CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: A Painful sacrifice
She lunged, fingers outstretched, grasping for the top of the wall. Just a little more—just a little higher—and she’d be over. But instead of scaling to freedom, a force wrenched her backward, ripping her from the wall’s edge.
Milani hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through her bones as the cold bit into her skin. Snow clung to her clothes, but she barely had time to register the discomfort before a figure loomed over her—tall, imposing, and cloaked in black. His hood shadowed his face, save for the icy glare drilling into her. The nosemask concealed the rest, but she needed no confirmation. The Black Robe. The Elder’s hound.
Fear clawed at her chest, but she pushed it down. Her instincts screamed at her to fight, and she obeyed. With all the strength she could muster, she lashed out, her foot connecting with his jaw. A lesser man would have staggered. He merely took a step back.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
She didn’t wait to see his reaction. The moment his grip loosened, she tore free, sprinting in the opposite direction. His fingers caught on the basket strapped to her back, yanking her to a halt. But she was quicker—she unfastened it in one smooth motion, letting it fall into his grasp while she surged forward.
This time, she made it over the wall.
Landing with practiced ease, she barely paused before bolting down the snow-laden path. Her heart pounded, each step taking her further from capture—until the ground was no longer beneath her feet.
A sharp tug. A rush of air.
Then the world flipped, and she crashed face-first into the snow.
Pain flared through her skull as rough fingers twisted into her hair. Her scream caught in her throat as she was yanked upright, then dragged, boots scraping against the frozen ground.
She thrashed, fingers scrambling for a weapon—anything—but all she found were her earrings. Thin copper. Sharp-edged. Without hesitation, she tore one free and sliced at his wrist.
Nothing. Not even a flinch.
If anything, her defiance only spurred him on. He seized her wrist, crushing it in his grip, rendering her useless. The second earring slipped from her grasp, lost to the snow. She kicked out in desperation, but he deflected it with ease, throwing her off balance. Her leg slammed against the wall, the shock reverberating through her bones.
Her escape had failed.
Milani barely had time to process the bitter truth before she was hurled forward, landing in an undignified heap at the feet of two figures—the Elder and Laya, the head of the Scarlet Blades.
Defeat gnawed at her, but she had one card left to play.
She forced herself upright, voice trembling as she pleaded, “I—I tried to run because I was afraid. You said you’d kill me if I failed to bring the child, but she’s not with me. I swear. Blade took her. He’s stronger than me, I couldn’t—”
“How many more lies will you spin?” The Elder’s voice was sharp, cutting through her desperate act.
Milani opened her mouth, scrambling for another excuse—then she heard it.
“Aunty Milani…”
A child’s voice. Soft. Familiar.
Milani’s breath stilled.
No.
Dread settled like a lead weight in her stomach. She turned, slow, unwilling—only for the world to tilt beneath her.
Lenora stood there. A Red Robe held her small hand, his grip tight but deceptively gentle. But it was the other hand—the one concealed within his sleeve—that sent cold terror flooding through Milani’s veins.
A dagger. Ready. Waiting.
She had hidden Lenora. She was sure of it. How had they found her?
Lenora’s wide eyes flickered with the urge to run, but fear anchored her in place.
Milani needed to think. Needed a plan. But her mind was a swirling mess of panic, fear, and rage.
Pain exploded across her scalp as Laya seized a fistful of her hair, wrenching her backward. Milani’s scream rang through the yard.
“You can dress a mutt in silk, but it’ll always crawl back to its true master,” Laya spat before slamming her head into the frozen ground.
Milani gasped, stars bursting in her vision. Hands grabbed her from all sides—Brown Robes restraining her—but she wasn’t done.
She threw herself at Laya, grasping the hem of her dress. “That’s not Lenora! I swapped her on the way here—”
“So her name is Lenora?” Elder Hans mused, his curiosity piqued.
Milani barely had time to react before Laya’s palm connected with her cheek, the slap ringing through the yard.
“Aunty Milani!” Lenora struggled against her captor, tears streaking her face.
Elder Hans let out a slow exhale. “You’ve been rather… defensive for someone who shouldn’t care about this child.”
His words sent a ripple of unease through Milani.
Then, his command. “Beat her.”
The Brown Robes advanced.
Milani’s heart thundered. Panic clawed at her chest, but she shoved it aside. If she was going down, she’d go down fighting.
With a sharp inhale, she lunged.
Snow, packed in her fists, flung into the eyes of the nearest guards. Their hands shot up instinctively, giving her just enough time to slam their heads together.
They crumpled.
Milani wasted no time. She darted toward Lenora, reaching for her, stretching—so close—
Then came the shot.
The impact stole her breath.
A burning pain ripped through her leg, so sharp it nearly blinded her. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the snow, red pooling beneath her.
No. No, she couldn’t stop.
Gritting her teeth, she reached for a dagger, aiming it at the Black Robe. He dodged, but it was enough to distract him. She snatched another from an unconscious guard and slashed—this time, her blade met flesh.
His grip faltered.
She crawled, dragging herself toward the fallen Scarlet Blades, searching—searching—she needed the poisoned needles.
“End her,” the Elder commanded.
Milani barely heard it. She only felt it—the air shifting.
A presence. Behind her.
A child’s weight colliding with her back.
Then, the gunshot.
Silence.
The pistol slipped from Laya’s grasp, her face drained of color. She had fired. But the wrong person had taken the hit.
Milani felt nothing. No pain. No impact.
For a terrifying moment, she thought she was already dead.
Then—
A small hand slid from her shoulder.
Dread crashed over her in suffocating waves. Her fingers trembled as she turned, as she eased the little body off her back.
Lenora.
Blood.
Spattered across Milani’s face.
The world slowed. Time fractured. And with it—Milani’s soul.
The color drained from Milani’s face. Her eyes, swollen with impending tears, widened in disbelief, as if searching for something—anything—that might prove her wrong. A pulse, however faint. A sign of life. A miracle.
She turned sharply, desperate to see Lenora properly, to find some flicker of hope in the stillness. But there was nothing. Nothing she could hold on to.
Frantic, she pressed her trembling hands against the gaping wound, as if sheer will could stop the relentless flow of blood. She gathered Lenora into her lap, her fingers pressing desperately against cooling skin, seeking a heartbeat.
Nothing.
The blood seeped through her fingers, warm and unyielding. It poured over her hands, painting a gruesome picture of finality.
Lenora was gone.
Her eyes, unclosed. Her lips, parted as if caught mid-sentence. The bullet had torn through the back of her skull, and not even the veil of her hair could conceal the horror of it.
A guttural scream tore from Milani’s throat. She clutched the lifeless child to her chest, her long hair cascading over them both as if to shield them from the cruel reality. But there was no shielding from this. No undoing it.
The anguish that gripped her was beyond words, a torment so deep it hollowed out her soul.
Her wails echoed through the courtyard, raw and unrestrained.
Across the clearing, Elder Hans turned to Laya, his voice a murmur of calculated amusement. “Didn’t you say you wanted to raise the child into the perfect killer?”
Laya’s gaze was ice, her reply colder still. “What’s done is done. We can’t change the past.”
Her fingers trembled at her sides, betraying her detached façade.
This was the first time she had killed a child.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. That much she told herself. Anyone could understand that, surely.
Elder Hans rose, his measured steps carrying him closer. Laya stood rigid, her lips moving in a quiet, feverish murmur.
It wasn’t until he was beside her that he caught the words.
“She wasn’t my target. She got in the way.”
Hans exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disapproval.
“This is why women don’t belong in the Citadel. Too weak.”
Laya’s expression remained impassive, but the flicker in her eyes was unmistakable.
“Take her away,” Hans ordered the red-robed figures standing at attention. They nodded in silent obedience.
“Pull yourself together,” he added, his version of comfort as hollow as the corpse cooling in the snow. “An assassin doesn’t let emotions cloud their mission. You know that.”
Laya inhaled deeply, steadying herself before turning toward the gate.
“Deliver the girl to my Citadel. And don’t forget your end of the deal,” she said, her voice regaining its edge. “Take care of that thorn in my side before he comes for us.”
Hans smirked. “A pleasure doing business with you.” He extended a hand, but Laya ignored it, stepping past him without so much as a glance.
As she reached the threshold, his voice followed her like a whisper of prophecy.
“Tell me what you dream of tonight.”
Hans’ smirk faded as he turned to his son, the Black Robe.
“Do we wait for Blade, Father?”
Hans’ expression darkened.
“Killing him now would be reckless. His grief will make him volatile, dangerous. No—” he clasped his hands behind his back “—we take the living woman as Laya commanded and leave the dead behind.”
The Black Robe hesitated. “But Father, this might be our only chance.”
Hans’ voice was resolute. “Patience never killed a man, son.”
“…Yes, sir.”
A silent signal was given, and the red-robed figures moved to seize Milani.
She clung to Lenora’s body with every ounce of strength left in her, fingers digging into fabric, refusing to let go. But strength was a dwindling resource, and when the Brown Robe intervened, prying Lenora from her grasp, the fight was over.
Milani crumpled to the ground as if the last of her spirit had been ripped away with the child. Lenora’s limp body was tossed aside, blood splattering onto the snow, staining it with a life unfairly taken.
Milani’s dress was drenched—scarlet soaking into every fiber from her chest down to her feet.
Her eyes were swollen and empty. No more tears remained.
The red-robed figures seized her, dragging her through the blood-streaked courtyard. She barely resisted. What was the point?
Her vision blurred as Lenora’s body grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
She had nothing left. Not even the strength to fight—to stay, to protect, to wait for Blade.
Blade, who had chosen this moment—of all moments—to be absent.
Laya, who had deceived her.
Lenora, who had trusted her too much. Trusted her enough to die for her.
And most of all, she hated herself.
A useless, helpless failure.
A fresh wave of silent tears slipped down her cheeks as she was dragged away, a trail of blood marking the path behind her.
Lenora’s sacrifice was not one worth making.
