Warning: Gore, Blood, swearing.
Liora knew something was wrong before anyone spoke.
The road into Rosenwyth was too clean.
No carts rattled past her. No children ran barefoot between the houses. Even the dogs—usually loud, territorial things—were gone. The air felt emptied out, like a room after a fire has burned itself down to ash.
She slowed as she reached the first cottage.
The door hung open.
"Ma?" she called, her voice sounding smaller than she remembered.
No answer.
Her pack slid from her shoulder and hit the ground, forgotten. She moved deeper into the village, steps cautious now, eyes scanning for anything familiar, anything that made sense.
The well in the center square was roped shut.
There were marks on the stone. Dark stains scrubbed too hard to be accidental.
Liora stopped walking.
Her chest tightened, breath catching painfully halfway in.
Someone sat on the steps of the old chapel—a woman bent forward, hands clasped, hair gone entirely gray since the last time Liora had seen her. For a moment, hope flared stupidly. If someone was here, then—
"Where is everyone?" Liora asked.
The woman looked up.
Her eyes filled at once.
"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, child."
The sound of it—child, said like that—split something open in Liora's chest.
"What happened?" Liora pressed. "Where's my family?"
The woman stood with effort, as if her bones had aged all at once. She reached for Liora's arm, then hesitated, as though afraid to touch her.
"They came three days ago," she said. "Royal guards."
The world narrowed.
"No," Liora said. "You're mistaken. My father—"
"They read out names," the woman continued, voice trembling. "Said there'd been a plot. Treason. An attempt on the king."
Liora shook her head. "That's not—my father would never—"
"They didn't listen," the woman whispered. "They never do."
The words fell into place with terrible clarity.
Liora stepped back, her heel striking stone. "Where are they?"
The woman swallowed. "Taken. All of them. Your parents. Your sister."
The square tilted.
Liora grabbed the chapel railing to steady herself, iron biting cold into her palm. Her mind refused to move forward, clinging to the last safe thing it knew—this is wrong, this will be fixed, someone will explain.
"They'll come back," she said. It sounded like a question.
The woman's silence was answer enough.
Liora let go of the railing.
The village looked different now—not empty, but violated. Doors broken. Windows boarded shut. The place where her sister used to sit in the sun felt like a bruise she could see.
"Did they say where they were taking them?" Liora asked.
The woman hesitated. "The capital."
Something cold and sharp settled behind Liora's ribs.
The capital meant trials without witnesses. Justice without truth.
Execution.
Her hands curled into fists so tightly her nails cut skin. She welcomed the pain. It was proof she was still here, still breathing, still untouched by the thing that had erased her family.
"I need to go," Liora said.
The woman reached out at last, fingers trembling. "Child—don't. If they find you—"
"They won't," Liora said, and for the first time, her voice didn't shake.
She picked up her pack. It felt heavier now, as if it knew it was carrying more than food and clothes—carrying the last pieces of a life that no longer existed.
As she left Rosenwyth qbehind, Liora didn't cry.
Grief could wait.
What settled in its place was quieter, steadier, and far more dangerous.
A promise she hadn't spoken yet—but would.