I curled into her side and wept. But even as the grief swallowed me, something deep inside refused to let go.
A voice stirred, beneath the sorrow.
Faint, but stubborn.
I couldn’t die.
Not yet. Not like that.
The Eredians wouldpayfor what they’d done.
For what they took from me.
Arche had gotten his revenge.
And I would getmine.
I would find them, and I would make them suffer. Even if it took years. Even if I had to crawl through ash and blood and bone. I would make sure they never forgot my name. I would make sure they knew my pain.
And to do that, I had to keep living.
“I’ll make them pay for this,” I promised.
Not to my parents, not even to myself. To the gods, if they were listening. To the dirt beneath my knees. To the wind. To anyone who might be listening.
“I swear it.” I whispered as I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to my mother’s lips.
Then somehow, I stood, though my legs shook beneath me, trembling like they’d forgotten how to hold me up.
I took one step. Then another.
There was a hill at the edge of our land, and beyond it, a stream wound its way through the trees. On the far side, tucked into the woods, stood a small hut. I told myself the fire wouldn’t reach that far. Maybe it would be safe there.
The water was so cold it cut into me, sharp as knives against my burned and blistered skin.
And then I saw blood.
It spiraled in red ribbons through the current, swirling around my legs.
I looked down and saw myself clearly, dried blood streaked my thighs. Bruises mottled my skin, spreading in uneven patches, and my arms were torn up. My body wasn’t just injured, it had beenbutchered.
I collapsed into the river with a choked cry as my knees gave out. The water closed over me, icy and merciless, biting at every open wound. I gasped and forced myself forward, my hands scraping stone, slipping in the wet mud at the bottom of the stream.
Each movement sent knives through my body, but I kept going. Crawling, dragging, until I reached the other side and dropped, shaking, onto the bank.
Alive.
The hut came into view, a small, sagging thing barely standing. Einar and I had built it with stolen planks and crooked nails back when life was simple. Back when monsters only existed in scary stories.
The door creaked open, revealing a dusty pile of old blankets and toys. A drawing of a bird was pinned to the wall and a rusted tin cup with colored pencils stood on the floor.
Remnants of innocence.
Myinnocence.
I curled into the corner, pulling a blanket over my body. It smelled of mildew and age, and wasn’t soft or warm, but it was something.
Outside, the sky turned darker. I stared at it through the crooked slats in the walls and pulled the blanket tighter.
