41. Chapter 41
41
Chapter 41
Bronwen
“Do you have any more scarves?”
“No, I’m sorry. They sold pretty quickly this morning. I am hoping we will make it to one more Market before the snow is too thick, and I will be sure to set a few scarves to the side for you, Mrs. Verusha.”
She nodded before walking away, disappearing into the thick crowd of Market-goers moving between the stalls.
“Wow, B. I’ve never seen you so nice,” Adar mumbled next to me as he organized the coins we’d collected.
I elbowed him in the side, causing him to chuckle.
“We should bring more gloves next time,” I said, glancing at the dwindling pile of winterwear on our table. “They’re selling faster than anything else.”
Adar nodded, squinting at the coins in his hand. “That, and shawls. Everyone’s worried about the snow this year. Did you hear Mrs. Verusha going on about how last year’s blizzard trapped her inside for weeks? ”
I laughed softly, the sound surprising even me. “She’ll need more than scarves to survive that.”
Market continued in a steady hum around us, voices rising and falling as vendors called out their goods and customers haggled over prices. A merchant beside us bickered with an older man over the price of salted fish, their heated exchange blending into Market’s lively chatter. Nearby, a group of children rushed past, laughing as they clutched warm rolls wrapped in cloth, their breath misting in the cold air.
As the crowd ebbed and flowed, my eyes kept drifting toward the edges of Market, searching for a familiar face. We had been here for a couple of hours, but August hadn’t come. I shifted my weight, my fingers idly smoothing the fabric of a wool shawl. He had been reliable about showing up, lurking in the shadows, always watching. But not today. My stomach tightened slightly at the thought. When I told him not to come around a couple of days ago, he agreed without a fight. I thought he was just being easy for once, but maybe I’d misread the situation.
Was he pouting next to the fire again?
The thought made me smile, and I tried to think of a way to make my escape to him. I’d hate to leave Adar alone, though. We’d promised our parents that we would handle it.
A woman paused at our table, her fingers grazing the edge of a thick woolen shawl. “This one?” she asked, her voice hesitant.
Before I could respond, bells rang throughout Market, loud and urgent, splitting the winter air.
The sound jolted through me, sharp and unrelenting, making my fingers twitch as I dropped the basket in my hand. Around me, Market shifted in an instant. Conversations halted mid-sentence, stalls left unattended as merchants and customers alike turned toward the source of the bells.
“Shit,” Adar whispered before grabbing me and pulling me with him.
A ripple of excitement spread through the streets like wildfire, voices overlapping in a frantic hum. People surged forward, feet scraping against the cobblestones, breath misting in the cold air as they jostled for a better view. Someone bumped into me, nearly knocking me off balance, but they didn’t stop to apologize. The urgency in the air was suffocating, the energy shifting from curiosity to something far more primal.
The stage was in a form I had never seen before. Usually it was open with an empty noose waiting to be wrapped around a witch. Today, a wall on wheels had been pushed in front of the platform, keeping part of the stage hidden.
The energy of the crowd was electric, bordering on frenzied. Hands clutched at cloaks, elbows jabbed as bodies pressed together, the air thick with murmurs of speculation. Some people craned their necks, others climbed onto crates and barrels, desperate for a glimpse of whatever had drawn the kingdom’s attention. The collective anticipation was suffocating, a mass of humanity shifting as one, driven by a mix of fear and exhilaration. People shouted, creating a deafening roar that echoed through the narrow streets. Adar and I stood in the spot our family always had, somewhere in the middle of the fray, surrounded by townspeople whose excitement bordered on frenzy.
Through all the noise, a familiar tapping of magic had me turning to the right, and I saw August on the far end trying to push his way through the crowd. He seemed out of character. He was no longer the cool, collected August he usually pretended to be. His hair was in disarray, and he wore nothing but a loose-fitting shirt, making him stand out among the cloak-filled streets. He was still far from me, having no luck getting any closer until he stilled as the streets grew quiet and he turned his attention to the stage.
I followed his line of sight to see several Legion soldiers walking onto stage in a weird formation. In the front was the older man that I saw with Adar at the pond that day.
Once they stopped on stage, the older man spoke. “We are about to witness something no one in our lifetime has seen before. With our greatest capture yet, we have a very special guest. The Joveryn King has joined us!”
Cheers erupted through the crowd at the announcement. The sound felt like a sharp slap to my senses, my pulse quickening as dread coiled in my chest. I clenched my fists, trying to steady myself against the suffocating wave of panic and anger that threatened to consume me. The jubilant cries around me seemed to mock the tension knotting in my stomach. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands. This was it. I was about to see Carrow.
The soldiers began to step away as a hooded man walked to the front of the platform. The crowd fell silent, the excitement morphing into a palpable tension. I could feel the weight of their collective breath, held in anticipation. Every creak of the wooden stage seemed amplified in the stillness, the sound cutting through the dense air like a blade. My heart thundered in my chest, every beat a countdown to the revelation of the vampire beneath the hood. His movements were deliberate, his steps unhurried, as if savoring the power of this moment. My hands clenched tighter, my nails biting into my palms as dread and curiosity waged war within me.
The hood obscured his face completely, a dark shadow that made him appear almost otherworldly. The moment stretched unbearably, the silence so oppressive I could hear the faint rustle of fabric as he reached up to pull the hood back. I ran scenarios through my head. If August could just get to me, I could pull from him and set Carrow aflame without anyone knowing it was me. If August would just—
My breath caught in my lungs as the man removed his hood.
It was August’s father.
Carrow was August’s father.
The realization hit me like a thunderclap, freezing me in place. The world around me dulled, sound and movement fading into a distant blur. My mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory, hints I’d overlooked, all pointing to this impossible truth. My fingers went numb, my limbs suddenly weightless, as though the very ground beneath me had shifted. The roaring crowd, the winter air, even the heavy scent of burning torches—it all became secondary to the fact that Carrow was August’s father.
I turned back to August, desperate for answers, only to see the anguish on his face as he fought to get to me. August wasn’t just pushing through the crowd—he was fighting. His breath came in sharp, visible bursts in the cold air, his muscles tensed like a predator caught in a snare. He slammed into the man blocking his way, sending him stumbling back, but before he could move forward, another man threw a punch, catching August in the side. He barely reacted, twisting away before another set of hands grabbed at him, pulling him back into the chaos.
I had never seen him like this before. His desperation was raw, unrestrained, carved into every line of his face. He wasn’t thinking—he was just trying to get to me. But the crowd was relentless, swallowing him whole, dragging him further from me instead of closer.
“People of Joveryn!” Carrow’s sinister voice brought my attention back to him. “We are coming to a new age. An age where we will no longer have witches among us. This capture will go down in history.”
He nodded to someone, and the wall began to roll away. A heavy groan echoed through the air as the mechanism engaged, the hinges creaking in protest, dragging the moment into unbearable suspense. The tension in the crowd shifted, the breathless anticipation thick enough to choke on. I could hear the faint shuffling of feet, the sharp inhalations of those around me, but my own body refused to move. The creaking stretched on, agonizingly slow, each passing second a cruel extension of whatever horror lay behind it.
The energy of the crowd sharpened, breaths coming faster, bodies leaning forward, as if drawn toward the platform by some invisible force. Excitement clashed with unease, the pulse of the gathered mass teetering between thrill and dread. It felt like watching the sky fracture before a storm, an overwhelming sense of inevitability suffocating the space around me. Gasps and whispers crashed over the crowd like waves, the exhilaration from moments ago curdling into something sharper, something almost sickly. Some recoiled, others pressed forward, hands clenching at their cloaks, their breath misting in the frozen air as shock took hold.
My vision tunneled, locking onto the platform as the last barrier slid away, the final inch unmasking the nightmare I hadn’t dared to consider. The world tilted, my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat, strangling me from the inside out. The air turned dense, pressing against me, suffocating and cruel. My heart pounded, each beat a hammering warning that what I was seeing was real, that there was no turning away now.
Because Mama and Papa hung above the platform.