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 and glancing down the hallway. No one noticed a thing; the guards, lulled by routine, barely stirred. 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 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 icy cold rain stung 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 thinking. Now was not the time for regrets that would come much later. Now is the time for them to 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. She dreamed of ash and ruin. Of justice served with a blade forged in fire.

Chapter Two

Sirell wrapped her hands around the teacup, warming them. The drawing room was dim, briefly illuminated by pale winter sunlight before the sun slipped behind the clouds. Outside, a chill wind blew droplets from the tree branches. The garden was wet and dew-laden.
Her maid, Merien, stood behind her — a loyal friend since Sirell first came to the lord’s house. She knew Sirell’s true identity and had supported her through thick and thin.
Sirell looked up as she heard the front door open. Her father’s footsteps were familiar, but someone else followed him into the drawing room. “Cold out there,” he muttered, shaking off his cloak. “I must be getting old.” Then, with a proud smile, “Ah, Ashara, my dear — this is Duke Sol Taren. We’ve grown quite close since my promotion to Tax Assessor. He’s been kind enough to help me settle in.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the man behind him. As Sirell stood to greet him, the duke moved forward with no wasted motion and bowed precisely. Merien, standing just behind Sirell, leaned in and murmured, “The duke is the emperor’s hound, so they say.” Sirell bowed in turn, her expression composed, her voice clear. “Duke Taren.” This is a dangerous man. I should avoid him as much as possible in future. The duke’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than courtesy required. “Lady Ashara,” he said. “Your father speaks of you often. I see his praise was not misplaced.” His voice was mellow but cold—like ice. “You seem vaguely familiar. Haven’t we met before?” The duke asked curiously.”
“I don’t believe we have,” Sirell replied. She studied him carefully. He was Tall. Handsome. Black hair and dressed with the precision of someone who understood status - and how to utilise it. Which made Sirell all the more wary. “Ah, Ashara, the duke and I are going to have a chat in the study. Have the maid bring us some fresh tea, “her father said. “Right away, father,” She bowed again. “Duke Taren.” The two men left to go into the study. Sirell watched them go, catching a fragment of conversation—Merovin. Later, as her father was seeing the duke out, she came to the door. “Ah, I overheard you mention lord Merovin’s name earlier. Has something happened?” Sirell enquired. She immediately regretted asking, as it piqued the duke’s interest, and he gave her a quizzical glance. Damn, I should have kept my peace. Ordinarily, it would be of no interest to Ashara. I was curious and wanted to know if they suspected anyone. “Why do you ask? What do you think may have happened to lord Merovin?” The duke asked in reply. Luckily, Sirell was saved by her father’s overzealousness. “Oh, lord Merovin has been killed, they think - an assassin.” He lowered his voice. “We suspect he was involved in illegal trading. That’s what got him killed. A very nasty business.”
Sirell feigned surprise, hands to her chest. “Oh, how dreadful.” She turned to the duke, her voice soft but final. “Good day to you, Duke Taren.” He inclined his head and left without another word. After leaving the estate, Duke Taren glanced back, his expression thoughtful. The lady is more than what she appears on the surface. Where have I seen her before?”

A few days later, Duke Taren sat on the shaded veranda of a city teahouse, cup in hand, his two loyal men posted behind him. The street below bustled with people going about their daily lives. Sol Taren liked to watch from a vantage point. A familiar face caught his attention. “Isn’t that Lady Ashara and her maid?” one of his men asked. “I believe you’re right,” Sol Taren replied, seemingly indifferent. He took another sip. “Ah, she sees us. Go and invite the lady to have tea with me.” Sirell had spotted the Duke almost at the exact moment. She gestured to her maid to hurry—too late. One of the Duke’s men stepped into her path. “His lordship wishes to invite you to tea,” he said, blocking her way forward. Sirell sighed, her gaze flicking toward the veranda. She nodded once. “Lead the way,” she said, voice cool. Reluctant, but unwilling to refuse—such a slight would be discourteous. The Duke’s men stepped aside only for Sirell. Her maid made to follow, but a silent gesture from one of the guards halted her. Sirell paused, then continued alone, her expression unreadable. She crossed the veranda and took the seat opposite the Duke with unhurried grace, smoothing her skirts as if nothing were amiss.

Sol Taren inclined his head. “Lady Ashara.”

“Your Grace.”

He reached for the teapot. “May I offer you some tea?”

“Thank you,” she said, voice cool. He poured with practised ease, then gestured to the bustle below. “The city has its charms, wouldn’t you say?”

“Some,” she replied. “Though I prefer a much slower pace.”

“Then we are well matched.”

A pause.

Sol Taren refilled his own cup, watching the steam curl. “You never did answer my question,” he said, voice mild. “About Lord Merovin.” He didn’t press, but the weight of the words lingered. “I’d like an answer now.” Sirell didn’t look up. She slowly sipped tea while watching the duke closely. “And I’d like not to be interrogated while enjoying my tea” A pause. “I suppose we both have something we won’t get today.” She set her cup down with a soft click. The Duke smiled faintly. “Even silence,” he said, “is an answer.” Sirell’s lips curved, just slightly. “Then I trust you’re listening closely.” She paused, then stood and gave a curt bow. I believe we have had our tea and conversation. I’ll take my leave now, Duke.” She turned, unhurried, and the guards stepped aside once more. Sol Taren watched her go, the tea cooling in his hand. There was something in her bearing—something half-remembered. A gesture, a glance, her quiet confidence. He’d seen it before. Somewhere. But the memory wouldn’t come. Not yet!

The street was warm with late sun, the cobbles dappled in gold. Sirell stepped out first, her cloak catching the breeze. Merien followed, glancing discreetly at her mistress’s face. After a few steps, Merien spoke, voice soft but edged with concern. “If I may ask, my lady… what did you speak of with the Duke?” Sirell didn’t answer immediately. She adjusted her eyes, scanning the street ahead.

Merien hesitated, then added, “He didn’t threaten you, did he?”

Sirell gave a quiet laugh—more breath than sound. “No. Nothing so dramatic.”

Merien lowered her gaze. “Do you think the duke may have taken a liking to you?”

Sirell shrugged. “He’s taken a liking to answers. I gave him a few.” They walked on, the bustle of the market murmuring in the distance. Merien glanced sideways.

“He’s a just man. But not always a gentle one.”

“I’m not always gentle either,” Sirell said, her tone even. “But I know the difference between a casual question and an interrogation.”

Merien nodded, thoughtful. “Then I trust you will be wary, my lady.”

“I am always,” Sirell replied. “And I’m not worried.”

The scent of dried herbs and old parchment clung to the alley. Sirell stepped through the curtain of hanging beads, her cloak brushing against crates of spice and scrolls. The merchant looked up from his ledger, eyes sharp beneath a brow furrowed by years of secrets.
“Lady Ashara”, he said, voice low. “I wondered when you’d come.”

“I need a name,” she replied. “You promised me.”

He gestured to a stool, but she remained standing.

“You’re not here for tea, then.”

“No.”

The merchant sighed, reluctantly, then reached beneath the counter. A slip of parchment emerged, folded twice. He held it out, but didn’t release it. “He’s well-guarded. And worse—well-liked. You promise you won’t get me involved.”

“Nothing will come back on you, I promise.”
The merchant studied her face, then nodded with a sigh. He let go of the parchment.
“Then you’ll need more than a name. You’ll need a plan of the mansion’s layout. And call in a favour or two.”
“A layout of the mansion will do.” I’ll tend the rest by myself.”
“It’s your funeral,” the merchant said finally.