CHAPTER EIGHT
The fresh air was a lifeline. I hadn’t been able to really process any of what had just happened.
All the new information. Them asking me for help?
I needed to think. To just exhale and fill my lungs with something that wasn’t hot and suffocating.
I could still hear them through the walls, the raised voices, the arguments.
Not only was I going to lose the boys, I was going to have to lie to Mrs. Holt.
I was going to have to keep secrets from my parents. From Einar.
They’d pulled me into a war I never saw coming.
My hands were shaking, so I held onto the railing, trying to anchor myself in something real. Breathe in. Breathe out. I just needed a moment.
That’s when I saw it. The shed stood tucked into the weeds at the edge of the yard, slumped against the back fence.
It looked exactly the way I remembered, with ivy climbing up the sides.
It wasn’t locked, so I pushed the door open, and when I saw the paintings scattered across the floor, it all came back to me.
The day Licia brought me there the first time.
The day she let me in.
It was right after the accident at the lake, she’d showed up at my house, unannounced, eyes a little too wide, and said that she wanted to show me something. As we walked to her house, she rambled on about everything.
“You haven’t told anyone about your secret, right?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Not even your parents?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said. “They wouldn’t understand. Not really.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I have a secret too.”
She’d led me to the back of her house, past the neat little flower beds and the spotless facade, into the backyard, where things felt different. Less polished. Wildflowers had crept in, dandelions and chamomile everywhere. And the shed sagged against the fence like it didn’t want to be seen.
Licia’s hand shook when she unlocked the door. I still remember the smell that hit me. Moldy wood and dried paint. She lit a small gas lamp, and the room came alive in flickers. That’s when I saw them. Paintings. Dozens of them, leaning against the walls.
“This is where I keep them,” she said.
But it wasn’t just the paintings. There was a blanket folded in the corner, a pillow next to it, and a candle burned to the base. She’d been living there. Or hiding. Or both.
I didn’t know what to say. And then I saw one of the paintings near the back. It was astonishing. A girl with glowing skin and golden hair, levitating above the ground. A chill crept up my arms.
“I paint my dreams,” Licia said softly. “Ever since I found you that night.”
“At the Barrow?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
She nodded.
“I saw you in a dream. I think it was a dream. You were bleeding. Floating. But then… it was real. You were there and I’d found you,” she said.
“How do I explain that? I tried to tell my parents, but they just. They don’t get it.
I started painting because I don’t want to forget.
What if I dream something important, something I should remember? And what if—”
I stared at the painting. It almost felt like a faint memory.
“They’re more than dreams.” I cut in. “What if they’re visions?”
She stepped closer to one of the canvases, brushing her fingers over streaks of pale blue and white.
“I saw your hands glow,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Before it happened,” she said. “Before the day at the lake. I saw it—your hands, glowing. Not like fire. Softer, and brighter. Like sunlight.”
I looked down at my hands.
“And then that day,” she continued, “when Will fell through the ice and you—”
She paused.
“Your hands glowed. Just like in my dream. And then he was fine. I didn’t believe it, at first. I don’t understand it, but it happened, right? How did you do that?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t happened since then.”
Then I noticed what was probably her most recent work, leaning against the wall, the paint still drying. It was fire. Red. Orange. Violent. Flames licked the sky, as black smoke curled at the edges like it was trying to devour the entire world.
“This is freaking me out,” I whimpered.
She touched the canvas, slowly tracing the smoke with her fingers.
“That’s not the scary part, Kera.” She looked right through me.
“If my dreams are visions… then my nightmares are too.”
A tap on my shoulder jolted me. I flinched so hard my heart nearly stopped, and the world snapped back into focus.
I was in the shed, and the smell of old paint, dust, and earth pressed in around me.
It looked the way I remembered, just older.
Cobwebs stretched across the walls. Dust coated everything.
But the canvases were still there. Leaning where she had left them.
Faded, but untouched. The Blood House was a mess.
The furniture had been broken for years, anything of value long gone.
But this—the last part of Licia that remained—no one had taken it.
No one had destroyed it. It was all still here.
Like it had been waiting for someone to remember.
“What’s all this?” Will’s voice came from behind me, I heard his footsteps slow as he stepped into the shed.
“They’re Licia’s,” I said.
He moved up beside me, his gaze drifting from one canvas to the next.
”I didn’t know she painted.”
“It was our little secret,” I whispered, and for a second, I swore I could still hear her voice in the dark.
The rest of the day dragged, but I’d told Mrs. Holt I’d clean up after she left.
And the moment she was out of sight, I grabbed the largest mixing bowl we had and made another batch of dough.
Then another. And another. I didn’t care that there was no space left on the counter.
I didn’t care that I’d been on my feet since dawn.
By the time I finished, I’d made enough to feed half the village.
I lined the loaves along the far counter, covered them with clean linen towels, and banked the fire, just enough to keep the heat for morning.
The storage unit in the back was cool and dark, used mostly for sacks of flour and old linens.
Through the window, I caught a glimpse of Einar crossing the square toward the bakery.
I moved fast. Cleared a space behind some crates and dragged one of the clean hampers over. That’s where I’d hide them. If Jorek and The Wardens needed bread, they’d have it.
I wiped the flour from my hands, cleared the last of the counter, and rushed to lock up. By the time I stepped outside, he was already there.
“Any news?” he asked, and I could’ve told him everything. That my wrist still burned from the soldier grabbing it. That there was something wrong with me for noticing the way Arche’s eyes lingered. About the resistance, The Wardens, the war or the loaves I’d spent the past hours making.
But I didn’t.
“There was a fight outside the bakery,” I said instead. “One of the Eredians crushed a man’s throat with his boot.”
Einar’s face didn’t change. “Then he must’ve done something wrong.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“There are hardly any brave men left,” I muttered.
He stopped, and turned toward me. “They’re not brave, Kera. They’re stupid.”
That’s when I saw it. Something I almost never saw in my brother’s eyes.
Fear.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He turned away and kept walking.
“Just promise me. If they ask something of you… you do it. You comply.”
Something had him shaken. He was never good at hiding things from me.
“I’ll comply,” I said with a small, reassuring smile. It was a lie, but if it made him stop looking at me like that, I’d say it again.
When we got home, our mother was waiting by the door. She pulled me in without a word, arms around me so tightly I could barely breathe. She didn’t say she’d been worried, she didn’t have to.
“How was your day?” My mother asked as we sat down for dinner. “Did you have time to bake those apple cakes you love?”
I shook my head. “No. Just bread. We’re behind.”
“Well… better times are coming.” Her smile trembled.
At least the stew smelled good. Rich, warm, heavy with pork and herbs. But no one was eating. My father just pushed his potatoes around his plate, even Einar wasn’t finishing his, and he usually devoured his plate. I ate in silence for a few minutes, then I couldn’t hold it anymore.
“Okay, what’s going on?” I asked. “What’s actually going on?”
My mother’s gaze faltered, and Einar reached across the table and took her hand.
“We should tell her,” he said.
Her nod came slowly, like it hurt.
“They’ve been rounding people up all day, Kera,” she said. “Innocent people. With false accusations.”
“They took Selma Vandel this afternoon.” Einar blurted.
Stillness wrapped around me like ice.
Selma.
What in Hel had happened? Was Will okay? Aran? The others?
So much had changed in just a few days. I was losing my footing, slipping into something I didn’t recognize.
“What do you mean, taken?” I choked. “Taken where?”
“No one knows,” my father said. “The Eredians arrested her, accusing her of breaking the law.”
“Gods be with that girl,” mother added, closing her eyes in what looked like prayer.
“Kera has promised to do as they say,” Einar added quickly, like obedience still meant anything.
My mother reached across the table, reached for me with trembling hands. I knew what was coming before she even spoke.
“We want you to stay home,” she said. “Please, Kera. Just for a little while.”
I thought of the dough I’d left rising in the bakery. Imagined Mrs. Holt walking in, finding the mess I’d made. Maybe she’d think I’d just been trying to help, to keep up with demand. But that bread would never reach Jorek and the rest without me.
They needed me.
“No,” I said. “Mrs. Holt needs my help. She can’t do this alone, we can barely keep up with deman—”
“It’s not safe anymore!” Father cut me off.
“And where is safe?” I retorted. “Tell me, really. Where is safe now?”
I pushed back my chair and stood.
“I love you,” I said. “But I’m not quitting my job.”
And then I left. I didn’t slam the door behind me, even though I wanted to. I wanted to scream, to run, to rip something apart. But instead, I stepped out into the dark and let the silence cool the fire inside me.
The wind hit, sharp and cold against my skin, tugging at my dress as if it was trying to drag me somewhere I didn’t want to go.
I walked fast. My boots pounding against the dirt, loud in the quiet night.
I passed the gate. The ditch. The crooked fencepost. The neighbor’s land lay ahead, nothing more than a sloped field of wheat and a house that hadn’t lit a lamp in days. That’s where I stopped.
At the crossroads.
One path led into town, where the lights still burned, where soldiers marched and barked orders, and where people were dragged from their homes. The other path disappeared into the trees. Out of Novil. Away.
I stood there, staring down both roads, as if they might open up and give me an answer. I could have left. Just kept walking. Disappear the way Selma did. The way Licia did. The way the old world I used to know did. No one would have stopped me.
And for a heartbeat, I wanted to.
I closed my eyes. The wind picked up again, howling through the trees. I felt it at my back, urging me forward. But my feet stayed planted.
They all needed me.
My family. Mrs. Holt. The Wardens.
I couldn't do it. Not yet.
───── ????? ─────
My parents were cleaning up when I got back. Normally I would’ve helped, cleaned the dishes, dried them, put them back in the cabinets like I always did. But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t do normal.
They looked up at me when I stepped inside, but I avoided their eyes and bent down to untie my shoes.
I was just trying not to fall apart. My eyelids were heavy, my legs barely working, and everything in me hurt.
But if I was going to break down, I wanted it to be upstairs.
In my room. In the dark. Somewhere I could let it out without anyone seeing.
So I started up the stairs.
“Sweetie, please. Don’t go to bed angry,” my mother said behind me.
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to snap at her, so I pushed down the heat that rose in my chest.
“I’m just tired,” I said instead. As calm as I could manage.
Behind me, I heard my father stop moving. A pause. Then:
“You were right,” he said.
That made me turn around.
My mother’s eyes softened.
“I know we don’t say it enough,” she said. “But we love you, little dove. And we see you. I know this hasn't been easy. I shouldn’t have put that on you—asking you to stay home, to stay quiet. It’s just… hard, watching everything change and not knowing how to keep you safe.”
“You don’t have to—” I started.
“I do.”
She rested her hand on my shoulder.
“You’re brave. You always have been. And you’re becoming someone I can’t protect.” She looked at me like she could still see the little girl I used to be. “It breaks my heart. But it also makes me proud.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t a joyous smile. It was one of sorrow.
“I just… I don’t want to lose you. Not to them. Not to this world. But you’re doing what feels right to you,” she said. “And I could never ask more than that. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to listen to your heart.”
My father spoke from across the room.
“And to us.”
My mother let out a quiet breath and shushed him gently.
“Whatever you choose to do with your life is right, darling. It’s yours. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
I couldn’t speak, not without bursting into tears. So I just nodded.
“We just want to protect you. Both of you,” my father said.
My mother reached for my hand and held it. “Things will change soon,” she said. “I know they will. It won’t be like this forever. And you… you will change too.”
Then she glanced toward the door.
“And look?” she added. “I warded it.”
She had drawn ash symbols across the threshold. Faint, familiar curves. The same ones she used to trace on my windowsill when I was little and afraid trolls would come in the night.
“No one will take my babies on my watch,” she said, like that was still something she could promise.