42. Chapter 42
42
Chapter 42
Bronwen
No. No , that wasn’t right. That wasn’t—
The world blurred at the edges, sound warping into a distant hum as my gaze locked onto the figures hanging above the platform. Not them. It couldn’t be them. But the familiar lines of their faces, the unmistakable presence of Papa, of Mama—
A ragged breath escaped me. Their lifeless bodies swayed gently from the nooses, the rope taut against their necks. The color had drained from their faces, their eyes closed as if in final defiance of the spectacle they had been made into. Blood rushed in my ears, drowning out the gasps and murmurs of the crowd. My knees buckled, but I forced myself to stay upright, the reality of what I was seeing sinking into my chest like a blade. The cheers of the crowd turned into a deafening roar, their delight a twisted contrast to the agony tearing through me.
And it was all because of August.
A game. It’s always been a game to August. He said he was going to drag this out, push me over the edge. And now, standing here, I could feel the full weight of his cruelty. I had been nothing but a pawn, led along by my own arrogance. He played me perfectly, let me believe I had any control in this, let me think I was clever enough to keep up with him. And I fell for it. Every single step.
My anger churned violently with my despair, a storm raging within that threatened to pull me under. How could he have orchestrated something so vile, so personal? Had he planned this all along? Had every touch, every smirk, every calculated look been leading to this moment? My stomach churned as the realization took root—this wasn’t just manipulation. This was execution, a trap I had walked straight into with my eyes wide open. But all of this was on me. The nightmares warned me. They showed me exactly who he was, and I ignored them.
I let his words wrap around me like a spell, let myself believe in something that was never real. I had wanted to trust him. I had wanted to believe I wasn’t alone in this fight. But in the end, I was nothing more than entertainment to him. Every fiber of my being burned with hatred and grief. I had trusted him. I had let him get close. I had given him the chance to shatter me, and he took it. I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms, grounding me in the searing pain. It wasn’t just grief twisting through me—it was fury. White-hot and blinding.
I glanced at August, my eyes filling with tears. He stood frozen, still far away in the crowd, his wide eyes glistening with what looked like horror and disbelief. His mouth opened slightly as if to speak, but no words came. His shoulders, usually squared with confidence, sagged under an invisible weight, and his hands hovered at his sides, clenched and trembling as though he were fighting an internal battle he couldn’t win.
Why wasn’t he smiling?
He won.
Was this not the moment he had been waiting for? Hadn’t he told me he would break me? That he would drag me under, make me like him? But his face—there was no satisfaction in it. No cruel smirk, no triumphant gleam in his eyes. Just horror.
Liar.
“We have captured the leaders of the witch coven!” Carrow’s voice boomed. “Now, where are their children? The twins?”
A hush fell over the crowd, the collective energy shifting from frenzied delight to tense anticipation. People craned their necks, eyes darting from face to face, searching for the next act in this grim spectacle. Some murmured to each other in hushed, hurried tones, while others stood frozen, their breaths held as if afraid to draw attention to themselves.
Adar snatched my arm, his grip firm and unyielding. “We have to go,” he hissed, his voice low and urgent, the edge of panic sharp enough to cut.
Around us, the crowd surged. Hands clutched at sleeves, eyes darted between strangers. Adar scanned the shifting mass of bodies, searching for a way out.
“Now, Bronwen,” he growled, tugging me closer as the chaos of the crowd pressed in around us.
I kept my head down, gripping my hood tightly as we pushed through the crowd, but the pressure around us was closing in. Elbows jabbed against my ribs, bodies shifted too quickly, blocking every possible exit. The once-celebratory energy of Market had turned—curious whispers became accusations, and the weight of a thousand watchful eyes sent ice through my veins.
We were almost free when a sudden yank wrenched me backward. My hood ripped away, cold air biting at my exposed skin. Gasps rippled through the crowd like wildfire, a single moment of stunned silence before the hysteria began.
“Witch!” the old woman shrieked, her voice cracked with age but loud enough to carry.
Before I could react, a man grabbed me from behind, his grip bruising as he yanked me toward him. I staggered, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. A second hand gripped my arm, another set of fingers clawed at my cloak, desperate hands trying to pull me down. The world spun in a blur of movement, of snarling faces and grasping limbs. Somewhere in the chaos, I still searched for August—searching for the smirk, the satisfaction—but all I saw was panic in his frozen stance.
A flash of silver, and then hot blood splattered across my arm. Adar’s blade carved through the man’s throat in one clean, decisive motion. He crumpled, gurgling, and the iron scent of blood filled the air.
“Bronwen!” Adar roared, his voice cutting through the growing hysteria.
His words snapped me back, and I moved without thinking. I ripped my arm free from the man’s slackening grip, shoved past the old woman, ignoring the way her nails scraped across my wrist as she tried to hold on. The crowd swelled, bodies pressing closer, the feverish excitement morphing into full-blown panic.
We ran as fast as we could to the town walls, only to be met with Legion soldiers standing at the gate. Their armor glinted in the sunlight, and their blades were drawn, a clear warning that there was no escape.
Adar didn’t hesitate. He charged the larger of the two soldiers, slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest with a force that sent them both crashing to the ground. The soldier’s sword flew from his grasp, clattering across the cobblestones.
I darted forward and snatched the blade. Its weight settled comfortably in my hands, a reassuring reminder of all the training that had been drilled into me over the years. The second soldier turned his attention to me, his eyes narrowing with determination as he lunged. I parried his strike with practiced ease, the clash of steel reverberating up my arms. He pressed his attack, but I sidestepped fluidly, my movements swift and calculated. Feigning a retreat, I twisted my wrist and delivered a sharp strike across his thigh, forcing him to stagger. With one final thrust, I drove the blade into his side. His scream cut through the chaos as he crumpled to the ground, and I stood over him, my breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
Adar was already on his feet, grappling with the first soldier. He drove his knee into the man’s stomach, forcing him to double over with a pained gasp. Without hesitation, Adar grabbed him by the head and drove his knife into his neck. The soldier collapsed, gurgling, before falling limp at his feet.
“Bronwen, more are coming!” he shouted, his voice strained but steady.
I turned to see reinforcements flooding toward the gate, their armor gleaming ominously in the sunlight. My heart pounded as Adar grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the woods .
“To the horses!” he barked, and we ran, our breaths visible in the frigid air.
The woods offered some cover, the dense trees muffling the sounds of pursuit. My legs burned as we pushed forward, the looming threat of the soldiers driving us onward. Finally, we reached the small clearing where the horses were tethered, their eyes wide with fear.
Adar untied a dark bay mare and shoved the reins into my hands. “Go!” he ordered.
I climbed onto the mare, the unfamiliar saddle biting into my thighs. Adar spurred his horse forward, and I followed, the sound of hoofbeats pounding against the frozen ground.
The icy wind lashed at my face, biting through my cloak and chilling me to the bone. The trees blurred into streaks of green and gray as we pushed deeper into the forest, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Behind us, the distant shouts of soldiers still echoed, a grim reminder that our pursuers weren’t far.
“Keep up, B,” Adar called over his shoulder, his voice strained but firm.
“I’m right behind you!” I shouted back, gripping the reins tightly as the mare’s hooves slipped briefly on a patch of ice. My heart thundered in my chest, fear and adrenaline warring for dominance.
The hours stretched endlessly as we rode, the forest growing denser with each passing mile. My mind raced, refusing to stay still as I replayed the image of Mama and Papa hanging from the nooses. Tears stung my cheeks, freezing against my skin as the cold wind whipped past. What had happened? They weren’t supposed to be in town—so why were they there? My chest tightened as guilt gnawed at me. All of this was my fault .
The path became a winding maze of narrow trails, flanked by towering trees that offered both cover and disorientation. But no matter how far we rode, I couldn’t outrun the suffocating guilt pressing against my chest. Their lifeless faces, pale and haunting, hovered in my mind’s eye. I had led them to this. Had they known they would be caught? My stomach churned violently, bile rising in my throat. Did they suffer? Did they call out for us? My thighs ached from the unfamiliar saddle, but I dared not stop.
This was my fault.
I had ignored the warnings, let August into my life, let him distract me while he orchestrated my family’s execution. The sharp edges of my grief pushed me forward, but it wasn’t just grief—it was self-hatred, raw and unrelenting. The thought of the soldiers closing in spurred me onward, but it was the unanswered questions, the gaping hole in my chest where my parents had been, and the unbearable truth that I had let this happen that truly drove me. If I had been stronger, smarter, less reckless—would they still be alive?
As twilight descended, the first signs of exhaustion began to creep in. The horses’ breaths came in heavy puffs of steam, their pace slowing as the terrain grew rougher. Adar glanced back at me, his expression grim. “We’re close,” he said, though his tone betrayed his own weariness.
Finally, we emerged into a small clearing. At its center stood an unassuming stone cottage, half-hidden by overgrown ivy and surrounded by dense thickets. The air felt different here—still and heavy, as though the forest itself guarded the place. Adar dismounted and gestured for me to do the same.
“Is this it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Adar nodded, his eyes scanning the perimeter. “The coven’s safe house. Only the most trusted witches know about it.”
I slid off the mare, my legs nearly buckling beneath me. Adar caught my arm, steadying me before leading both horses to a makeshift stable tucked behind the cottage. The structure was crude but functional, its wooden beams weathered with age.
Inside the cottage, the air was warmer, carrying the faint scent of herbs and aged wood. A single lantern hung from a hook near the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow over the sparse interior. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of dried ingredients and ancient tomes. A fireplace nestled on the back wall, the idea of the warmth it would bring a welcome reprieve from the bitter cold outside.
I turned to Adar, his lightheartedness and happiness shattered, replaced by a hollow look that broke my heart. His shoulders sagged as if the weight of what we had seen had crushed him. Without a word, I pulled him into my arms, and we both collapsed to the ground. The rough wood of the cottage floor pressed into my knees, but I barely noticed.
Adar clung to me, his body trembling as silent sobs wracked his frame. My own tears burned against my frozen skin, the weight of our loss settling like a stone in my chest. Each sob felt like it tore through me, raw and unrelenting.
“They weren’t supposed to be there,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice breaking.
Adar shook his head against my shoulder, unable to respond. His grip tightened as though holding onto me was the only thing keeping him grounded. The weight of the day pressed down on us like a heavy shroud, and for the first time, I felt the full depth of our loss—a vast, aching void I wasn’t sure we could ever escape.