Smoke Among the Branches Part One

The Map of Fire

Lantern light wavered as Amy crouched by the oak table — Adam’s ‘family meeting’ table. Knife scars, stains, and scratched names marked the wood, records of a life she’d trusted without question.

Adam leaned forward across it, eyes shining with that feverish excitement he called vision. “We’ll take the shipments tonight. The town will thank us when we’re done. They don’t see it yet, but we’re saving them from themselves.”

The words echoed oddly in the dim room, like a sermon half-swallowed by shadows. Amy wanted to believe him, as she always had. She remembered him patching roofs in the rain, handing out bread when flour was short. She had trusted that his talk of “change” was for the good of everyone.

But then he unrolled the map. A neat grid of homes, marked with red crosses — every family who refused to pledge loyalty. He tapped a red cross and smiled, the kind of smile that matched a butcher’s. “We start here. Burn the granaries. Make them hungry enough to beg for our protection.”

Her stomach clenched, sudden and cold. This wasn’t protection. This wasn’t care. It was war against their own neighbors. His “vision” wasn’t about justice or safety. It was power.

She thought back to the nights he spoke of the elders’ corruption, of the way they hoarded resources while children went hungry. He had seemed righteous then, a man of principle, daring enough to stand against the cruelty of the council. But here, with the ink still wet on his map of destruction, she saw it differently- the elders’ greed was simply a mirror Adam had been staring into, rehearsing his own ambition.

He looked at her, waiting for her agreement, expecting it the way he always did. His confidence had always been part of his charm — how he drew people in, how he made them believe. For the first time, she didn’t nod. She saw the fire in his eyes for what it really was — not devotion to people, but hunger to command them.

The lantern crackled, and she realized her silence was dangerous. Adam's gaze narrowed, and his smile stiffened. “You’re quiet, Amy. You agree with me, don’t you?”

She forced her lips into a thin curve, a shadow of her usual easy smile. “I’m listening,” she said, careful to keep her voice steady.

Inside, her mind raced. If he suspected her doubt, she would be next on that map. She pictured her father’s house marked with one of those red crosses, the granary beside it blackened and smoking. He would do it without hesitation — sacrifice her, sacrifice anyone — to fuel his crusade.

The air felt heavier with each heartbeat. Adam turned back to his map, his voice rising with fervor as he outlined their next steps, but Amy no longer heard his words clearly. She was counting doors, exits, allies she might still trust. She was deciding when to run, when to speak, when to betray the man she had once believed was her salvation.

She slipped her hand beneath the table, brushing her fingers against the dagger at her belt. The metal was cool, grounding. She wasn’t sure if she would use it on him tonight, or if she even could. But one thing had become unshakably clear- Adam was not the man she thought he was. And if she didn’t act soon, his vision would consume everything she loved.

When Adam finished his speech, he blew out the lantern and left the room to rally the others. Amy stayed behind, staring at the map in the dark. Her eyes traced the red crosses, and her hand hovered over the parchment. She slid a thumb beneath the parchment and ripped a neat corner- her father’s farm circled in red. The scrap slid into her cloak. A warning she’d carry herself.

She slipped into the night, her boots quiet on the dirt path. The moon hung pale and watchful above as she darted through the trees toward the edge of town. She could hear Adam's voice carried on the wind, riling the others into a frenzy. They cheered him, believing they were soldiers of justice, not pawns in a war he meant to rule.

By the time she reached her father’s house, dawn was breaking. He met her at the door, confusion in his eyes as she thrust the torn parchment into his hands. “You have to leave,” she whispered. “Tonight. He’s coming for anyone who won’t bow.”

Her father’s face hardened. “Adam? That boy you trusted?”

“I don’t trust him anymore,” she said. “And neither should anyone else.”

The hours that followed blurred into frantic whispers and hurried plans. Families packed what they could carry. Allies Amy thought she’d lost revealed themselves — quiet dissenters, wary of Adam's zeal. By nightfall, a caravan of frightened but determined villagers slipped away into the forest, leaving behind the town Adam planned to claim.

Amy stayed at the rear, dagger in hand, eyes sharp for scouts Adam might send. She knew this was only the beginning. Adam would not forgive her betrayal. But she had made her choice- to stand with those who wished to live free, even if it meant fighting him.

Behind them, in the distance, smoke began to rise — the first granary set ablaze. Adam's vision was already taking form. But Amy had lit something too, something he couldn’t control- resistance.

And in the shadows of the forest, she vowed she would not let him burn the world unchecked.

The Forest Caravan

The forest swallowed them quickly. Branches reached like fingers, clawing at their wagons and cloaks, and the caravan moved in silence broken only by the shuffle of tired feet. Amy walked with her dagger drawn, scanning the undergrowth for movement. Each crack of a twig made her shoulders tighten. Adam's men could already be hunting them.

Children were the hardest to keep quiet. A baby’s cry was stifled against a mother’s shoulder. Small hands clutched dolls made of straw, left behind when food had been chosen over toys. Every family carried loss already, and the war had not even begun.

Her father walked near her, grim and steady. “You’ve chosen a dangerous path,” he said lowly. “You know what Adam will do if he catches us.”

Amy nodded. “I know. But I also know what he’ll do if we stay.”

Behind them, a boy no older than twelve whispered, “Do you think Adam will burn the church too?” His mother hushed him, but the question hung in the air like smoke.

The caravan camped in a clearing at dawn, exhausted. Some collapsed into sleep while others kept watch. Amy sat by the edge, staring back toward the town. The smoke still rose, dark and cruel. Each plume was a promise that Adam was moving fast. Too fast.

She tightened her grip on the dagger. It would not be enough. Adam had men, fire, and fury. What did she have? Refugees, frightened farmers, scattered loyalty. Resistance needed more than fear — it needed fire of its own.

And so, as the villagers slept, Amy began to plan.