One HP extra

—Kyra—

She had stopped counting days weeks ago.

There was no point anymore.

Time passed differently when you lived in a cage.

At first, she had screamed. She had bitten. She had lashed out with tooth and claw. Her captors laughed at her futile resistance—until the day she tore a man's cheek open. They beat her until her breath came in wheezes, and her right ear no longer stood up straight.

Now?

She stared at the floor.

Foxkin. That's what they called her.

A rarity. A delicacy. A "beastwoman" that nobles could dress up, break, and toss aside once the novelty wore off. They'd have cut off her tails already if they weren't valuable.

Her hands ached. Her stomach growled.

She had eaten nothing but cold gruel for days.

There were others—humans, mostly. Quiet. Broken. Some whispered names to each other in the dark, like saying them aloud might keep them alive.

But not Kyra.

She stopped whispering the day they took her family.

Before the cage, there was a house.

A small, moss-roofed cottage nestled on the edge of Wilden Hollow, surrounded by berry trees and clinking wind-chimes that her father had hung to ward off spirits. It was a house full of simple magic and quiet love.

Her mother, Elira, had a voice like warmth itself. Every night she would hum ancient lullabies passed down through the foxkin bloodline—songs that spoke of hidden flames and forest spirits. Her father, Tharn, was a carver who shaped talismans from bone and bark, muttering blessings under his breath as he worked. Her older brother, Fen, was bold and clumsy, chasing squirrels with a toy sword he'd made himself and declaring that one day he'd be a knight who defended Kyra from all monsters.

Kyra had fire in her.

She was no meek child. She studied the old arts eagerly—the quiet hand movements, the breathwork, the inner fire. Her mother said she was born with a spark most foxkin lacked in this age. That one day, she might awaken something their ancestors had long forgotten.

But they never had time.

Not before the slavers came.

That morning, Kyra had gone out with her brother to pick herbs. It was sunny. The kind of sun that filtered through the trees like strands of gold. She and Fen laughed, chased dragonflies, and argued about whether roasted apples were better with or without honey.

She had told him she wanted to learn fire magic. Real fire. He had said he'd protect her even if she didn't need it.

"I'm going to head back early, I told dad I would help him with work today"

She pouted and whispered "come back when your done, promise?"

"Promise"

They both smiled warmly as he headed of into the distance.

…

A few hours seemed to have passed before she got up and headed back home, stomping the whole way.

"Idiot, stupid, liar"

But when she returned, it was already too late.

Smoke clawed at the sky.

The talismans her father made were shattered on the ground, snapped like brittle twigs. The wind-chimes no longer sang.

Then she heard it—her mother's voice. Screaming. No words. Just raw, animal grief.

And there—on wooden posts in front of their home—her father and brother hung by ropes, heads lowered, their bodies burned.

"FATHER! BROTHER!"

She screamed, throat raw, running to them.

Too late.

Inside, through the smoke, she found her mother, half-conscious on the floor. Her dress was torn. Her eyes didn't blink. Her lips mumbled nonsense—a name, maybe, or a spell—but no light remained.

Kyra dropped to her knees and shook her, sobbing, begging her to get up.

That's when the door burst open.

Slavers, five of them, reeking of sweat and wine. One laughed when he saw her. "Villagers said there was a runt left. Didn't expect her to come walking into our arms."

They looked at her like wolves circling meat.

One moved forward, licking his teeth.

"Careful," the largest one growled. "If she's pure, she's worth triple."

Kyra tried to cast something—anything. She remembered a talisman her mother made her wear around her neck, half-burned now. She whispered the old words.

But she wasn't ready.

One of them struck her across the neck with the hilt of a sword.

The last thing she saw was her mother's still face as the slavers dragged her away.

She screamed herself hoarse that day.

When she woke, she was in a cage, her limbs bound. Blood had dried behind her ear.

They laughed.

"She bit me," one of them said, holding up a bandaged hand. "Took a chunk out."

"She's got spirit," another replied. "They'll pay double for that."

She bit another man's finger clean off before the first week ended.

He made sure she paid.

They never kept her in one place long. Each stop was temporary—an alley, a backroom, a caravan. Her chains changed, but the cage remained.

They fed her barely enough to live. Enough to keep her "presentable."

They called her "prime." Unbroken. Untouched. Waiting for the highest bidder.

She was passed from group to group. From cruel hands to crueler eyes.

But she remembered every face.

She imagined how they would look on fire.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother muttering to herself. Her brother's hand slipping from hers. Her father's talismans snapping under boot.

She thought of escape constantly.

And every time she didn't move, didn't scream, didn't cry—it wasn't because she'd given up.

It was because she was waiting.

For a chance.

For a moment.

That night, they stopped again—another forest trail, another drunken round of laughter by firelight.

The guards bickered. One boasted about how much her ears would sell for once trimmed and bleached.

She curled into herself, teeth gritted.

She would remember his voice, too.

Then—

A snap.

Not from a whip.

Wood. Steel. A shout.

Kyra's ears twitched.

Another cry. Metal hitting something soft. Someone shouted in panic. Someone else screamed in agony.

Firelight wavered.

She opened her eyes.

The camp had shifted.

Men were shouting.

Weapons were drawn.

And over it all—

Hope.

Hope, cruel and bright and terrifying.

She leaned forward against her chains.

Breath shallow. Muscles tensed.

And waited.