Part Three – The Approach
The revolver weighed like iron in his grip as Jonathan climbed. Each stair answered his step with a groan, wood protesting beneath his boots. The house seemed to lean inward, listening.
His breath quickened. He tried to steady it, tried to be the hunter his father would have demanded, but all he felt was the pounding of his heart against his ribs.
One more step. Just one more.
His eyes flicked upward. The corridor stretched ahead, draped in shadow. At the far end, the oak door of Room 32 loomed like a sealed tomb. Iron locks glinted faintly in the candlelight.
Jonathan's throat tightened. Three weeks, and still he couldn't bring himself to do it. Three weeks of feeding them, hiding them, lying for them. Three weeks of pretending to the council, to the town about what happened that night.
His legs threatened to falter, but he pressed forward, whispering in his head:
I'll end it tonight. I have to. I must.
But another voice rose inside him, quieter, crueler.
What if you can't? What if you never will?
He reached the landing. The silence was suffocating. Then—
A sound.
Soft. Gentle. A woman's voice, seeping through the cracks in the oak.
"Jonathan… darling."
His mother.
The voice was warm, almost musical, as though nothing had changed. As though she weren't chained inside, rotting away piece by piece. His chest constricted.
"Let us out, Jonathan. Please."
His knees wavered. For a heartbeat he wanted nothing more than to fling the door open, to see her smile again.
Then came another voice, smaller, frailer. His brother.
"Jon? It's so dark. I'm hungry. Please, can we eat? Remember the IronClover fields? The games we played?"
Jonathan bit down on his lip until it bled. The revolver trembled in his hand. His brother's voice was exactly as it had been three weeks ago. Exactly as it had been the day before everything turned to blood and fire.
He pressed his forehead to the wall beside the door, eyes squeezed shut. Sweat rolled down his temple.
Don't listen. They're not your family anymore. Not your mother. Not your brother. Roths. Just Roths.
But the words rang hollow. He could still hear his mother's lullabies, smell her perfume, remember the way his brother had laughed when they raced across the fields. He wanted to believe those memories were still alive inside that room.
And yet—deep beneath the sweetness, he caught it. The rasp. The hunger. A guttural growl riding beneath their pleas.
Jonathan staggered back a step, nearly tripping over himself. The revolver shook so violently he almost dropped it.
Tonight, he thought again, desperate, clinging to the lie. Tonight I'll do it.
But his body betrayed him. His hand hovered near the door, trembling, his knuckles white around the revolver's grip.
Fear rooted him in place.