished surface, making it gleam, but his mind was elsewhere. His gaze was distant, calculating, as if lost in thought while his fingers toyed with the intricate chain.

Then, without warning, something soft and heavy was thrust over his shoulder. His senses prickled. He felt the unmistakable texture of fur brushing against his neck.

Bewildered, his eyes narrowed as they traced the coat—lined with foxfur, its luxurious weight almost an affront to him. Before he could react, a figure shot past him, moving too quickly for him to register more than a fleeting glimpse.

For a brief second, the man instinctively reached out, fingers twitching as if to grab the stranger, but stopped himself as if it was too much of a hassle.

Instead, he pocketed the jade locket, having paid for it moments before. The locket clinked against the coins as it rested in his pocket.

He lifted the foxfur coat with the very tips of his fingers, holding it at arm’s length, an expression of mild disgust curling his lips.

“What a crazy town,” he wheezed angrily, in hushed murmurs.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a sharp voice rang out behind him.

“It’s about to get crazier, you filthy glove thief!”

The man barely had time to turn before something heavy collided with the back of his head. A dull thud reverberated through his skull as groceries tumbled to the ground, scattering across the dusty road like fallen leaves.

He spun on his heel, his silver hair fanning out for a moment before settling against his shoulders. And then he saw her. A frail, scrimpy little thing stood before him, her chest heaving with barely-contained fury. Her emerald eyes blazed, locking onto his with a fierce intensity, as if daring him to explain himself.