Chapter 3 The Edge of Night
THE EDGE OF NIGHT
“Fear is a blade sharper than any sword. It does not strike, it festers and weakens before the first wound is ever made. A warrior must decide: Will she wield it, or will it wield her?”
—Láda Velé?a, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noel
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Of course it is. The wench needs to know her place. I don’t give a flying boar shit that she’s the only female in the military. Even better, this will be a lesson to others that there’s no place for a woman in the army.”
Arnold’s voice would wake me from the dead. Even half-conscious, I’d recognize that sound anywhere.
My pulse quickens, and my head throbs in time with each word I hear. My skull feels like it’s being split open from the inside, and for some reason I feel weak. It’s hard to move—physically. A deep, burning anger bubbles up, cutting through the sting of pain. How did I end up at his mercy?
I don’t know if it’s the fear of what he’s planning or the pure rage of being in this situation that stirs me more, but I know one thing: He’ll regret this. I’ll make sure of it.
My eyes are heavy, and it takes every drop of effort to open them. It’s even harder as the carriage jolts side to side over uneven ground. What happened?
“Oh come on, don’t be so harsh. Everyone knows you have your eyes on her.”
That voice, it’s not Arnold. Someone else is with him. I try to focus. My memories are vague, flashing through my mind in broken fragments. And then it hits me.
Right. I punched Arnold in the face, and then someone knocked me out from behind.
“I’m not being harsh!” Arnold laughs. “Well, maybe I am. Who else would’ve thought to drug her like that? Had to slip the innkeeper a few pretty silvers. Though I’m surprised she’s still breathing. I heard this herb is deadly, but somehow she’s managed to survive.”
I think I might throw up. What a sick—
“That’s why she hasn’t woken up yet? It’s been days and nights, Arnold, and she’s still asleep.”
Days? How long have I been unconscious?
I try to shake my head out of habit, but it hurts, so I stop moving and focus on my surroundings.
The carriage is old, dark, and musty. The air hangs so thick with the smell of worn leather that it clings to my throat.
My fingers graze the rough wooden walls, tracing the scratches and grooves gouged into its surface.
Thin light seeps through torn curtains, barely enough to cut through the gloom and leaving most of the carriage swallowed by shadows.
It’s disturbingly quiet, save for the murmurs of my captors outside.
And the horses. My heartbeat fills the silence, pounding in my ears.
I feel a sick unease, like I’m being buried alive.
“I still think throwing her to the vólkins is way too harsh, Arnold. The poor girl just didn’t want to talk to you. Besides, you know it’s illegal to get close to their territory, not to mention to let a woman outside the gates. If the knyaz finds out, we could be jailed for the rest of our lives.”
“That’s why you’ll keep your mouth shut. Once we toss her to the vólkins, they’ll tear her apart, and no one will ever know she was here. Let them do the dirty work.”
Arnold, you sick, sick man.
The military painted a clear picture: Vólkins are savage, bloodthirsty beasts created from cursed wolves of old.
I still remember the day during our early lessons, back when I had just joined the ranks, when one of the commanders drilled it into us.
We stood in formation, the cold biting through our uniforms as he paced.
“You think you can survive out there? You think your swords or strength will protect you from a vólkin?” he said and his voice boomed, silencing the yard. “These monsters don’t care about rank or skill. They’ll tear you apart before you can even lift your blade.”
We were always told that no human could match one of those creatures, that we must stay away from them.
Once, while I was checking to make sure all the candles were extinguished in the rookies’ barracks, I overheard a soldier say the tsar couldn’t be that powerful if he was so afraid of the vólkins.
He was hushed immediately by his roommates.
Speaking negatively about the tsar is a serious crime in Vathéria.
When I stomped my foot, they all fell silent.
These monsters . . . The colonel described them in detail that day.
Their bodies are hulking, fur matted with blood, glowing eyes that pierced the night, always lurking just beyond the edge of ávera, their home.
“They’re territorial,” he’d warned, looking into every soldier’s eyes.
“They’ll kill anyone who crosses into their land without hesitation. And no one ever returns.”
It was a lesson meant to scare us into submission, a warning to stay far from their territory.
Even though, as a woman, I’d never left the village, the stories of soldiers who strayed too close and vanished without a trace lingered in my mind.
They were supposed to keep us in line, to keep us afraid.
But my mother told a different story. To her, the vólkins were not monsters, but guardians—ancient beings who watched over the land, protected the balance between nature and humanity.
She always said they aren’t beasts, they are part of the earth, the forest’s soul.
They keep the wilds in check, ensuring that the land thrives.
“You don’t fear them, you honor them.”
But now, as I sit here, bound, hearing Arnold talk of throwing me to them, doubt claws at my chest. What if my mother was wrong?
Mother was never wrong.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing strange dreams, visions of a time long past, of women standing alongside wolves, sharing in the guardianship of nature.
In these dreams, I felt a deep connection to something, a yearning I couldn’t understand.
My mother always said I was special, but I never knew what she meant.
Every woman has her own talent. Some are good at arts, some knit, and I am good at what my mother taught me my whole life.
After twenty-five years of learning, I dare say that anyone would be good at anything.
But these dreams, these visions stirred something burning within me. I remember her always saying, “Under the crescent’s glow, the Leader shall unite and guide, her vision piercing through the shadows of doubt.” It was one of her many riddles. But for some reason, it feels connected to my dreams.
But what if the military’s tales were more than simple fearmongering? My mother, same as any woman in Tárnov, never went outside the village. She was smart and knew more than most, but the military knows what goes on beyond the walls. She didn’t. What if the stories of bloodthirsty beasts are true?
I don’t know which version to believe, and not knowing feels worse than the fear itself. It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff with nothing but shadows below.
I try to get up, but my wrists are bound in many knots in front of me.
The coarse twine bites into my skin, the fibers digging deeper every time I move.
My wrists throb with every beat of my heart, and the pain makes it hard to focus on anything else.
I grit my teeth. I must ignore the pain.
I can. But it’s the helplessness that bothers me most.
A hot, panicked breath escapes my lips, and my pulse quickens. I am trapped. Completely trapped. The air in the carriage feels thicker, like it’s squeezing my chest. My hands tremble, my breath comes faster, and the tight grip of fear starts to coil around my ribs, pressing tighter and tighter.
I won’t let this be my end. I won’t let Arnold be the reason for my death. I will calm myself. Breathe in, and out.
Focus, Noel, push the dread down.
I’ve survived worse. I’ve trained for this. I close my eyes, letting my mother’s voice echo in my mind. “You are strong, Noel,” she used to say.
As I shift to a more comfortable position, a sudden jolt of pain stings my hip.
Something pointed is digging into my skin, and I wince as I reach for it.
My fingers brush against something hard—my mother’s handkerchief.
Not that. There’s something else. A small blue crystal wrapped up in the handkerchief, its edges sharp enough to catch on the fabric and tear at my gown. Where did this come from?
Perhaps the crystal was hidden in the handkerchief all along, and I was too blinded by grief to notice. But this is good. This is my way out.
With shaking hands, I maneuver the crystal against the fibers binding my wrists.
It’s hard to do it right as the carriage continues to jostle and jerk.
The edges dig in, sharper than I expected, and with each glide, the threads begin to fray.
Good. Sweat beads on my brow as I work, every slice urgent and uneven.
The fibers weaken, and then, with a snap, the rope falls loose.
Heart racing, I fumble to free myself from the rest of the knots. My hair falls into my face, and without thinking, I shake it away, making the pain in my head throb harder. Shit. My fingers tremble. It’s a challenge to stay steady, but I can’t afford mistakes. I don’t have time.
“Just imagine it,” Arnold says, snapping me back to the present. “No one will ever find her. Not even ‘scary Noel’ will stand a chance.”
We’ll see about that, Arnold. The rope slips through my fingers, and I nearly cut myself. This crystal is like a razor.
“You think they’ll just . . . take care of her like that?” His friend sounds unsure.
Arnold lets out a laugh. “They’re beasts. We’re doing them a favor.”
The last knot gives way, and I nearly drop the crystal in my haste. My hands shake as I push at the carriage door. It’s tied. No, no, no.
“We’re not too far out,” Arnold says, his voice louder now. “Get ready.”
Goddesses, Mother, please. I must survive. I pull the torn curtains from the small windows. Bars. A quiet exhale escapes my lips. Getting on my knees, I reach between the bars and begin cutting the rope that ties the doors.
The crystal digs into the thick fibers, each stroke more frantic than the one before. Every second stretches into an eternity. I hold my breath. Goddesses, please let them not hear me.
Finally, the last rope falls away. I ease the door open, and the cool night air rushes in.
My eyes widen. For the first time in my life, I’m beyond Tárnov’s stone walls.
The forest stands before me, its shadows dark yet strangely exhilarating.
The thought of freedom dances on the wind, but there’s no time to enjoy it.
The carriage rattles on, wheels clattering over rough ground. Every jolt of the carriage sends a fresh spike of fear through me, but I brace myself.
It’s now or never.
I swing my legs out of the carriage. The damp earth meets my boots with a quiet thud, and I crouch low, listening. Nothing. Arnold’s voice is so close, but he’s too distracted to notice.
I have to move.
So I bolt.
Let the forest take me. I will not die in silence.