Curse of the dragon flames

Hazel's POV

The aroma of sizzling peppers and warm spices wrapped around me like a familiar hug as I stood beside my mother in our tiny kitchen. Morning sunlight streamed in through the cracked window, casting gold lines across the tiled floor. I stirred the pot in slow circles, letting the steam rise and brush against my cheeks. My mother hummed softly beside me, her hands moving with the grace of someone who had spent her entire life cooking for the people she loved. "You're burning the stew, Hazel," she teased gently. "I'm not!" I shot back, sticking my tongue out. "I'm perfecting it." She laughed a bright, soft sound that always made me feel safe. Mom's laughter was the kind of sound that made even the worst days feel bearable. She wasn't rich, but she carried joy like a crown. Behind us, in the sitting room, my father sat in his faded armchair with his usual morning companion an old magazine and a cup of steaming coffee. His brows were drawn in concentration as he flipped a page, pretending not to listen to our chatter. But the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips gave him away. I was their only child. Not by choice, but by fate. Yet they never let me feel alone or lacking. Even though our home wasn't filled with wealth, it was overflowing with love. "Hazel, pass me the pepper," Mom said, reaching for the spoon. I handed it over, watching her taste the food with that familiar thoughtful expression she always wore before judging a dish. "Mmm," she hummed. "Perfect. My daughter is learning." I grinned proudly. "Of course. I have a master chef for a mother." She tapped my forehead with the spoon. "Flattery won't save you from chores." We cooked together until the entire room smelled heavenly. Soon, we were setting the table simple plates, mismatched cups, and a woven cloth Mom had made years ago. Dad joined us, placing his magazine aside. Breakfast was loud and full of laughter the way it always was. We talked about everything and nothing: the stubborn chickens behind the house, the market gossip, the weather, and my mother's constant reminders that I needed to eat more, sleep more, and marry "sometime before she got old and gray." I rolled my eyes every time, and she cackled like it was the funniest joke in the kingdom. I didn't know it would be the last time I'd hear her laugh freely. Just as my father reached for his second helping, a sharp knock echoed through the house. My mother looked up. "Hazel dear, please check who that is." "Okay, Mama." I wiped my hands on my skirt and hurried to the door, fully expecting it to be our neighbor coming to borrow sugar again. But the moment I swung the door open, my heart dropped to my stomach. Standing there were four palace guards their armor gleaming silver-blue, their expressions cold and unreadable. Their eyes scanned me from head to toe like I was prey they had already claimed. My throat tightened. Nothing good ever came from the palace especially now, with the plague sweeping through villages like a devouring fire. "W-We're looking for a girl named Hazel," one of the guards said, his voice firm and ice-sharp. "That's... me." The words crawled out of my mouth in a stutter. My fingers shook around the door handle. "Hazel, who's at the door?" my mother called out, her voice full of warmth completely unaware of the danger standing inches away from her child. I didn't know how to answer. I didn't know how to breathe. Behind me, I felt my parents' presence before I saw them. My father came to stand beside me, his body protective, towering, fierce. My mother hovered behind him, confusion twisting her face into worry. "What do you want from us?" my father demanded, his voice steady but infused with authority that made me proud and terrified at the same time. "Your daughter is needed at the palace," another guard said. His tone held no room for negotiation. "She's not going anywhere," my father snapped instantly. "Hazel, go inside." But I didn't move. I couldn't. My legs were rooted to the floor. Everything happened too fast after that. Before my father could finish his sentence, two guards lunged forward, grabbing me by the arms so hard pain shot through my shoulders. I screamed, twisting, fighting, but their grip only tightened. "Let her go!" Dad roared, drawing out the old sword he kept by the door. A sword he hadn't used in years. He swung it with the strength of a man fighting for his child. But they were trained warriors many of them. They overpowered him almost instantly. One guard kicked him to the ground while another struck him in the chest with a metal gauntlet. My father collapsed, blood spilling down his forehead as he hit the floor with a sickening thud. "Daddy!" I cried out, my voice breaking. My mother shrieked his name, trying to run to him, but another guard grabbed her by the waist, pinning her arms to her sides as she screamed and fought like a wild animal. "Please!" she cried, tears running down her cheeks. "Don't take my baby! Please!" Her screams tore into my heart. I kicked and struggled, my nails drawing blood from the guard's arm, but it didn't matter. They were stronger. Colder. Unmoved. "Hold her still," one guard ordered. "No NO!" I screamed, but it was useless. One of them pulled a syringe from his belt long, metal, and filled with a dark, swirling liquid that looked nothing like medicine. I froze. Before I could process what was happening, he jammed it into my arm with brutal force. I screamed as fire exploded under my skin. It felt like liquid lightning burning through my veins, tearing me apart from the inside. My legs buckled. My vision blurred. My mother's voice became distant, like she was screaming from underwater. "HAAAAZEL!" I reached for her But my arms felt like sandbags. My father tried to crawl toward me, blood dripping from his chin. "Let her go" he gasped. But the guards didn't even look at him. "Move," one growled, dragging me like a sack of grain. My body was weakening fast. The world tilted sideways. All I could hear were muffled sounds: Mother screaming. Father groaning in pain. Boots scraping against the dirt. The slam of a carriage door. They threw me into the backseat like I was nothing. The engine roared. My eyelids grew heavy too heavy until I could no longer hold them open. The last thing I saw was my mother's hands reaching out for me while she was held back her face twisted with pure anguish. The last thing I heard was my father's weak voice, begging them to take him instead. Then everything went black.