Chapter 13 Scarlette
Scarlette
Dawn found us as it always did, prying open our lids with blue cold and a thousand tiny aches.
The hut stank of sweat and wet wool and whatever wild thing Moab had hunted down after midnight, something with a pelt and the blood to keep us both warm until morning.
He was up before me, already moving through the rituals of survival.
He set the bones from last night’s supper in a row along the windowsill, then sat on his haunches and checked the line of traps strung between the back wall and the sheep pen, boots never making a sound.
I lay beneath the battered furs, counting each inhale and exhale, trying to decide if the dream, moon silver, violence, the taste of fur in my mouth, was still echoing in my head or if it had ever left.
My ankle throbbed, a dull, clean pain now instead of the fevered spike I’d gotten used to.
I flexed my foot and hissed. The bandage was still wrapped tight, a perfect spiral, the edges so even it looked surgical.
“You’re healing,” Moab said, without turning.
I propped myself up on an elbow. “I’m not a sheep, you know.”
He shrugged, still crouched by the hearth. “Sheep heal slower.”
The half-smile caught me off guard. He rarely showed anything that might be mistaken for joy; his face was all scars and angles, his beard a patchwork that never quite caught up to his jaw.
But I could see it, the way his eyes creased, the way the dark blue lines of the wolf tattoo on his left arm seemed to brighten in the firelight.
He came over, ripped a crust of bread in half, and handed me the bigger piece. “Eat.”
I took it. The cold had stolen most of the flavor, but I chewed anyway. “Are you always like this in the morning?”
He shrugged again, pulling his jacket tighter. “You want to see me before coffee, you go first.”
I almost laughed. Almost. “What’s coffee?”
“Better than this,” he said, and glanced at my foot. “Move it a little. Need to check the skin.”
I gritted my teeth and lifted the limb, letting him untie the bandage with hands that were too careful to be the hands of a killer. He pressed his thumb to the swelling, then nodded once. “Almost there.”
“Then what?” I asked, voice low. Where do we go, with half the world hunting us?
He opened his mouth, but didn’t get to answer. Instead, there was a sound, like a shout, then a crash, and the world outside turned gold and orange, shadows racing across the window. My blood turned to ice. Moab was up in an instant, knife in hand, eyes gone flat and hungry.
I tried to scramble up, but my foot betrayed me. He was at my side before I could fall, pulling me upright and steadying me with a grip that bruised. “Stay behind me,” he muttered. The animal in his voice wasn’t caged anymore.
There was another shout, closer now. The light outside strobed, flickering as torches circled the hut. Moab reached for his knife, checked the window, and hissed. “Fuck. We’ve got company.”
“Who?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Your old friends,” he said. “And they brought the whole damn village.”
I didn’t want to look, but I did. Through the gap in the boards, I saw a dozen men, maybe more.
Some wore mail, others had only pitchforks and crude staves, but all of them burned with the same ugly certainty.
At their center, mounted and cold as iron, was Sir Aldric.
The cut of his silhouette was unmistakable: tall, square-shouldered, dressed in dark wool and too much pride.
Beside him, in the shadow of the horse, was the man in black—a cowl so stiff it could’ve been carved, hands folded, head down. Brother Tomas.
Moab watched the window, then backed away. “We could run,” he said, but the tone meant we can’t.
I stood, grabbed a piece of kindling for a crutch, and steadied myself. “We won’t make it,” I said.
He met my eyes. His had gone amber at the edges. The tattoos seemed to ripple, the ink alive under his skin. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “They’ll burn us out, if nothing else.”
He looked me over, something like regret moving through him. “You want me to fight?”
I shook my head. “Not unless I say so.”
That made him smile again, but this time it was wolf’s teeth.
A voice from outside, Sir Aldric, cut through the morning mist like a blade. “Lady Scarlette of Ashburn. Step out. Or we’ll torch it. No more games.”
I felt my knees try to buckle, but I wouldn’t let them. I pressed my hand to Moab’s arm, not to steady myself, but to steady him. “Let me go first,” I whispered. “If they see you, they’ll attack.”
He hesitated and then nodded.
I limped to the door. Moab followed, so close I could feel the heat of him, ready to cover me if the first arrow flew.
The world outside was blinding. Fire everywhere, torches, lanterns, the low winter sun catching on steel.
The men had formed a crescent around the hut, weapons raised.
Behind them, the villagers, a crowd of faces I’d known my whole life, but now they watched with the hungry blankness of a pack at the end of winter.
Aldric was the first to speak. “You’ve made it hard, Scarlette. But it ends today.” He raised a hand, and the men moved forward, boots crunching frost.
Brother Tomas stepped ahead, eyes fixed not on me, but on Moab, as if he could see the beast even before it showed. “Bring out the demon, Lady. There is nothing left for you but mercy, and you must beg for it.”
I took another step, then froze as pain shot up my leg. Moab caught me, arm around my waist, holding me upright.
The movement drew a gasp from the crowd. One of the men spat. Another, braver than the rest, raised his spear. “See how it holds her?” he yelled. “Just like the Widow Weatherby!”
Aldric’s voice went sharp. “Bind them both. The man first.”
The armed men surged forward, and in that instant, Moab tensed, every muscle shivering with the urge to rip and tear. I felt it, felt the pulse of heat, the strange, electric chill, the moment when his eyes flashed gold, and his breath turned to steam.
I squeezed his arm. “No,” I said. “Not yet.”
He gritted his teeth, but let them drag him away.
Two of the braver men wrestled his arms behind his back and lashed them with rope, real rope, thick and new, not the rotted stuff they used on livestock.
Even tied, Moab kept his head up, staring at Aldric with an expression I’d only ever seen in dying animals. Not fear, but calculation.
They came for me next. The hands were rough, fingers digging into my bruised flesh. Someone yanked my arms up too fast, and I gasped, the pain making sparks in my eyes. I did not let them see me cry out.
Brother Tomas circled, hands clasped like he was praying. “Do you repent?” he whispered. The smell of his breath was sweet, like rotting fruit. “Do you give yourself over to God’s mercy?”
I looked at him long enough that he blinked. “Do you?”
His lips thinned, but he said nothing. He gestured, and the men pushed me forward. Moab was already kneeling in the mud, face pressed to the ground, a spear at his neck.
Aldric stepped close, his shadow falling over us both. “You chose the wolf,” he said, soft, so only I could hear. “You will die with him. And your soul will burn for it.”
He expected a response, but I just watched his face. There was sweat on his brow, though the air was cold as death.
I let them bind my wrists and push me to my knees beside Moab. He shifted, just enough that our shoulders touched. I leaned into him, letting the heat bleed off. For a second, we were alone, the world shrunk to the space between us.
“Sorry,” he said, low and hoarse.
“For what?” I whispered.
“For not running when I had the chance.”
I bit back a laugh. “Then we’re both fools.”
The ropes cut into my skin. Moab’s face was bruised and bleeding, but his eyes were clear. Aldric stood above us, sword drawn, the crowd pressed close, torches reflected in the wet of the ground.
Brother Tomas raised his hands, and the villagers fell silent.
“Behold!” he cried. “The witch and her familiar! See the mark of the beast!” He pointed at Moab’s arm, the tattoo blue as the sky.
A hush, then someone screamed, and a rock hit Moab’s shoulder. He barely flinched.
Aldric lifted his sword, the sun catching on the blade. “If you move, I’ll cut her throat before the beast can touch me,” he said.
Moab met my gaze. There was no fear left in either of us. I nodded, the tiniest motion, and he returned it.
Then the men hauled us to our feet, dragged us through the mud and the torchlit corridor, the ropes burning every step. The villagers spat and jeered, but we kept our heads high.
***
The march back to Ashburn was a lesson in how long a body could suffer before the soul went numb.
The ropes bit deeper with every step, raw hemp digging grooves into my wrists.
The ground alternated between frozen mud and jagged frost, each uneven patch a new invention of pain.
My left ankle screamed with every stride, but I kept moving.
If I fell, I knew they’d drag me. If I stopped, I’d lose sight of Moab.
They kept us apart, two lines of men, four to each prisoner, the rest fanning out ahead and behind to keep the path clear.
I watched him from the corner of my eye, the way he moved, his head up, gait easy despite the bruises and the way his hands had gone blue from the cold.
Even bound, he looked like he’d chosen this, as if he was walking himself to the gallows just to see what it felt like.
Brother Tomas led the parade, his black robe picking up every stray thorn and bramble, his face pinched in a look of exaggerated sorrow.
Every so often, he’d stop, turn to us, and mutter a prayer under his breath, just loud enough that the words hung in the air: deliver us from evil, smite the demon, purge the unclean.