The second bell rang clearly through the night air, steady and sharp… and suddenly, everything changed.
A cry pierced the silence near the south gate. Shadows surged from the alleys, armed with sticks, chains, and rusty guns. The "merchants" snapped upright, their once-friendly faces hardening into cold cruelty.
"Close the gates!" shouted Louis as he rushed toward the north exit. But it was already too late.
The men guarding the entrances locked the gates from the inside. The village's few guards were quickly disarmed in a matter of moments.
Mylova was seized by two strong men. She struggled fiercely.
"Let me go! What do you want?!" she shouted.
"Silence, daughter of the devil," one growled harshly.
Pierre appeared beside her, feigning shock.
"Stop! She hasn't done anything!"
"Handle her later," a soldier barked, pushing Mylova toward the central square.
Children cried out, searching for their parents. Entire families were gathered and surrounded. A few gunshots rang out in the air — meant only to intimidate.
Louis tried to reach Mylova but was pinned against a wall by two men. A strange smell hit his nose — a rag soaked in something. His strength left him and he collapsed.
The abbots emerged from the shadows, dressed in their dark robes, watching the scene with cold satisfaction. The superior raised his arms.
"Lost people… tonight, God's justice takes you into His hands."
In a silence broken only by sobs, the prisoners were herded to waiting carts.
The night, which began with laughter, ended in oppressive silence.
The torches of the attackers cast monstrous shadows on the wooden facades. Screams echoed through every alleyway. Mothers pleaded for their children to be returned, but they were ripped away mercilessly and thrown into the carts.
"Mercy!" cried Margaret, clutching her swollen belly. She was pulled roughly by the arm, almost falling.
"Leave her, she's pregnant!" Mark pleaded but received a harsh blow to his shoulder that made him buckle.
Near the central fountain, the superior abbot watched the scene as if directing a play.
"Everyone in place before the third bell," he ordered coldly.
Families were separated. Men on one side, women and children on the other. The elderly, unable to walk quickly, were shoved roughly.
Mylova, her wrists bound, desperately searched for Louis. She saw only his lifeless form, half-hidden behind a barrel, watched by two soldiers. Her heart tightened.
"Louis…"
A soldier yanked her brutally.
"Move forward."
Pierre, still disguised as a victim, stood in the middle of the procession, pretending to stumble to keep his act believable. But his eyes, cold and calculating, watched to ensure everything went according to plan.
When the third bell rang, the entire convoy left the village. The gates closed behind them, leaving empty, silent houses… a village reduced to a ghost.
The journey to the city was long and arduous. The moon faintly lit the road, revealing faces marked by fear and exhaustion. The creaking wheels of the carts set the oppressive rhythm of silence.
Margaret, curled against Mark, breathed with difficulty. Each jolt of the cart made her wince. Mylova, seated nearby, tried to hold her hand despite the ropes cutting into her wrists.
"Hold on," she whispered.
The abbots rode at the front, flanked by their soldiers. Occasionally, they exchanged low words, punctuated with muffled chuckles.
When they reached the massive gates of the abbey, a shiver ran through the column of prisoners. The heavy doors opened with a sinister creak, revealing the paved courtyard.
"Separate them," the superior ordered.
The men were sent to a dark wing. The women and children to another. Protests were silenced by blows from rifle butts.
As Mylova crossed the threshold, she cast one last glance back toward the night… and felt deep in her heart that this might be the last time she would see freedom.
The gates of the abbey closed behind them with a heavy thud, sealing the prisoners inside like prey in a cage. The cold night air was replaced by a damp, suffocating chill that clung to the ancient stones. Torches fixed along the walls cast flickering shadows that seemed to follow every movement, their light revealing faces pale with fear.
The women and children were herded down a narrow corridor, the echo of footsteps bouncing off the walls. Every sound felt amplified — the creak of the carts being rolled away, the sob of a child, the sharp command of a soldier. The air reeked of incense and something metallic… blood.
Mylova walked with her head high despite the ropes biting into her wrists. She could feel the eyes of the abbots on her back, measuring her, deciding her fate. Each step forward felt like a descent deeper into the jaws of something ancient and merciless.
At the end of the corridor, they reached a heavy iron gate. With a loud screech, it was unlocked and pushed open, revealing a large stone chamber. The walls were bare except for a few wooden crosses. There was no furniture, no bedding — just a cold floor and a single barred window far above, too high to reach.
"Inside," a guard barked.
The women and children hesitated, but the jab of a spear tip forced them to move. Mylova was pushed inside with the others, stumbling slightly but catching herself before she fell. Margaret collapsed onto the floor, clutching her stomach.
One by one, the prisoners were shoved into place until the chamber was packed. The sound of the gate slamming shut echoed like a death sentence.
From somewhere beyond the corridor, Mylova could hear the men shouting, resisting their captors. A sickening crack of wood or bone silenced one of the voices, followed by the dragging of heavy feet. She knew Louis was among them, and the thought tightened her chest until she could barely breathe.
A small girl beside her began to cry softly. Mylova knelt, ignoring the pain in her knees from the cold stone, and whispered gently, "Shhh… it's all right. I'm here." She wasn't sure if she was speaking to the child or to herself.
The sound of footsteps approached again. The iron gate opened slightly, and Pierre stepped in, still wearing his mask of concern. He scanned the room until his eyes locked on Mylova.
"You… come with me," he ordered, his voice unusually firm.
Two guards stepped forward, untying her wrists only to bind them again in front of her. The rough rope scraped her skin raw. Mylova glanced at Margaret, who looked at her with wide, worried eyes.
"Where are you taking her?" Margaret demanded.
Pierre didn't answer. He turned away, leading Mylova out into the cold corridor. The heavy gate shut behind them again, leaving the chamber in darkness.
As they walked, the walls seemed to close in, the faint chanting of the abbots growing louder with every step. Mylova knew this was not the beginning of the end — it was something far worse. It was the beginning of whatever the abbots had planned for her… something they called judgment.