The woman she had known for all her life, the woman she called sister, died wearing a hair color she didn’t like, in a place she didn’t call home, in clothes that weren’t hers, as she pretended to be someone else. Her last words were words she would not have chosen to be her last had she known it. She died a death that a bright soul such as hers, who had only ever been kind and loving to others, didn’t deserve. Freyah died a death of no honor, a death of betrayal from someone she had come to adore.
Her body lay lifeless in the living room, her chest against the cold floor. But it didn’t matter; the floor temperature would not bother Freyah when her body was also growing colder by the second, the only warmth coming from the puddle of blood still spilling out of her throat. Her eyes, one hazel and the other white from blindness, both froze in that same stare of horror she wore when she realized it would be her last. A stare that would haunt Alissa’s dreams forever.
NO!
NO!
NO!
All Alissa could muster were guttural screams that came out of her one after the other. She didn’t even know if she was still human—she certainly felt more like a wild animal.
The pain was excruciating, unbearable, unbelievable.
She couldn’t accept it. Shewouldn’taccept it.
It’s all my fault.
Desperation gave way to an all-consuming rage, erasing all of her senses. She looked up at Desi, who watched it all develop in dismay. “I’m going to kill you!” she wailed in promise, her voice so wrathful it filled the space with horror.
Everything happened so quickly that Alissa didn’t have time to properly mourn or sob over her friend’s body. She didn’t have time because soon another body fell to the ground, and it was Breno who had been murdered, trying to disarm the man who ended Freyah’s life.
Alissa stood frozen as chaos emerged in the background. She saw Desi cowardly run away from the battle scene. She watched Olga, fierce and unyielding, swing her axe to decapitate both the man who had murdered her husband and the one who had killed Freyah. She saw Eldric charge forward, driving one of the guards to surrender, only to be ambushed by another who struck him brutally. Even as Eldric was nearly subdued, the enraged Iron Claw saw fit to sever his right arm at the elbow. Eldric’s agonized scream lodged in Alissa’s throat as she gasped for air, his severed limb lying near Freyah’s corpse, both discarded like they were worthless.
“Not the guard, I need him alive, you idiot!” the general roared from the back, where he had engaged in a fight with an infuriated Olga and her axe. “Go after the Brynardian woman!” he barked at his subordinates.
Eldric’s gaze locked onto Alissa between the relentless punches against his face. His skin was marred with bruises and soaked in his blood. His expression screamed of grief for his dead friends and a paralyzing fear that gripped him to his core, terrified that the woman he loved would meet the same tragic fate.
His eyes fixed on Alissa, mouthing a plea,“Run.”
It took all of her strength to move away from Freyah’s corpse and Eldric’s torture. It took all of her not to kneel beside Freyah, cradle her body in her lap, and cry until death came to claim her, too. Death started to feel more of a relief when all the future had in store was a wave of endless grief and loss.
Thinking of Dhalia was the only thing that gave her the willpower to move.
You need to be strong, my child. She remembered her father’s words.
While Freyah and Breno lay dead and Eldric lay unconscious, Olga swung her axe with pure wrath, screaming as two Iron Claws began to approach Alissa.
Summoning a strength she didn’t know she still possessed, Alissa turned and ran.
She ran until her lungs burned.
She ran until her mind couldn’t think straight anymore.
She ran until she convinced herself this had only been a nightmare.
She ran.
Part Four
Chapter 32
Is it Worthy?
Rushing through the streets of the capital, with a mind clouded by anger, a sight blurred by tears, and a shattered soul, Alissa was guided by the hands of fate. These powerful hands, which had so often ignored her pleas, now moved with compassion, guiding her desolate soul to the only refuge she could find in the city. She collided with several soldiers running in the opposite direction, reinforcements heading to the place where her heart had been ripped from her chest—the very place where two of her friends were murdered, and the other two were left to the whims of savages.
She thought it could be the darkness of the night that stood in her favor. Or maybe it was the curator’s uniform, the handkerchief concealing most of her face, and her light blonde hair—so different from that fateful day in Porjea—that made her unrecognizable to most of the guards she passed. But what truly hid her from their notice was the mournful spirit that clung to her, erasing her presence from those who did not pay attention to the suffering of others. For the few who did recognize her, she managed to escape, wielding the dagger she always kept hidden in her boots. It was the only one of her possessions that she was able to take with her after what happened.
She sprinted through passageways, alleys, and closed properties, following a route she had never taken in all her days in the capital. Her feet and legs seemed to move on their own, as if driven by a force beyond her control. Despite the unfamiliar path, she found herself standing before a familiar navy door. Her knuckles rapped against the wood before her mind could command her arms to act.