CHAPTER ELEVEN: The scary men
The rain had not relented. It hammered against the earth in a steady rhythm, the wind howling through the cracks of the wooden house, threatening to slam the door shut—had Milani’s leg not been in the way. Inside, the warm glow of two kerosene lanterns and a fire torch bathed the kitchen in flickering light, casting restless shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the scent of slow-simmered broth, rice, and fresh greens, a comforting contrast to the storm’s relentless fury outside.
Blade was asleep again. Too weak to keep his eyes open, too worn to resist the exhaustion pulling him under.
The kitchen, despite its modest state, exuded the quiet aura of a home. The only sounds accompanying Milani were the steady patter of rain and the gentle bubbling of the broth. But then—she heard it. The lightest, almost imperceptible footsteps rushing down the stairs. Any other person would have missed it, swallowed by the storm’s clamor. But Milani’s ears had been trained to catch such things, sharpened by years of survival.
She was just ladling the steaming broth when Lenora barreled into her, a tiny force of warmth and desperation. The little girl’s arms wrapped tightly around her leg, her grip unyielding.
“Hey, sweetie. Good morning to you too,” Milani crooned, her voice gentle, though her hands were still occupied with the dishes.
Lenora held on tighter. A silent plea.
Milani hesitated, then set the bowls down on the lid of a pot, hoping they wouldn’t topple. Crouching, she pried the girl away just enough to see her face—and immediately, she saw the tear tracks glistening on her cheeks.
“What’s wrong, baby?” she murmured.
Lenora sniffled, rubbing a tiny fist over her eyes. “He’s scary,” she whispered, voice trembling.
Milani’s brows knit. “Who’s scary?”
“Daddy,” Lenora whimpered.
A slow understanding settled over Milani. She gave the girl a reassuring smile before pulling her into a firmer embrace. “Oh, sweetie… he’s not scary. He’s just a grumpy old man.”
Lenora pulled away just enough to demonstrate, sticking out her index and middle fingers. “He had a poosh poosh.”
Milani blinked. “A what?”
“A poosh poosh!” Lenora insisted, her tiny hands mimicking the unmistakable shape of a gun.
Milani stilled. Then she exhaled a soft laugh, hugging the girl again. “Oh, baby. He won’t hurt you. Not while I’m here.”
The moment of comfort was shattered by the sharp clatter of metal. Instinct kicked in before thought—Milani twisted, catching both bowls mid-air before they could crash to the ground.
She turned back to Lenora with a playful wiggle. “Alright, sweetheart. Time for breakfast.”
As Lenora dug in, murmuring a quiet prayer first, Milani moved to gather the refuse. The air had begun to stink—meat past its welcome. She grabbed the waste and braced herself, stepping out into the rain.
The downpour greeted her with unrelenting force, drenching her in seconds as she sprinted across the compound to discard the trash. But as she lifted her gaze, she froze.
Seven figures stood in the rain.
Long coats. Fedora hats. The shadows of their presence stretched unnaturally under the storm’s dim light. Four in brown, two in red. And at the center—an elderly man whose silver beard gleamed against the darkness, his posture betraying no haste, no uncertainty.
Milani’s pulse lurched. She didn’t need a second look. She knew exactly who they were.
Like a rabbit bolting for its burrow, she turned and ran, slamming the door behind her.
Her lungs burned as she sucked in a breath. Five seconds. Just five seconds to steady herself before she burst into the living room.
Blade barely stirred.
Her hands found his shoulders, shaking him roughly. Once. Twice. By the third, she abandoned all subtlety, slapping him awake.
His groan was heavy with exhaustion, pain threading through the sound. But Milani had no time for his suffering.
“You need to hide. Now. Now. Now,” she hissed.
Lenora paused mid-bite, cheeks puffed out, eyes flickering between them.
Blade didn’t answer. He just pressed his head into his palms, exhaling through clenched teeth. “It’s me they want. Let them have me,” he muttered, voice raw with resignation.
Milani’s patience snapped.
Before she even registered the movement, she had shoved him back into the couch with enough force to rattle the frame. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
“If you don’t move right now—”
She didn’t finish the threat. She didn’t have to. The sheer fury in her eyes made Blade, headache and all, hesitate.
She grabbed him by the trousers, yanking him up, then by the arm, half-dragging him across the room. For the first time, beneath his splitting headache and wavering consciousness, he felt a flicker of fear—not of the men outside, but of her.
She maneuvered him behind an old estagere, forcing him to crouch. Without hesitation, she threw a dusty blanket over him, hacking a hole with a rusty pair of scissors so he could breathe. Then, with ruthless efficiency, she stacked a carton of old books on his head.
He scowled. “What is on my head?”
“Shut up. Don’t move,” she ordered, eyes blazing. “And don’t let it fall.”
His knees screamed in protest. His skull throbbed like a war drum. But he stayed put.
The door burst open.
No knocking. No warning. Just the violent intrusion of boots and firelight as the men stormed inside, their movements sharp and practiced.
Milani spun toward them, instinctively pulling Lenora close. She pressed the girl’s face into her side, shielding her from the sight of the intruders.
At the threshold stood the elder.
He was tall—6’2″, maybe more with the fedora. A thin, unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, silver beard glistening with rainwater. His eyes, bloodshot and cold, locked onto hers.
For a moment, she felt it—the weight of a predator assessing his prey.
He took a slow step forward. “Apart from you and the girl…” He trailed off, gaze flicking to Lenora, whose small face barely peeked out from behind Milani’s back. His voice carried no urgency, only cold certainty. “Anyone else live here?”
Milani let her breath hitch, let her eyes water just enough. “No,” she choked. “My husband… he’s been gone for months.”
A beat of silence. Then his nostrils flared.
“But I can smell a man’s perspiration in this room.”
Milani blinked. Feigned confusion. “What perspiration?”
His lips curled slightly. Not a smile—something more sinister. He stepped closer, using his walking stick for balance. Then, without warning, his hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Woman,” he murmured, voice slow, deliberate. “Don’t play with me.”
The room tightened, suffocating under the weight of his presence.
But Milani held his gaze, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she rasped.
The elder exhaled slowly. Then, with an almost lazy motion, his gaze flicked back to Lenora.
The game had begun. And Milani knew—one wrong move, one crack in her mask, and this would all end in blood.
The moment was over in a flash. With an almost casual flick of his wrist, the old man sent Milani hurtling across the room. Two of his men caught her effortlessly, as if they had rehearsed it a hundred times before. He paid her no further attention. His eyes remained locked onto Lenora’s, the weight of his silent scrutiny suffocating the little girl.
Lowering himself to her level, he crouched until their gazes aligned. His gloved hand idly rested on the handle of his walking stick, a poised predator before a trembling prey. Lenora shook so violently that even the chair beneath her seemed unsteady.
“Hey, little girl,” he murmured, his tone deceptively soft—an imitation of warmth that failed utterly. His voice carried the eerie lilt of a madman trying, and failing, to sound sane.
With slow deliberation, he reached out, gloved fingers grazing her cheek in what might have been meant as a fatherly gesture. But he had long forgotten how to be anything close to a father. The only parenting he had ever done was molding his own son into something as unfeeling as himself.
“Don’t touch her!” Milani’s voice tore through the tension as she writhed against the grip of the men restraining her, desperation dripping from every word.
Ignoring her, he tilted his head at Lenora. “Where is Daddy?”
The moment the question left his lips, Lenora’s eyes welled up. Tears clung to her lashes, quivering like they, too, were afraid of him.
“Shhh,” he coaxed, though there was no real comfort in his tone. “No need for tears. I just want to know where Daddy is.”
Her lips trembled, and then the dam broke. The tears spilled freely, silent sobs shaking her tiny frame.
Sighing, he reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled piece of candy, so old that strands of lint clung to its sticky wrapper. He held it up as if it were a prize.
“I’ll give you this if you tell me where Daddy is.”
But instead of pacifying her, the offer only made her sob harder.
“Leave my daughter alone, you maniac!” Milani’s voice had taken on a raw edge, her acting forgotten in the heat of the moment.
The old man exhaled, growing impatient. He leaned in again. “Has your mother had any visitors lately?”
A sharp, audible trickle filled the silence. Lenora had peed herself. The dark stain spread across her dress, dripping onto the wooden floor.
Disgust flickered across his face. With an irritated curse, he lifted his walking stick, a gesture meant more for intimidation than actual violence. But to Lenora, it was the final blow. She curled into herself, shaking uncontrollably.
“Stop! I’m the one you’re looking for!”
The voice cut through the thick tension like a blade.
All eyes shifted to the doorway.
Conir stood there, his expression unreadable, though his clenched fists spoke volumes. He had heard whispers that the Robes were in the village. Something in his gut had told him to check on Milani and Lenora. Now, standing before them, he was grateful he had listened to that instinct.
The old man slowly straightened, turning his full attention to Conir.
“Let me go, you bastards! Can’t you see my daughter needs me? Have you no heart?” Milani struggled harder, her fury breaking past the boundaries of pretense.
Conir took a step forward. “Leave my wife and child alone. Your business is with me.”
The old man regarded him with a long, measuring stare, then glanced back at Lenora, who was still trembling in Milani’s arms.
“Let’s go,” he commanded at last. “They don’t have what we’re looking for.”
Without hesitation, his men released Milani, letting her collapse to her knees beside Lenora. They marched out in perfect sync, the old man taking his time as he followed.
At the threshold, he paused. Casting one last look at Conir, he smirked.
“Don’t you think it’s time you potty-trained your daughter?”
A shoe struck his back before he could take another step.
“Don’t ever come back here, you heartless wolves!” Milani’s voice cracked under the weight of her fury and fear. She pulled Lenora into a desperate embrace, her entire body trembling as she held the little girl close.
Outside, the rain had softened to a mere drizzle, but somehow, it felt like the entire forest was mourning with them.
The old man simply adjusted his fedora and walked into the night, unfazed.
Inside, Conir slammed the door shut, then immediately turned to Milani, dropping to his knees beside her.
From the corner of the room, the shadows stirred. A stack of books tumbled to the floor as Blade emerged from his hiding spot. He barely noticed the mess. His focus was on the scene before him.
Milani clutching Lenora as if letting go would shatter her. Conir hovering over them, whispering words of comfort.
For the first time in his life, Blade felt something twist inside his chest—something sharp, unfamiliar, and impossible to name.
