CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
OLIVIA
T he cobblestones of Skopje’s ancient streets, worn smooth by the weight of countless footsteps, echoed beneath the hooves of our weary horses. The air was alive with the reverberations of history, whispering tales of conquest and coexistence.
We had arrived at the heart of the Ottoman Balkans, where cultures intertwined as intricately as the vibrant kilims draped over the market stalls. The Vardar River meandered through the city like a silver thread, its waters sustaining the thriving commerce and life. Minarets stretched skyward alongside the domes of Orthodox churches, symbols of a delicate balance between tradition and change.
“Stay vigilant,” Roman murmured beside me, his voice low but firm. His sharp gaze swept over the bustling crowd, his wariness a shield honed by years of battle. Ever the silent protector, Malik nodded, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword hidden beneath the folds of his cloak.
We moved carefully through the city, threading past the crowded bazaars and narrow alleys. Leaving Skopje behind without incident, we pressed onward, the weight of our journey pressing heavily on our shoulders.
Beyond the city, Bosnia’s lush hills stretched endlessly, offering beauty but no respite. The road demanded sweat and perseverance, each mile forward hard-earned. And now Serbia’s sprawling terrain lay before us, a land of promise and peril. The end of the month loomed closer, each passing day a reminder of the urgency of our mission.
“Anatolia is still far,” Malik said one evening as we set up camp on the outskirts of a Serbian village. His voice carried the weariness of the road but also a quiet determination. “But if Reyna is correct, Pasha Hassan will have the answers we seek.”
I nodded, the enormity of our task pressing against my chest. The scriptures we sought were more than words—they were keys to a fate none of us could fully grasp. Each of us carried the burden in our way, our reasons for seeking them as varied as the stars overhead.
The gods had granted us a rare reprieve. Luna, wrapped snugly in a woolen blanket, slept soundly in my arms, her tiny form serene and still. Since leaving behind the bustling remnants of Skopje, her cries had been few, and her appetite was robust. With her boundless curiosity, Rosie embraced the journey with a resilience that filled me with quiet pride. And Reyna—bless her stubborn soul—was slowly emerging from her cocoon of grief. Though still present, the shadow of Osman’s loss seemed to lift in fleeting moments. I caught her exchanging glances with Malik, their eyes meeting with an understanding that hinted at something unspoken. The tension that had once thrummed like a taut bowstring between them was easing, replaced by a tentative camaraderie.
With each passing night, Roman and I were consumed by an overwhelming passion that carried us through the next day’s journey. We couldn’t resist stealing moments to bathe each other in adoration and affection at every rest stop. The warmth of his touch and the taste of his lips lingered on my skin long after we parted, leaving me breathless and yearning for more. Our love was a blazing fire that sustained us in this wild, unpredictable world.
“Everything is going smoothly,” I murmured, a silent prayer that it might continue that way.
The next day, the carriage rocked gently beneath me, its steady rhythm a lullaby that promised rest and respite. As I leaned back against the worn cushions, my thoughts wandered to Mathias and my mother, conspicuously absent from this leg of the journey. It was too much to hope we’d never see them again, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she? For now, it was just the six of us—Roman and me, Malik, Reyna, Rosie, and Luna—bound together by purpose and necessity.
“Almost too smooth,” I mused, watching Luna’s chest rise and fall steadily.
Without warning, the carriage jolted to a sudden stop. The abrupt motion roused Luna from her peaceful slumber, her tiny features scrunching in protest as she wriggled in my arms. She grew so quickly at nearly five months old, her wide eyes bright with curiosity as she looked around. I hushed her gently, rocking her back to sleep. The soft light from the window fell across her delicate face, highlighting every perfect detail—her button nose, rosebud lips, and impossibly tiny fingers curled into fists. Even with the interruption, she settled back into the safety of my arms as if she knew she was protected.
“Stay inside, Olivia,” Roman’s voice cut through the peace.
His silhouette filled the narrow space between the carriage door and the curtain before he stepped away. The knot of unease in my stomach tightened. I clutched Luna closer, her warmth comforting against the prickling uncertainty that crept over me.
“Could be anything,” I whispered to Rosie, who was staring at me with wide, expectant eyes. “A fallen tree blocking the road? Or maybe a cart needing a bit of help.”
But even as the words left my lips, I felt the tension in the air, an unspoken warning. Something wasn’t right. I took a steadying breath, my gaze flickering to the curtain. Every instinct screamed for me to stay put, but curiosity clawed at me, relentless. Ignoring Roman’s orders, I edged closer to the window and pulled the heavy curtain back just a sliver. The sight beyond sent a cold shiver coursing down my spine.
An army of shadows surrounded us—hundreds of black-hooded men on horseback, their turbans as dark as ink against the encroaching night. The faint gleam of moonlight on their mail coifs cast an eerie shimmer, the interlocking metal rings glinting like distant, restless stars.
The only visible part of their faces were their eyes, as sharp and unyielding as shards of obsidian, staring out from behind layers of steel and cloth.
Malik sat atop his sleek black horse, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. Surrounding him were several fierce warriors, their curved swords drawn and pointed directly at him. They formed an impenetrable barrier, a living wall of cold steel and deadly intent.
Fear coiled tight in my stomach, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to the scene outside the window. The sunlight glinted off the warriors’ weapons, each gleam a reminder of the danger we faced. My chest tightened, and terror and disbelief washed over me.
“Just my luck,” I muttered, sarcasm barely masking the dread that laced my words. “When I thought everything was finally going right.”
Beside me, Reyna leaned forward to peer out the window. Her expression shifted, darkening like a storm cloud. Whatever she saw mirrored the bitterness settling in my chest as if the sour taste of old lemons had coated her tongue.
“Olivia, what is it?” Rosie’s small voice trembled with unease, but I had no words of comfort to offer her.
“Stay down,” I whispered, the protective instincts of a mother surging within me like a tidal wave.
Reyna’s hand found mine, her grip tight and grounding, her unspoken solidarity an anchor in the chaos.
I couldn’t sit idle, shackled by fear and Roman’s command. Slipping my feet into my shoes, I moved toward the door, flustered but resolute. Reyna and Rosie watched me, their wide, frightened eyes like mirrors reflecting my unease. Handing Luna to Reyna, I stepped down from the safety of the carriage, defiance sparking in my every movement as I braved the unknown.
Roman stood a few paces ahead, his posture unyielding, his face a mask of stoic calm. “Is there a problem?” he asked, his voice cutting through the charged silence.
Not a word came from the sea of black-clad figures. Their silence was heavier than any shouted threat, a quiet that pressed against the air and set my nerves on edge.
Then, cutting through the oppressive stillness, a solitary figure emerged. His mount, black as a moonless night, moved with a deliberate grace, its hooves stirring small clouds of dust that lingered like foreboding whispers. The rider himself was cloaked in layers of dark furs, their opulence speaking of rank and wealth. Obsidian accents adorned his armor, catching the faint light and adding to his commanding presence. He exuded an air of authority, wearing it as naturally as the royal finery draped over him.
“Finally, someone to talk to,” Roman said, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his composure snapped back into place. “We don’t want trouble. We ask for safe passage.”
The warrior dismounted with an air of cold majesty, his movements deliberate and assured. He stood tall, his piercing gaze sweeping over us, lingering just long enough to leave a shiver in its wake. Then he spoke, his voice as smooth and calculated as the steel at his side. “Raul Costa has informed me that you possess the sun and moon daggers,” he said, his words falling like stones into the stillness. “And we’ve come to collect them.”
My heart stuttered in my chest as Roman stood his ground, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.
“Forgive me, but I have no idea what you are talking about. We don’t have any daggers, and I have never heard of a man named Raul Costa,” Roman said, his voice teetering between frustration and incredulity.
The air grew heavy and thick with unspoken threats, the kind that prickled at the skin and promised violence.
With an almost unnatural grace, the royal warrior closed the distance between himself and my husband, each step deliberate, a silent declaration of power.
Roman’s hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, his muscles taut and ready to strike.
As the warrior reached Roman, he unfastened the interlocking metal that shielded his face, revealing features as unyielding as the rugged terrain we’d traversed. In a single, fluid motion, he drew his blade. The weapon caught the fading light, its sharp edge glinting with lethal intent. Before I could fully comprehend the movement, the cold steel grazed Roman’s neck.
Roman’s body jolted, his eyes wide with shock as though an electric current had coursed through him.
I sucked in a gasp.
“Be mindful,” the warrior said, his voice smooth but edged with malice. “This blade is smeared with poison. One nick is all it takes to end your life.”
A primal instinct surged through me—a desperate need to protect Roman, to shield him from the danger that loomed. I stepped forward, but the silent warriors surrounding us moved in unison, their weapons whispering against their sheaths as they drew them. The sound sent a shiver through me, freezing me in place.
“I’ll make this simple,” the royal warrior continued, his tone mocking civility. “Hand over the sun and moon blades, and I will leave you and your family unharmed.”
Roman, ever the fighter, refused to yield. He lunged at the warrior with a sudden burst of movement, his blade flashing in the twilight. The warrior moved with a predator’s grace, sidestepping Roman’s strike with effortless precision. In one swift motion, he seized Roman’s outstretched arm and used his momentum to hurl him to the ground. Dust rose in a choking cloud as Roman landed hard, his body sprawled against the unforgiving earth.
“The more you fight, the worse it will be,” the warrior said coldly, looming over Roman with an air of finality that made my stomach churn. He placed a booted foot over my husband’s chest and pressed down.
Roman grabbed the man’s ankle with a vice-like grip. The warrior sneered, brandishing his dagger in a slow, mocking wave.
“Don’t you dare try anything foolish,” he warned. “My aim is flawless. One small nick from this blade will end your life.”
Roman froze, his muscles tense with fear as he weighed his options.
Panic clawed at my insides as I watched my husband pinned beneath the stranger’s boot, our fate hanging in the balance. My voice, though trembling inside, emerged steady. “We don’t know a man named Raul Costa,” I said, my tone firm. “And we certainly don’t have any daggers. You have the wrong people. You’ve attacked us, accused us of lies, and we don’t even know who you are.”
A few stars began to pierce the darkening sky, their soft light an ironic contrast to the menace that loomed over us. The horses, oblivious to the tension, nickered softly, their innocent sounds swallowed by the oppressive silence.
“Such bold words.” The royal warrior’s voice dripped with malice as his gaze shifted to me. He stroked his dark beard, his eyes lingering on my face with a calculating leer. “A woman who speaks so freely could easily be imprisoned for treason. And yet...” He tilted his head, a cruel smile curling his lips. “Your beauty is unparalleled. It would be a waste to lock you away when the Sultan’s concubines could always use another gem to their collection.”
My blood turned cold, but I refused to flinch under his gaze.
The sky had darkened to a deep indigo, the first stars glimmering in the vast expanse above. The warrior finally shifted his attention back to Roman, extending a hand toward him.
Warily, Roman accepted the gesture and pulled himself to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. Dirt clung to his clothes and hair, but his composure remained intact as he squared his shoulders against the man who had humiliated him.
The royal warrior bowed deeply, a gesture both formal and intimidating.
As he straightened, his voice, low and commanding, reverberated through the tense air. “I am Pasha Hassan, leader of the Timehunters.”
My heart skipped a beat. This was the man we had set out to find—the one with the knowledge of the daggers and the scriptures. But instead of being the ally we had hoped for, he stood before us as a threat, his presence no blessing but a curse.
My hands trembled as the gravity of the situation settled over me. Pasha Hassan wasn’t just any man. He was the leader of the most ruthless Timehunters in existence. We were standing before one of the most feared figures in the land.
“Give me the daggers,” Pasha Hassan demanded, his cold, unyielding eyes locking onto mine.
He was supposed to be a guide, a beacon on our treacherous path to Anatolia. Instead, he was a predator circling its prey.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady as I met his gaze. Trusting him didn’t feel like an option—not after the threat he posed or the venom in his words. How could I hand over something so powerful to a man who had already threatened my husband’s life?
Pasha Hassan’s lips curved into a cruel smirk. “Then you won’t mind if we search your belongings.”
Before I could respond, Reyna stepped down from the carriage, her sudden appearance drawing Pasha Hassan’s attention. His eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face before his expression hardened.
“What’s this? If it isn’t my beautiful Reyna,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. His hands came together in slow, deliberate applause. “Well, well, well. My daughter, the one who ran off with her betrothed and bound herself to this lot, has betrayed me.”
Reyna stiffened, the color draining from her face. “Father, it’s not what it seems,” she said, her voice laced with desperation.
The revelation hit like a thunderclap. Roman stood frozen, stunned into silence. Even Malik, usually unreadable, looked alarmed. The air grew thick with tension, a suffocating weight pressing down on all of us.
“Your father is a Timehunter? Let alone the leader?” I demanded, my voice trembling with disbelief as I turned to Reyna. Betrayal coursed through me, sharp and unforgiving. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Pasha Hassan’s piercing gaze swept over his sea of warriors. “Do you see? My beloved daughter has betrayed us. She turned against her blood, her people.”
His voice, laced with venom, carried an edge sharp enough to slice through the whispers of the wind.
Reyna shrank back, trembling under his condemnation. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable, and anger surged hotly within me. She had led us into a trap, and now we were caught in its vicious jaws.
Pasha Hassan turned his darkened expression toward Reyna. “My daughter, how dare you defy me,” he said, his hand rising with the intent to strike her.
“Don’t you touch her!” Malik’s fierce, protective roar cut through the tension like a blade.
He dropped to the ground in a fluid motion, bracing himself as if ready to lunge. His fists clenched at his sides, muscles coiled, prepared to fight for Reyna despite the overwhelming odds.
In an instant, the warriors surrounding him pressed their blades against his throat and torso, their movements swift and unyielding. Malik didn’t flinch. He held his ground, defiance blazing in his eyes, but I could only watch helplessly.
Pasha Hassan’s presence loomed over us like a storm cloud, his ominous aura spreading a chilling gloom. He gestured toward Malik, his voice calm but commanding.
“Bring him here.”
The warriors seized Malik and escorted him forward, stopping within Pasha Hassan’s reach.
His movements were slow and deliberate, but the tension in his posture betrayed his readiness to fight back. Pasha Hassan stepped closer to him, his piercing eyes narrowing as he leaned in. The air around them seemed to still as Pasha Hassan inhaled deeply, as though he could decipher Malik’s secrets from his very scent.
“I smell darkness. My, my,” Pasha Hassan drawled, his voice low and mocking. “My little girl, who has sworn never to succumb to the darkness, is now aligned with this man. What happened to the man I chose for you—Osman?”
Reyna’s voice trembled like a leaf caught in a storm. “He died in a fire.”
“Did he? What a shame. He was a good man and would have made you happy. “
“We found her betrothed in a tavern,” Malik interjected defensively. “Raul was attacking her. We tried to save her and Osman.”
Pasha Hassan’s laugh was devoid of humor, cold as the steel in his hand. “Do you think I am so easily fooled? I am not an idiot. So stop with your stupid stories.”
Little Luna’s wail pierced the tension, and Rosie’s whimper followed, a haunting echo. The sounds roused a primal fear that had lain dormant. Pasha Hassan’s eyes gleamed with ruthless calculation as he seized upon our vulnerability.
“I am sure you want your children to live. You either hand over the daggers, or I will slaughter your kids.” His voice was chillingly casual, as if discussing the weather rather than threatening innocent lives.
To my disbelief, Roman chuckled—a sound so out of place it bordered on hysteria. I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. What was he doing?
“It’s about time we come clean and reveal our true identities,” Roman said, his laughter subsiding into a cocky grin. “We are Timehunters. This is my clan.”
He placed a protective arm around Malik. “Yes, Malik is darkness, but he’s part of our little band of Timehunters. He comes in quite handy when it comes to torture.”
“Really?” Pasha Hassan arched an eyebrow, his sneer a cruel slash across his face. “Which Timehunter society do you come from?”
“We are the powerful Timehunters from England,” Roman said with an air of bravado that made my skin crawl. “We run that society.”
Pasha Hassan scoffed. “That society was destroyed many years ago by a man named Amir.”
“Not everyone. Some of us escaped,” Roman said smoothly.
Pasha Hassan glared at Roman, his piercing eyes narrowing. “Timehunters, you say. Then you must prove to me that you are Timehunters. If you can prove it, I will not seize the sun and moon daggers, and your children will be safe.”
The hollow promise did nothing to ease the vice grip of dread tightening around my heart. How could we convince this man of our allegiance when deception was the only currency we had to barter with?
“We don’t have the blades,” I said, trembling. The night stretched endlessly, the stars cold and distant, offering no mercy.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the carriage door swing open, and men dressed in black emerged, their hands clutching the hilts of the sun and moon daggers.
“We’ve got them!” one of them shouted.
Luna’s wails shattered the silence, her cries piercing the heavy atmosphere like shards of glass. Beside her, Rosie’s small form trembled, her wide eyes glistening with terror.
“No!” a scream erupted from deep within me, wild and untamed.
Pasha Hassan merely raised an eyebrow, his expression disturbingly serene amid the chaos. His calm demeanor only fueled the storm of emotions within me.
“I will forgive the lie,” he said, his voice smooth, almost condescending. “You did what anyone would have in your situation. But now… You must prove you are a Timehunter, or your life and your precious children’s lives are at stake.” His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather, as if such negotiations were commonplace for him.
Fury boiled inside me, directed at Roman. What had he done? His reckless words had placed our children in harm’s way, turning their innocence into pawns in this deadly game. My chest heaved with the effort to contain my rage.
With a swift, desperate movement, Roman reached into the carriage, pulling Luna and Rosie into his arms. They clung to him, their cries mingling into a haunting, heart-wrenching chorus.
Sixteen warriors moved with precision, closing ranks around him and blocking any avenue of escape. Their weapons gleamed in the dimming light, a silent but deadly threat.
“Men, gather up,” Pasha Hassan commanded, his voice cutting through the tense stillness as he turned to address his legion. “We have been here long enough. The children shall stay in the carriage with your wife and Reyna. We have a long way to go, so saddle up.”
The warriors moved with chilling efficiency, mounting their horses and forming a grim procession that stretched into the dusk. Their presence loomed like shadows, heavy and inescapable. I turned to Reyna, the sight of her filling me with a venomous rage. Her eyes brimmed with turmoil, her lips trembling as if she were grasping for words that might bridge the chasm she had created.
“I am disgusted with you,” I spat, each word like a shard of ice. “You set us up. I want nothing to do with you. You are nothing but a liar.”
Betrayal burned through my veins, eclipsing fear and grief. I could barely look at her without the fury boiling over.
Reyna reached out, her hand shaking, but I recoiled as though her touch were fire. “I will explain everything,” she whispered.
But there was no time for explanations. Pasha Hassan’s men were already in motion, their steely grip dragging Roman and Malik away. My stomach churned as I watched one of the warriors bind Malik’s wrists with slender belladonna branches—a cruel irony, given the plant’s deadly reputation despite its beauty.
“Stop! You’re hurting my daddy!” Rosie’s piercing scream shattered the night, her plea for Malik heartbreakingly innocent. Her small voice, filled with raw emotion, cut through the suffocating tension, a reminder of the stakes we faced.
Rage surged through me like wildfire—rage at Reyna, at Pasha Hassan, at this cruel world that allowed such darkness to thrive. My family, once my fortress, was crumbling before my eyes, splintered by betrayal and the iron grip of power.
The warriors’ hands were firm as they shoved me back into the carriage with the children. I clutched Luna tightly against my chest, her small, fragile body grounding me in a sea of chaos. Rosie nestled close, her sobs resonating with the aching helplessness in my own heart. Outside, four warriors took up positions beside the carriage, their silent vigilance a grim reminder of the peril that stalked us.
As the carriage lurched forward, the wheels creaking against the dirt road, I felt the weight of an uncertain future pressing down on me. It was as if we were being dragged deeper into an intricate web—a trap from which escape seemed impossible.