Chapter 50 - I Will Not Perform
The day refuses to end.
It stretches on in a way that feels unnatural, as if time itself has slowed out of cruelty rather than circumstance. The hours do not pass they linger. They drag across my skin and settle into my bones, making every moment heavier than it should be.
I sit in the carriage.
Still.
Awake.
Listening.
The constant creak of the wheels beneath me has become a rhythm I cannot escape.
Wood groaning against wood. Iron grinding softly as it turns.
The uneven road beneath us sends small, relentless jolts through the carriage, each one rattling my body, each one stirring the dull ache that has not left my head since I woke.
It pulses.
Steady.
Unforgiving.
Sometimes sharper when we hit a stone too hard. Sometimes softer when the road smooths for a few blessed seconds. But it never disappears.
Nothing disappears.
They untied my legs.
I noticed it hours ago, though I am not certain when it happened. One moment the pressure had been there tight, restricting and the next it was gone. I shifted carefully at first, testing it, stretching my feet slightly beneath me, feeling the strange, unfamiliar freedom of movement.
It is small.
Insignificant.
But it is something.
I take it.
I shift my weight when I can, careful not to jostle Elias too much beside me. I stretch my legs slightly, flex my toes, move in quiet, controlled ways that do not draw attention but remind me that I am not completely bound.
My hands remain tied.
The rope is worse now.
Hours of movement have made it dig deeper into my skin, each small shift tightening it further, rubbing the already raw flesh into something far more painful. My wrists burn constantly now, the skin broken in places where the fibers have bitten too harshly, too long.
I can feel where it has torn.
Where it has opened.
Each time I move my fingers, the sting sharpens.
But I ignore it.
Pain is something I understand.
Pain is something I can hold.
It is everything else that threatens to undo me.
Elias lies beside me.
He has not moved.
Not truly.
Only small, faint shifts that barely count as life. His breathing is shallow. too shallow and I find myself watching it constantly, as if I can will it to continue simply by paying enough attention.
I count sometimes.
Without realizing it.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Then I lose track and start again.
His chest rises unevenly.
Falls too slowly.
Pauses too long before the next breath comes.
Each pause tightens something inside me.
Each breath loosens it again.
I shift closer to him when the carriage jolts too hard, bracing my shoulder against his body, trying to keep him from being thrown against the wooden wall. His head rolls slightly with the movement, his body too unresponsive to correct itself.
"Stay," I whisper once, though I know he cannot hear me. "Just... stay."
My voice sounds strange.
Too soft.
Too small in this space.
The inside of the carriage smells like dust and aged wood, mixed with the faint metallic scent of blood his, mostly, though some of it is mine. The air is thick, warm from the sun that presses against the walls, turning the enclosed space into something stifling.
I glance toward the narrow opening where the curtain has shifted slightly.
Through it, I can see the banners.
My family's crest.
Bold.
Unhidden.
Carried openly in the wind.
For a moment, it feels like a cruel illusion.
Something that doesn't belong here.
Home.
The word forms quietly in my mind.
But it feels wrong now.
Distant.
Detached.
As if it belongs to a version of me that no longer exists.
A quiet understanding settles into me.
This is not hidden.
Not secret.
Not something done in fear.
This is deliberate.
Chosen.
I know where we are going.
Kyrian.
The name sits heavily in my chest.
I do not know why.
And I do not want to.
Knowing would make this real in a way I am not ready for.
So I push it away.
I look back at Elias.
And hold onto something else.
I could run.
The thought comes suddenly.
Sharp.
Clear.
My legs are free.
If the carriage slows
If I wait for the right moment
I could jump.
Run.
Disappear into the trees.
The idea lingers.
Longer than I want it to.
My body almost reacts.
Almost shifts forward.
Almost prepares.
But then
I look at him.
At the bruises darkening his skin.
At the dried blood at his temple.
At the way his breathing falters before catching again.
And the thought fades.
Quietly.
Completely.
I will not leave him.
Even if I could.
Even if it meant freedom.
Even if it meant survival.
I will not leave him.
And even if I tried
They would catch me.
I know that too.
So I stay.
The sun moves.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
The light shifts from harsh gold to something softer, dimmer. Shadows stretch longer across the ground outside. The air cools as the day begins to fall away, the warmth of the carriage fading into something colder, more biting.
Eventually
We stop.
The sudden stillness is jarring.
The wheels fall silent.
The horses shift restlessly outside.
Voices rise.
Louder now.
Closer.
Night settles around us like something heavy and suffocating.
I watch through the narrow opening as they gather.
A fire is built.
It catches quickly, flames licking upward, bright and hungry, casting flickering light across the clearing. Sparks rise into the dark, disappearing into the night sky as if swallowed whole.
The men gather around it.
They sit.
They laugh.
They drink.
They eat.
As if this is nothing more than a long journey with good company.
As if I am not here.
As if Elias is not dying beside me.
Isaac is among them.
Of course he is.
He leans back slightly, relaxed, a cup in his hand. His posture is easy, his movements unhurried. He laughs with them, speaks with them, belongs among them in a way that makes something cold settle in my chest.
He looks comfortable.
Pleased.
Proud.
I turn away.
Back to Elias.
Still breathing.
Still here.
My head leans back against the wood behind me.
The exhaustion settles deeper.
Not just in my body.
In my bones.
In my mind.
A kind of tiredness that does not fade with rest.
I close my eyes.
Just for a moment.
The carriage door opens.
The sound cuts through everything.
Sharp.
Immediate.
My eyes snap open.
Before I can move
A hand grabs my arm.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
I gasp as I'm pulled forward, my body dragged from the carriage with no time to brace myself. My feet stumble against the ground, unsteady after hours of stillness.
"Move."
The grip tightens.
I do not fight.
I am pulled toward the fire.
The heat hits my face instantly, harsh and overwhelming after the cool darkness of the carriage. The light is blinding, flickering too brightly, making everything feel too close, too exposed.
The men look up.
All of them.
Their attention lands on me at once.
Curious.
Amused.
Hungry.
I feel it.
Like something crawling across my skin.
My hands are suddenly freed.
The rope falls away.
I don't move immediately.
I look down instead.
At my wrists.
The skin is red.
Raw.
Broken.
Deep marks circle them, some areas torn open where the rope dug too deep, too long. The air stings against them now, sharp and immediate.
I flex my fingers slowly.
The ache spreads up my arms.
But I ignore it.
Isaac laughs.
"Well," he says, his voice light, almost entertained. "Look at you."
I don't look at him.
"Entertain us," he continues, gesturing lazily. "My companions deserve something for their efforts."
A few men chuckle.
Others watch silently.
Waiting.
I look around them.
One by one.
Then I say, softly
"No."
The word is quiet.
But it is clear.
Isaac tilts his head.
"Dance."
I remain still.
"I said dance."
Silence.
I stand there.
Unmoving.
He gestures again.
Sharper now.
"Dance."
I yawn.
It slips out.
Soft.
Tired.
Unimpressed.
The man behind me shoves me forward.
Hard.
I fall.
My knees hit the ground, pain shooting up my legs, my hands catching me just before I collapse fully.
Laughter rises around me.
But I don't stay down.
I push myself up.
Slow.
Deliberate.
I stand again.
And I look at them.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Just
Still.
"I said dance," Isaac repeats.
I don't move.
I don't answer.
I don't acknowledge him at all.
I simply stand.
He moves suddenly.
His hand wraps around my throat.
Tight.
Cutting off my breath instantly.
I gasp.
My body reacts on instinct, hands lifting slightly before I force them back down.
No.
I will not beg.
His grip tightens.
"You don't get to refuse me."
My lungs burn.
My chest tightens.
Fear rises.
Sharp.
Cold.
But I meet his eyes.
I do not look away.
I do not plead.
Something in his expression shifts.
He throws me.
My body slams into the carriage behind me, the impact ripping a scream from my throat before I can stop it. Pain explodes through my back, my shoulder, my head snapping back against the wood.
The world tilts.
Spins.
My vision blurs.
For a moment
Everything is pain.
Everything is sound.
Everything is too much.
But I push through it.
I force myself up.
Slow.
Shaking.
Unsteady.
But standing.
I don't cry.
I don't speak.
I don't give him anything.
Because I would rather die
Than perform for someone who is not my husband.