Vengeance Through Passion

That very late afternoon, Aricia found herself wiping flour from her brow, her hands aching from the relentless kneading. She had spent hours in the heat of the bakery, assisting Martha, the town's head baker, who had received an enormous order that day. Seven hundred loaves of bread had been contracted for the warriors returning from battle.

The entire village buzzed with activity. The soldiers were heroes, their return marked by both celebration and quiet mourning for the comrades they had lost.

But the living needed to be fed, and that responsibility fell squarely on Martha’s capable shoulders—and on every woman in the neighborhood recruited to help. The soldiers had come home early that morning, and since then, the bakery had been a whirlwind of flour dust, yeast, and heat.

The ovens roared non-stop. The warm glow from the fires was comforting on a winter's day, but it made the bakery stifling and exhausting. Now, as night stretched its fingers across the sky, the bakery was a mess.

Dough clung to the tables, flour coated every surface like a fine layer of snow, and the floor was a chaotic mix of grime, spilled ingredients, and wood ash.

Aricia's body ached, every muscle screaming in protest from hours of hard labor. Her arms, back, and legs felt as though they’d been through their own battle. She knew she’d likely be unable to walk properly for the next few days, but that didn’t bother her. Martha needed all the help she could get. It wasn’t every day that warriors returned home, and the entire village felt the weight of their duty to honor them, even if only through simple gestures like bread and drink.

As the hours dragged on, the women took turns kneading the dough, shaping the loaves, and sliding them into the hot ovens. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, sweet and comforting. It was the one thing that made the hard work bearable—besides the camaraderie of the women.

The bakery had become more than just a place of business for Martha. It was a sanctuary where laughter, stories, and even sorrow were shared as readily as recipes.

By the time the last batch of loaves was pulled from the ovens, it was very late at night. The women were exhausted, their hands raw and their clothes streaked with flour. The sight of seven hundred perfectly baked loaves, stacked neatly in baskets and ready to be delivered was very accomplishing.

Aricia heaved a sigh of relief, "Finally."

She smiled tiredly as she helped Martha load the baskets onto a large wooden cart. Her body was sore and her mind numb from the repetition of the work.

"I told you I was fine by myself. You look as thin as a rake."

Martha's words were not always uncalculated but this one shot a dagger through Aricia's heart. Perhaps it was just the truth that hurt

"Ouch,"

Aricia squeeze her chest as she chuckled softly.

But Martha's face remained firm, "Once you get back, I'll give you a massage. Hurry up now, it's getting late."

Aricia's smile fell flat and after a coincided nod, she left the bakery.

Just a few blocks away stood the most famous brothel in the whole of Athame. It wasn’t just any brothel; it was known for the prestigious families it accommodated and the beautiful women who prided themselves on their work.

The brothel was the number one gossip center in town. Any news that made its way through its doors spread like wildfire.

The brothel was more than just a place of indulgence; it was the town's unofficial information hub. People of all walks of life—soldiers, merchants, and even nobles—frequented the establishment, often letting slip bits of news or scandal in the comfort of its walls. The women who worked there knew this, and they wielded the power of information with an almost playful ease. News flowed through the brothel, whispered between exchanges, traded over drinks, and wrapped in flirtatious conversations, until it left the building and made its way into the streets of Athame.

The brothel may have been a place of pleasure, but it was also a place of power—one that could shape the narrative of the town with nothing more than a well-placed whisper.

Aricia had become accustomed to the owner of the brothel after a few chance encounters. Their first meeting hadn’t gone particularly well.

Madame Freya, the brothel’s owner, was a tall, elegant woman with a sharp tongue and a reputation for being fiercely protective of her girls. Over time, their relationship had softened, and they had developed a mutual respect for each other.

Now, with the bread loaded onto the cart, Aricia joined the other women in pulling it down the cobblestone streets toward the brothel.

The night air was cool, a welcome change from the heat of the bakery. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the narrow streets, and the only light came from the occasional lantern hanging outside a shop or home.

As they approached the brothel, the sound of music and laughter floated toward them. Inside, the warriors were already celebrating, their voices raised in song and merriment. The brothel was lit with warm, golden light spilling out into the street through its open windows. It was a place of luxury and comfort, with velvet curtains and gilded furniture, a stark contrast to the modest homes and businesses that surrounded it.

Madame Fraya greeted them at the door, her sharp eyes scanning the group of women as they pulled the cart up to the entrance. She was dressed in her usual fine silks, her dark hair swept up into an elegant knot. Despite the late hour, she looked as poised and in control as ever.

As the bread was unloaded and carried inside, the women worked quickly, their movements slow but steady after the long day of baking. The smell of bread mixed with the scents of perfume and incense that wafted from inside the brothel, creating a strange but not unpleasant atmosphere.

Aricia stood by the door, watching as the last of the bread was carried inside. She exhaled slowly, her shoulders slumping in relief as the weight of the day lifted ever so slightly from her.

"Done," she muttered, her voice low, almost a whisper to herself as the exhaustion crept through her bones.

"Done with what?"

A voice, soft and yet somehow sharp, erupted behind her, slipping into her ears like an unwelcome breeze, causing her to jerk with a startled gasp. She spun around, her heart racing from the unexpected intrusion.

"Creepy much, no?" Aricia retorted, still catching her breath as her eyes settled on the smirking figure of Madame Freya. The brothel’s mistress stood with her arms folded, her mischievous smile framed perfectly by her red-painted lips, which shimmered under the dim light spilling from the brothel’s windows.

“Oof,” Freya whistled, eyeing Aricia up and down with playful disapproval. “You look like a beat-up maid, a bleak comparison to this scenery.” She waved a hand theatrically around the lavish brothel and its decadent atmosphere. “Do you even brush your hair?”

Aricia’s fingers subconsciously went to her tangled locks. 'Why is everyone so interested in my hair?' she thought, rolling her eyes inwardly. It seemed like every encounter lately began with some comment about the state of her appearance.

“What a mess,” Freya continued, her lips curling into a smirk, clearly enjoying the torment she was inflicting.

Aricia narrowed her eyes, choosing not to dignify the insult with a response. Instead, she simply turned, adjusting her cloak, and muttered under her breath, “I’ve had worse days.” Her hands instinctively tightened the knot of her makeshift bandages as she tried to brush off the feeling of being scrutinized.

Madame Freya, always the embodiment of playful arrogance, licked her lips slowly, her smirk growing wider. "Like what you see?" she teased, her voice dripping with innuendo.

"I'd prefer if you spoke from a distance," she replied dryly. "I'll be off now, Martha must be waiting at the bakery."

Freya’s smirk faded slightly as she let out an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, come on, you need to loosen up sometimes, Ricia. And please, drop the honorifics. I’m only twenty-eight, four years older than you are. You make me sound like some ancient hag." She gave a mock pout before raising an eyebrow, as if suddenly struck by a memory. Her eyes widened, and with a dramatic slap to her forehead, she exclaimed, "Oh dear, I just remembered—the Four Elements are here."

Aricia frowned, her curiosity piqued by the sudden shift in Freya's tone. "Huh? What is that?" She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe as she regarded Freya with genuine intrigue.

Freya’s eyes nearly bulged in exaggerated shock. "The descendants of the Four Clans of Athame? Are you joking this moment? You don’t know about the Five Elements? Where do you live? Under a rock? I’m bamboozled—"

"Okay, wait, one question at a time." Aricia raised her hand, halting Freya's rant. But Freya, with all the dramatic flair she possessed, ignored her and instead placed both hands on Aricia’s shoulders. She turned Aricia slightly and pointed toward the sky, her eyes glinting with excitement as though she could see something Aricia couldn’t.

"Long ago, there were five elemental clans," Freya began, her voice low and almost reverent. "After the Great War, they fused into one—the Earth element."

Aricia cut in, her tone skeptical. "Everyone knows that," she said, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. But Freya continued unfazed, the momentum of her story carrying her forward.

"Now, though the provinces have consolidated, four clans still remain: Earth, Water, Air, and Fire."

At that, Aricia’s thoughts drifted, her gaze growing distant. Right… her clan had been obliterated, wiped even from history. 'Interesting,’ she mused silently. ‘So they’re called the Four Elements?’

Freya leaned closer, her eyes gleaming as she lowered her voice to a hushed tone. "First, there’s Arthur—the Water Element. He’s known for his calm and easy-going nature. A blessing to humanity, really, with his mastery over water. They say he weaves his sword like the waves, with an elegance and flow that’s as mesmerizing as it is deadly. And, of course, he’s got the looks to match, charming everyone he meets."

Aricia listened half-heartedly, nodding absently, but her mind wandered as Freya’s words continued.

"Then there’s Alexander—the Crown Prince, the Earth Element." Freya’s tone darkened. "As ruthless as the earth itself. Strong, unyielding. Like the ground, he ensures his enemies reap what they sow, and he’s not the forgiving type. They say he’s the strongest of the Four, and certainly the most feared."

Aricia’s brow furrowed slightly as Freya continued, her voice turning icy. "And then we have Livia, the Air Element. The Ice Queen herself." Freya’s eyes sparkled mischievously. "Cold and mysterious, like the winter breeze. Livia’s aura alone is enough to silence a room. They say she’s as deadly with her sword as she is with her words, each cut precise and sharp. She’s the most unpredictable of them all, and perhaps the most dangerous."

"Then fire..." She trailed off.

Aricia’s attention had been wandering, her gaze drifting out into the night. But when Freya mentioned fire, her head snapped back to attention, her focus sharpened instantly.

"And Fire?" Aricia asked, her voice betraying her sudden interest.

Freya paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. She looked around as if ensuring no one could overhear them, then leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Nobody really talks about him here," she admitted. "It’s like an unspoken rule. Even mentioning him is... frowned upon." Freya’s usually playful demeanor seemed to falter, as though she had crossed an invisible line. "Forget I said anything."

Aricia narrowed her eyes. "What? Why?"

But Freya shooed her off with a quick motion, the levity returning to her face. "You must leave now. Martha is waiting for you at the bakery. Go on."

"Okay, okay, I’m leaving," Aricia said, though her mind was still turning over the new information she had just learned.

"See you around, Ricia," Freya called after her.

"You too, Madame Freya," Aricia responded without turning back.

On her way out, Aricia paused having realized that the clothing she had used to wrap her hand were loosed. She began tying them again, tighter this time,

'And lastly, the spirit element.'