The Hand of Righteous Fire

Branded a Traitor - Sirell flees for her life and returns years later seeking justice

The Hand of Righteous Fire

Chapter One

The torches burned low in the eastern wing of Merovin Keep, their light flickering against stone like dying memories. Shadows stretched long across the marble floor, broken only by the soft, deliberate steps of a cloaked figure. Sirell moved like mist—silent, unhurried, unseen. Each step echoed faintly, not in sound, but in memory. The cold beneath her feet reminded her of her father's death. A loyal soldier—one of the few—had held a hand over her mouth to silence her screams. Then, hurrying along the dark, cold tunnel that led to safety. They had called him a traitor and called her a traitor's daughter. She would have been killed along with her father if not for those loyal soldiers. Later, they died also, and she was left alone to wander the streets tormented by grief. At first, she did not care whether she lived or died. It took time to want to live again, then all she thought of was revenge. Sirell worked first as a serving girl, then as a farm worker. Beaten and cruelly treated by those who saw her as nothing, as she wandered around from place to place, surviving by will alone. Finally, she had the good fortune to meet a kind lord who took her in and adopted her after losing his own daughter to a plague.

She had been young then, barely thirteen. Now, older and wiser, she understood the nuances of politics—the smiles that hid daggers, the oaths that meant nothing, the power of silence. Those who had framed her father would soon learn the cost of betrayal. She no longer stumbled through shadows—she walked them. The girl who once wept in tunnels had become a woman forged by hardship, sharpened by cruelty, and tempered by grace. Ashara Tirmont was the name she went by now. But beneath the silken courtesy and noble bearing, Sirell Valebryn still lived. Now she walked the halls of one of the men who once betrayed her father, whom he thought was a loyal subject. Her disguise was simple: a servant’s cloak, a smear of ash on her face and the bearing of one forgotten by the world yet of belonging in the dusty halls of Merovin keep. But beneath the humble folds, she carried a blade—forged for righteous vengeance. Ahead was the great hall; she could hear voices, laughter, and merriment within. Gritting her teeth, she stood a moment outside and then pushed the door open. Lord Merovin sat with four of his men, drinking. They all turned to look in Sirell’s direction. She stood as a mere servant girl, head bowed.

“Who let you in, wench?” Lord Merovin barked, getting to his feet.

Sirell cast her cloak aside; it fell softly to the stone floor, revealing the hidden blade “No one. I let myself in.” Her blade raised, she showed no hint of fear as she faced her hated enemy - only a cold certainty and acceptance of what was about to come. The men reached for their swords. The first lunged, she sidestepped, and slit his throat; blood sprayed in a fountain as he crumpled to the ground. The second died before raising his sword. Sirell spun, blade flashing. the third man staggered, staring down at the gash across his chest. Blood ran down his tunic and legs. He dropped to his knees and sat there, unmoving—like a stone statue carved in death. The fourth was more cautious. He parried her first thrust—but not the second. Sirell closed on him with a strike so quick he didn’t even see it coming. He fell backwards, eyes wide, staring skyward. Lifeless. Lord Merovin backed away, sword in hand, fearful now—seeing how quickly she’d killed his best men. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Justice,” Sirell spat, fury and contempt burning in her voice - for a man who had lived well after betraying and killing good men, including her father.

“I don’t know what you mean. Who are you?” Merovin pleaded again.

“I am the daughter of the man you called a traitor. The one you and your allies murdered. Remember Lord Valebryn?” She said accusingly.

Merovin shook his head in disbelief. “No, that can't be—you’re dead!”

Oh,” Sirell said, stepping close. Her eyes were level with his. “Then I suppose I must be her ghost - come to send you to hell.” She dethly knocked his sword aside and drove her blade through his heart. Merovin gasped, staggered once, stumbling over a chair, then collapsed onto the cold stone floor. His eyes glazed as death finally claimed him. Sirell stood over Merovin’s lifeless body a moment, her breathing even. She felt no sense of relief or satisfaction, just numb inside. Alert again, Sirell listened for any sound, but all was quiet and still.

Donning her cloak once more, she slipped out, closing the door behind her with care. No one paid attention to the lowly servant girl as she calmly walked away from the keep. Outside, the rain fell soft at first, then in sheets—washing away the taint of death from her. A bitter wind caught the fabric and whipped it around her legs like a living thing. The streets were dark and empty, with the occasional lamplight dimly flickering through the rain. The city slept. She walked alone, each step heavier than the last. She had taken the first step and done what needed to be done. That much was true. But as the rain traced its path down her face, she wondered. Home was ahead. Warm and inviting. She quietly entered the estate and snuck into her room unseen. Tomorrow was another day; she would once again be the demure lady, Ashara Tirmont. Sirell removed her wet clothes, drying herself off and retired to bed. She lay in bed thinking. Now was not the time for regrets that would come later. Now was the time when they would pay for what they had done— they would all pay. A reckoning was coming. These were her last thoughts before she fell into a deep and troubled sleep.