Chapter 7: A Dance of Flames
The hum roared in my veins—a song of rage, sharp and alive. Kane's slap still echoed in my ears. Mom's cry stabbed through my chest like a blade.
His scarred face twisted into a sneer as he gripped her.
"Come here, kid."
I stepped from the shadows, my hands trembling—not with fear, but with fire. A fire Dad had lit long ago.
Be strong, my female king.
"Isa, run!" Mom pleaded, her voice raw.
I didn't run.
I wouldn't.
My eyes locked onto Kane's. The hum swelled inside me, urging me forward. On the counter, the kerosene jug glinted. Beside it—matches. My fingers closed around a kitchen knife, its weight heavy and familiar from Dad's lessons.
Not a toy. A weapon.
"Let her go," I said, my voice low. No longer a child's voice.
Kane laughed, shoving Mom against the wall.
"What's a little girl gonna do?"
I moved—fast and certain, like Dad taught me.
The blade slashed across his arm. Blood splattered the greasy tiles. He roared, releasing her, his hand swinging for me.
I ducked.
The hum sharpened my focus.
I drove the knife into his side—deep. Twisted.
His scream was raw, guttural.
Mom gasped, frozen—but she didn't stop me. She saw it, too. The beast inside me, born in blood.
Kane stumbled, clutching his wound, face pale with shock.
"You little—"
I didn't let him finish. I grabbed the kerosene jug and threw it. The liquid soaked his shirt, his scars gleaming wet.
He lunged again.
Too late.
I struck a match. The tiny flame danced in my fingers—wild, hungry.
"No!" he screamed.
I threw it.
Flames erupted, swallowing him in seconds. His screams tore through the kitchen, shrill and desperate. The smell of burning flesh filled the air—sickening, but somehow right.
I didn't flinch.
I watched.
Mom grabbed my arm. "Isa—we have to go."
I nodded. The hum still surged in my chest. I struck another match and tossed it on the kerosene-soaked counter. The kitchen roared to life behind us.
We ran.
Through the dark hallway, our footsteps fast and quiet. Behind us, chaos bloomed. Shouts rang out. The masked man's voice cut through the noise—cold and sharp.
"Find them! Put it out!"
We reached the stairwell and climbed.
One flight. Two.
My legs burned, the hum pulsing like a second heartbeat.
The roof door loomed ahead.
Mom pushed it open. Night air hit us—cool, clean, real. The chopper waited, black against the sky, blades still.
Mom climbed into the pilot's seat, hands trembling. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.
"You can," I said. "Dad showed me. I remember."
I slid into the co-pilot seat, eyes scanning the controls, mind racing with everything Dad ever taught me.
Levers. Pedals. Sequence.
Below us, more shouting. Footsteps.
Then his voice—closer now.
"They're on the roof!"
"Fly," I told Mom. "Now."
The blades began to turn. The hum inside me matched their rhythm—fierce and alive.
We weren't safe.
Not yet.
But we were finally moving.
And I knew one thing for certain:
This fight was just beginning.