Hero Of Broken History

Seren's POV

The smoke should have been her first warning.

The Lyselle estate sat seventeen miles outside the capital, a modest manor by noble standards but home for three generations. Seren had made this journey countless times—through the iron gates, past the old oak her grandfather planted, up the gravel drive lined with mother's roses.

But roses didn't bloom black smoke.

"Stop the carriage."

The driver, old Thomas who'd served the family for thirty years, pulled the reins. "Miss Seren, perhaps we should—"

"Stay here."

She stepped down, her traveling dress catching on the door in her haste. The smell hit her immediately—burning wood, yes, but something else. Something organic. Something that made her stomach turn.

The gates stood open. Wrong. They were never open, not without guards, not without—

The guardhouse was empty. A dark stain spread across the threshold.

No. No no no.

She ran. Proprieties be damned, she hiked up her skirts and ran toward the smoke, toward home, toward family that had to be alive because anything else was impossible.

The manor's east wing was gone. Not damaged, not burning—gone. Reduced to blackened timber and memories. The rest of the structure stood like a wounded animal, smoke pouring from broken windows.

"Mother! Father!"

Her voice echoed across grounds that should have been busy with servants, gardeners, the usual rhythm of estate life. Instead, silence answered. Silence and the crackle of dying flames.

She found the first body near the servants' entrance. Marie, who'd taught her to braid her hair. The woman lay face down, her back marked with the distinctive burns of holy fire—the Church's signature.

The Church did this.

"Miss Lyselle."

She spun. A Church Knight stood twenty feet away, his white cloak pristine despite the ash falling like snow around them. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of face that apologized even when delivering death sentences.

"Sir Knight." Her voice came out steady. Years of academic presentations had taught her to hide panic. "What happened here?"

"Heresy, Miss Lyselle. Your family was found harboring blasphemous materials. Forbidden texts regarding the Demon War." He took a step forward. "I'm afraid you'll need to come with us for questioning."

"Where is my family?"

"Those who resisted have been purified. Those who cooperated are being questioned at the Cathedral." Another step. "Please don't make this difficult. You've done nothing wrong, as far as we know."

As far as we know.

She thought of the encrypted letters in her travel bag. The notes from Avian. The copies she'd made of restricted texts. Evidence of her entire investigation sitting in the carriage fifty yards away.

"Of course," she said, taking a small step backward. "Let me just gather myself. This is... quite a shock."

"Understandably. But we should leave quickly. The purification isn't complete."

Purification. They burned my home and call it purification.

Her hand found the hidden pocket in her dress. Three years of paranoid preparation, of thinking she was silly for keeping emergency supplies. The scroll crinkled under her fingers—a flash spell she'd bought from a disreputable mage who promised it would "make the sun jealous."

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"Sir Knight," she said, pulling the scroll free. "I have just one question."

He tensed but didn't draw his sword. Still trying to be gentle with the traumatized noble girl. "Yes?"

"Did my parents scream?"

His expression faltered. "Miss Lyselle—"

She tore the scroll.

The world went white.

The spell detonated with the force of a thousand candles compressed into a single instant. She heard the knight scream, heard armor clatter as he stumbled blind.

But his training saved him. Even blinded, his hand shot out, catching her collar as she tried to run. The fabric pulled tight against her throat.

"Not so fast—"

She twisted violently, hearing fabric tear. The collar ripped away in his grip, leaving her dress ruined but her body free. She sprinted blind, eyes still seeing spots, navigating by memory alone.

"THOMAS! DRIVE! NOW!"

Bless him, he didn't question. The carriage was moving before she fully landed inside, accelerating with the desperation of a man who'd seen the smoke and drawn conclusions.

"The border road!" she gasped. "Not the main highway!"

"Yes, miss!"

Behind them, shouts arose. The thunder of hooves. The Church would have riders, faster than a carriage, trained for pursuit.

"Miss, they're gaining!"

She looked back. Three Knights, white cloaks streaming, blessed horses eating ground with every stride. At this rate, maybe two minutes before they caught up.

Think. THINK.

"The Narrow Bridge! Head for the Narrow Bridge!"

"Miss, that bridge can barely hold a carriage—"

"Exactly!"

Thomas, gods bless him, understood. He whipped the horses harder, the carriage careening around the turn toward the old bridge—a wooden relic from her grandfather's time, barely maintained, just wide enough for a single carriage.

They hit the bridge at full speed. Wood groaned. Planks cracked. But it held.

The Knights followed, confident in their blessed mounts.

The bridge disagreed.

Three armored knights and three horses were considerably heavier than one carriage. The sound of splintering wood mixed with startled shouts. Seren looked back to see two Knights and their mounts falling into the ravine below. The third had pulled up just in time, trapped on the far side.

"Don't stop," she told Thomas, though he showed no sign of slowing. "Head for the capital. The Merchant Quarter."

"Your family's townhouse—"

"Will be watched. I know somewhere else."

They rode in silence for an hour, taking back roads, doubling back twice. Finally, Seren directed him to a shabby building squeezed between a tannery and a brewery. The sign read "Ravencrest Publishing - We Print Anything."

"Miss, this is—"

"Where I need to be. Thomas..." She pressed her coin purse into his hands. "Take the carriage. Sell it. Disappear. Find your daughter in the Eastern Provinces. Forget you ever knew the Lyselle family."

"Miss Seren—"

"They're all dead, Thomas. Or they will be soon." Her voice didn't break. She wouldn't let it. "The Church doesn't leave loose ends. Go. Now."

He looked at her for a long moment, this girl he'd driven to her first day of Academy, to her scholarly presentations, to a home that no longer existed.

"Gods protect you, miss."

"The gods are the problem, Thomas."

She watched him drive away, then knocked on the publishing house door. Three short, two long, one short—a pattern she'd memorized but never used.

The door opened. Benedict Ravencrest stood there, ink-stained and suspicious. They'd met at academic conferences, bonded over drinks and shared hatred of censorship. He'd drunk-promised once that if she ever needed anything printed, no questions asked, she could count on him.

"Seren? What—" He saw her face, her ash-stained dress, her torn collar, the way her hands shook. "Inside. Now."

He locked the door behind her, threw three bolts she hadn't noticed before.

"The Church?" he asked.

She nodded.

"What do you need?"

"I need something printed. Distributed. Everywhere."

"That's dangerous. The Church monitors—"

"My family is dead, Benedict." The words came out flat. "They burned my estate. Killed servants who'd done nothing but dust books. They call it purification."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "What do you need printed?"

She pulled out her notes, the ones she'd been carrying to show her father. Evidence of the Church's five-hundred-year lie.

"This. All of it. But not under my name."

"What should I call you?"

She thought of her mother, who'd loved truth more than comfort. Her father, who'd supported her research despite the danger. The servants who'd died for the crime of proximity.

"Truth's Witness."

Benedict read the first page. His eyes widened. "Seren, this is—"

"The truth."

"This will start a war."

"The Church started it. I'm just making sure everyone knows."

He looked at her—really looked at her. This soft academic who'd spent her life in libraries, now hard as steel and twice as sharp.

"I know people," he said finally. "Not just here. Publishing houses in seven cities. Academic presses that chafe under Church censorship. Merchant guilds who'd love to embarrass the nobility." He paused. "It won't be safe. Once this spreads, they'll hunt the source."

"They're already hunting me."

"Then we'd better make it worth it." He moved to his desk, started writing. "First edition goes out tomorrow morning. Every major city, every Academy, every place the powerful gather to lie to each other. They want to silence truth? We'll make it so loud the dead will hear."

She sat in his cramped office, watching him work, and let herself feel it for just a moment. The loss. The rage. The terrible freedom of having nothing left to lose.

Tomorrow, the first article would drop. Tomorrow, five centuries of lies would begin to crumble.

Tonight, she was just a girl whose world had burned, planning to return the favor.

I'm sorry, Avian, she thought. I know you need time to find your answers. But the Church took my time away. Now everyone gets the truth whether they're ready or not.

Outside, the capital slept peacefully, unaware that war had already been declared.

In ink and truth and blood.