“You!”
Michael was yelling at his men and at Rune. Rune grabbed another by the scruff of his neck and threw him into a tree.
“You son of a whore! Listen to me! Look at me!”
She screamed at the top of her lungs until she got the attention of everyone in close proximity. She walked purposefully toward their leader, pointing at him. When he turned and met her eyes, his own widened in confusion. She had him.
“You, tell Rune to stop.”
Michael did.
Rune took a few steps back, hands going to his head. He sank his fingers into his black hair and pulled at the roots. The sight of his tormented, tear-streaked face spurred Seraphina on.
“You will not address Rune anymore. Not a word.” Then to the men holding Michael: “Step away from him.” They did as they were told.
She stopped in front of him.
“Kneel.”
Michael dropped to his knees, his terrified gaze never leaving hers. His blond hair was messy and dirty, his face was stained with mud. At his sides, his hands were turned into fists. He was shaking so hard that his teeth chattered.
“You did this,” she said, shaking herself, waving at the gore around her. Then something in her mind snapped. “Briar! Where is Briar?”
Rune let out a guttural wail.
A few feet away, a woman screamed and cried, screamed again.
Seraphina took a moment to truly look around her. The wolves were gone, having run into the woods. Bodies littered the ground, some whole, most torn, some wearing veils and habits, most in peasant clothes. The sisters were spread out in a semi-circle to her right, the surviving rebels – only a handful – stoodto her left, holding each other. They were in her thrall. They wouldn’t move until she told them to. From the skies, the flying sister floated to the ground. She had her musket lowered at her side. She saw the Mother Superior holding her crucifix to her lips, praying silently.
Seraphina stepped around Michael and reached out to touch Rune’s arm. He flinched away. She turned to the crying woman and saw that it was Sister Margaret. Her habit was drenched in blood. She was cradling something to her chest. It looked like a bundle. No… Seraphina saw black hair, a flash of pale skin. She stepped closer. At her feet, a body. Where the head should have been – torn flesh and a puddle of blood. Hanging askew, half buried in the mud, a gold crucifix. And that was when she understood. Sister Margaret was holding her daughter’s head.
Briar.
She’d told Seraphina stories when she was delirious with fever and pain, her body fighting infection after her eyes had been gouged out.
Briar.
She’d held Seraphina at night, huddled in one bed in their cramped room, woke her up from every nightmare, watched over her until dawn.
Briar.
She’d stopped Seraphina from jumping off the highest tower. Once, twice. Every time.
Briar.
She’d taught Seraphina how to navigate in the dark, how to fight with a stick, with twin daggers, how to defend herself and take a life before one attempted to take her honor.
Briar.
She’d broken Seraphina’s little finger in sparring and called it tough love.
Bri-ar. Was dead.
She lifted her gaze. Her eyes landed on the Mother Superior. She tilted her head and waited for the nun to look at her. She was not in a hurry; she was in control. When the Mother Superior finally met her gaze, Seraphina considered her next words carefully.
“Would you say,” she asked, “That what happened here was also your fault?”
The woman shuddered visibly.
