“Of course,” I replied, mustering a faint smile as I reached for the sack.The simple task, once effortless, now strained muscles already taxed by fatigue.I felt every movement in my back, legs, and deep within—the weight of new life growing heavier by the day.
We sat together, slicing and dicing, the rhythmic thud of our knives mingling with the hiss of the river.The fire crackled, casting flickering light across Mary’s face, illuminating lines of worry and determination etched deep by hardship.Beside us, Jules’ voice rumbled in low conversation with Widow York, their silhouettes outlined against the encroaching dusk—worn, weathered figures in a land that asked everything and gave nothing freely.
Every evening felt the same—survival was woven into each breath, each bite, each silence.But in that shared labor, in the scent of woodsmoke and the rhythmic motion of blade through the potato, there was a sliver of something else.
Not comfort.Not yet.But perhaps… the beginning of it.
“Your belly is too big for someone who’s only four months along,” Mary observed, her voice soft with wonder, a fragile lightness amid the wilderness that pressed in around us.“It’s marvelous.”
I placed a hand over the curve of my abdomen, feeling the stirrings of life within—swift, undeniable, growing stronger by the day.“It’s so huge,” I murmured, half in awe, half in disbelief.
“Maybe it’s a big baby,” Mary mused, dropping diced potatoes into the bubbling pot.“Or… perhaps twins.”
“Twins?”My voice caught, a thread of unease winding around the word.“No, I don’t have twins in my family.”
Mary shrugged, smiling as if to defy the weight of the world.“You never know with these things.Life surprises us.”
Life.Surprises.Some beautiful.Others cruel.
I watched the sun dip low, casting molten gold across the restless river and thought of Amir—stoic, untouchable Amir.His absence was a weight I carried with every step, every breath.He was gone, yet he lingered in every memory, every hope I dared to cradle.
But now, there was nothing to do but press forward—one stroke, one breath at a time—and pray that when dawn broke, it would bring more than silence, more than guilt.Maybe peace.Or maybe it was just another day to survive.
The fire had dwindled to embers when the night erupted into chaos.
It began with a single, piercing cry—a guttural sound that shattered the stillness—a warning, a promise of blood.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart slamming against my ribs, and my breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a scream.Too many shadows spilled across the riverbank too fast.Dark figures materialized from the trees, their movements swift and merciless.
The air split with a terrifying sound—a tomahawk whistling past us, embedding itself with a sickening thud into the tree behind Mary.
We were under attack.
ChapterTwenty-Four
ELIZABETH
“Indians!”Jules’ voice was a guttural bark, ripping through the night like a shot.Fear and urgency bled into every syllable as he lunged for his rifle, propped carelessly against a nearby tree.
But he was too late.
A swift and silent warrior exploded from the darkness—a specter of death cloaked in moonlight.The silver glint of his tomahawk flashed once before it connected with Jules’ skull in a sickening crack.
He crumpled like a rag doll, no sound escaping his lips.Blood gushed beneath his head, staining the earth, while his rifle slipped from lifeless fingers into the hands of the attacker.
Mary’s scream tore through the chaos, high and shrill.My heart pounded, erratic and painful, threatening to rip from my chest.Fear seized me—paralyzing, suffocating—but the world offered no time for weakness—only flight.
“Run for the woods!”Widow York’s voice rang out like a gunshot, her figure darting past in a blur, her daughter clutched tightly to her side.They vanished into the black mouth of the forest, swallowed whole by the shadows.
Mary and I stood frozen, rooted in horror, as warriors surged from the trees.Their faces were painted in streaks of red and white, their expressions unreadable and terrifying in the flickering firelight.Guttural cries filled the air as they swarmed the flatboat, tearing through our supplies, smashing crates, ripping fabric, and splintering wood.
They were everywhere.
“Elizabeth!”Mary’s voice was high, panicked.She gripped my sleeve, tugging fiercely.“We have to go—now!”
I stumbled, disoriented, my legs leaden with fear.Together, Mary and I staggered backward—away from the violence, away from the wreckage of everything we had fought so hard to reach.
Away from the life that had, only moments ago, felt within reach—now smoldering, breaking, and lost to the river.
