**Chapter 136 – What Came Before**
The room was still full.
No one had left after Elowen woke up. The rain outside had stopped completely, and the weak light between the clouds came in through the window as if the entire day had been holding its breath along with them.
Elowen was sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows. The arm still immobilized. The body still tired. But her eyes, now truly open, carried a seriousness far too old for her age.
— You don't have to force it — Lysithea said, low.
— I want to — Elowen answered. — If I keep holding it in… it will keep weighing the same way.
Harley pulled a chair closer. Kuroe stood near the head of the bed. Joker sat on the windowsill in silence. Astrid, Rina, Marina, Sylvara and Lirien occupied what space remained. Graciela crossed her arms near the door. Mirella stood beside her. Elara observed without interrupting.
Elowen took a deep breath.
— I wasn't born alone. Or in the kingdom of women. I had a home. I had a father. I had a mother.
The silence in the room became absolute.
— I was seven years old.
---
The house was far enough from any large city not to matter on the map, and close enough to an old road to still receive people passing through. It was simple: good wood, a yard with a low fence, a well at the back and a dry cellar that her father used to store tools, pots and winter supplies.
Elowen's mother was named **Miren**. She had light brown hair that always escaped her bun, gray-green eyes and a fine face marked by easy smiles. She wasn't tall, but she walked fast, like someone solving three things at once. Her hands smelled of flour and herbs most days.
Her father was named **Taren**. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair cut short and a week's worth of stubble most of the time. His eyes were the same grayish tone Elowen would have later, only warmer. Calloused hands from tools, a deep voice that only softened with the two of them.
In the morning, Miren hummed without a proper melody while lighting the stove. Taren came in from the workshop smelling of sawdust and iron, washed his hands too much and still left marks on the towel.
— Elowen — he called every morning, almost the same way. — If you climb on the roof again, I'm telling your mother.
— You won't tell — she answered, already halfway across the yard.
— I will.
— You won't.
Miren, from the window, without even turning:
— He will tell. And I'll hide the sweet bread.
— Betrayal — Elowen said.
— Education — her mother corrected.
They laughed easily. Argued over small things. Shared the same bench in front of the house at the end of the day, watching the empty road as if the entire world could pass by there and still not be more important than their yard.
At night the house smelled of bread and firewood. Taren told poorly told stories from when he was an apprentice. Miren filled the holes in the story just to irritate him. Elowen slept in the small back room, the blanket pulled up to her nose, listening to the two of them talk quietly in the living room until their voices became only a safe sound.
It was a small life.
Warm.
Enough.
---
The day it ended began far too ordinary.
In the morning, Elowen helped Miren wash the beans. Taren went out to fix the back fence, because a section had given way with the week's rain. Miren complained that he always left it for the last day. He answered that the last day was the best day to work, because the laziness had already gotten tired.
— That doesn't make sense — Miren said.
— It makes sense to me — Taren answered, wiping his thumb across his dirty forehead, the same lazy gesture as always.
Elowen laughed at the two of them and went to play near the well with a stick turned into a sword. The sun was high. The wind was good. For a while the entire world seemed to fit inside that low fence.
It was at the end of the afternoon that the sound of the road changed.
It wasn't a merchant's cart. It wasn't a neighbor. It was too many horses, too many steps, too many voices for their quiet path.
Taren wiped his hands on his pants and went to the door.
— Stay there — he said to Miren, without drama. Just habit.
Elowen, in the yard, saw the men before she understood what they were.
Dirty from the road. Heavy clothes. Eyes of people who had already walked far too long to still pretend politeness. Some laughed. Others just looked at the house as if measuring furniture.
Taren opened his mouth to speak.
He didn't get to finish the first sentence.
The dry sound cut the air. His body hit the doorframe and slid down. Miren screamed in a way Elowen had never heard — a sound too loud, too broken, too wrong to fit in that house.
— Inside! — Miren shouted. — Elowen, inside!
The girl ran without understanding everything. Only the blood on the floor. Only her father not moving. Only her mother's hand gripping her arm with iron strength.
They crossed the kitchen. Miren knocked over a chair without looking. Opened the cellar door with her shoulder, pulled Elowen down the stairs into the dark and pushed her into the narrow gap behind the supply boxes — a tight space between wood and wall, where only a child fit properly.
— Get in.
— Mom—
— Get in, Elowen.
The girl got in. Miren covered her with tarp. With a sack. With a loose board. With whatever was in front of her. Her hands trembled so much that the sound of the wood seemed too loud. The light brown hair stuck to her sweaty forehead.
— Don't make a sound — she whispered. Her face was already wet. — For nothing. For nothing in this world. Do you hear your mother?
— I-I hear.
— If someone calls, you don't answer. If someone knocks, you don't answer. If the whole house falls, you don't answer.
— And you?
Miren held her face for a second, forehead pressed to hers in the dark. The gray-green eyes were open too wide.
— I'll handle it. You stay. Deal?
Elowen nodded, crying without sound.
Miren kissed her forehead too quickly and went up.
The cellar door closed.
---
Upstairs, the men were already inside.
Elowen heard everything through the low cellar ceiling: boots, furniture being pushed, someone spat, someone laughed, someone said the house was better than the last one.
— Where's the woman?
— Kitchen.
— And the man?
— Already gone.
Footsteps. Miren's voice, tense, trying to sound firmer than her body allowed.
— Take whatever you want and leave.
Laughter.
— Polite little listener. Look at that.
— I said leave.
— And I said this house has a new owner now. Is there a cellar?
A silence that was too short.
— There is.
— Great. Good base. Road nearby. No one in the middle of the way to stick their nose in.
Another voice, thicker:
— Where's the girl?
Elowen's blood froze in the gap.
— There is no girl — Miren answered.
— There is. A house this size always has one. The smell of child is still on the cloth.
— There is no girl.
A slap echoed. Then another. Miren stumbled on something. Someone cursed.
— Speak properly.
— There is… no… girl.
More noise. Dragging. Her breathing failing. Elowen pressed her mouth with both hands until it hurt, her entire body trembling in the dark, unable to scream, unable to leave, unable to do anything except exist curled up behind the boxes.
That was when Miren's voice changed.
It didn't get louder.
It became final.
— You're not going to find her.
One of the men understood too late.
— Hey, hey, stop—
The sound that came after wasn't a long fight. It was the short and terrible noise of someone choosing the end with her own hands before the worst could be imposed. A heavy body on the floor. A curse. Another. Someone kicking furniture out of pure rage.
— Crazy bitch!
— Did she really kill herself?
— She did. Look. Neck. Kitchen knife.
Dirty silence.
— Shit. I wanted the woman.
— Forget it. Dead doesn't work. The house works. Dry cellar, road, space. We use it as a base and that's it.
— And the girl?
A pause.
— If she exists, she'll show up when she gets hungry. A child doesn't stay quiet forever. If she doesn't exist, better. Less problem.
— And if she shows up?
— Then we decide later. Now throw the body out and clean this shit. I don't want blood where I'm going to sleep.
Laughter. Dragging. The sound of people settling into a life that was still warm.
In the dark of the gap, Elowen pressed her knees to her chest and cried without voice.
Miren had lied until the last second.
And the lie had worked.
---
The first days in the hiding place were the longest.
Elowen couldn't count time properly in the dark. She measured the world by sound. In the morning the men coughed, cursed, opened the door, talked about routes and cargo. In the afternoon someone came back smelling of drink. At night the house fell into a thick silence, broken only by snoring and, every now and then, by a short argument.
Miren had left, without Elowen noticing in the moment of the push, a small sack by the gap: hard bread, dried fruit, a bit of dried meat, two canteens of water. Little. Calculated for "a few days," not for a life.
On the first day, Elowen almost didn't eat. She only cried. Slept in pieces. Woke up thinking she would hear her mother's voice calling from the top of the stairs. Woke up thinking she would see her father at the cellar door, tall, broad-shouldered, asking why she was hidden in the dark.
They didn't call.
On the second day, hunger beat the knot in her throat. She bit the bread slowly, counting chews as if that would make the food last longer. Drank a small sip. Then another. Talked low to herself without realizing:
— Just a little more. Just a little more. Mom said to stay.
On the third day, she already knew some of the men's steps. The heavy one who limped. The one who spat all the time. The one who laughed at anything. The one who ordered the others — lower voice, more dangerous, without needing to shout.
Once, two of them came down to the cellar.
Elowen stopped breathing.
— Just old tools — one said.
— And rats, maybe.
— If there's a rat, kill it. I don't want animals in the stock.
The lantern passed too close. The light cut through the gap between the boxes. Elowen squeezed her eyes shut hard, as if that would make her smaller. The steps circled. Someone kicked a box. Then they went up.
When the door closed, she only managed to cry again, now from a fear so physical it hurt in her stomach.
On the fourth day, the food was already running out. The water too. Elowen ran her tongue over her dry teeth and started sleeping more, not from peace — from economy. Every time a noise came from upstairs, her body reacted before her head: shoulder locked, hand on mouth, heart racing.
Sometimes, in the dark, she whispered to Taren.
Sometimes to Miren.
Sometimes just their names, repeated until they lost meaning.
— I stayed. I stayed. I stayed.
As if fulfilling the last order could still undo the rest.
---
When the food truly ran out, she still waited.
One day with nothing.
Her mouth dried first. Then her head throbbed. The hunger stopped being a living pain and became a spread-out, slow, irritated weakness.
Two days.
Her legs trembled just from changing position in the gap. The smell of her own body mixed with damp wood made her nauseous. Upstairs the men laughed at something — some joke, a game, a small cruelty — and the sound crossed the floor like an insult.
Only then did the fear of dying there, quiet, forgotten behind boxes, become greater than the fear of going up.
At night the house almost always fell into a thick silence. Fewer steps. Fewer voices. Some distant snoring.
Elowen came out.
Every movement hurt. Every board seemed ready to give her away. She removed the tarp. Pushed the box. Crawled out of the gap with numb hands. The entire cellar seemed larger than on the night she had entered. She climbed the stairs slowly, stopping at every creak. Crossed the kitchen in the dark. Saw the living room turned into a storage of dirty people and travel sacks. The back window was the shortest way out.
She almost made it.
Almost.
A man appeared from the corridor as if he had been born from the shadow. His eyes opened. His mouth too.
— The girl—
Elowen ran.
She didn't think. Didn't choose direction with intelligence. She just ran. Hit her hip on the table. Knocked over a mug. Heard the shout behind. Opened the window too hard, cut her hand on the edge, jumped into the yard and bolted for the fence, for the woods, for anywhere that wasn't that house.
— It's the girl! Get her!
— Alive! Alive, damn it!
The chase came right away.
Voices. Branches breaking. Someone cursing. Another laughing. Lantern light bouncing between trees.
She ran with hunger, thirst and dehydration hanging on her body like dead weight. Even so she ran. Because stopping was worse. Because her life, for the second time in a few days, depended only on that.
At some point — minutes, hours, she didn't know — the noise behind diminished. Her chest burned. Her legs trembled. She curled up behind thick roots, mouth open without being able to pull air properly, and thought, for one cruel second, that she had escaped.
She hadn't.
A hand grabbed her hair and pulled back.
The man was one of the group. Heavy breathing. Broken smile. Eyes with nothing inside except irritation and the ugly desire of someone who had run too far to return empty-handed.
— Found the little rat.
He asked where she had been hiding. How many days. If she had seen the route. If she had heard names. Elowen didn't answer properly. Her mouth wouldn't obey. Then came the first slap. Then another. Then her body on the ground. Kick. Pull. Her mouth filled with blood. Her vision flickered. The pain became a continuous thing, without beginning or end.
— Speak.
Silence.
— Speak, you wretch.
More blows. Another. The world swayed.
At some point, in the middle of the beating, Elowen felt something strange happen in her own eyes. As if the color were leaving. As if the fear, the sadness and even the hatred were being pushed too far away, leaving only a cold emptiness. The man was still shouting. The pain still existed. But some part of her was already starting to shut down so she wouldn't break completely.
When he got tired of hitting, his gaze changed.
Elowen, even at seven years old, even at the limit, understood.
He didn't see a child. He saw prey.
His hands went for her clothes.
It was in that instant — in that exact second when her world had already given up on making sense — that the woods around them moved differently.
It wasn't wind.
It was people.
The first figure came out between the trees like a silver cut in the darkness. Light armor of white and green metal. Red hair tied high. Hard eyes. In her hand, a short spear already stained from movement too fast for the man to react.
The blade crossed his throat with a wet and final sound.
He didn't even scream properly. He only opened his mouth and fell sideways, choking on his own blood, hands on his neck as if he could hold life there.
Other women appeared next.
One with black hair cut at chin length, a scar on her brow, a wide sword still dripping. Another taller, dark skin, braids held with bronze rings, bow already re-strung. Two more. Then more. The small clearing in the woods became surrounded by armed and furious female presence.
The redhead — **Serenya** — kicked the man's body away from the girl with open disgust. The one with black hair, **Vaela**, knelt quickly, took off her own cloak and covered Elowen without asking questions first. The archer, **Nyra**, stayed on guard, listening to the woods.
Elowen would only learn later why they were there.
The women of the kingdom hadn't appeared by miracle. They were on a mission in the area — tracking trafficking routes and recent disappearances in isolated villages. They had spent the entire afternoon cutting through the woods when they heard the screams. Not screams of a fight between equals. Screams of an irritated man. Then the dry sound of someone being beaten without being able to answer. That was enough for them to change their route.
They arrived at the exact moment when any second more would have been too late.
— Child — Serenya said, voice low and cutting. — You're with me now.
Elowen didn't answer. She only existed there, covered, trembling or perhaps no longer even able to tremble.
Vaela passed her hand over the girl's blood-stained face, hard eyes already wet in a way that didn't match the scar.
— Who did this?
Elowen's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
— M-men… in the house…
— How many?
— Many. They… killed my father. My mother… h-hid with me… then…
Her voice failed. Vaela held her face with more care.
— Slowly. We have time.
But they didn't. Not really. Even so, Elowen told them.
The father at the door. The dry sound. Her mother's hand. The cellar. The order not to answer. The days in the dark. The food running out. The escape. The chase. The beating. What the man was about to do when they arrived.
As the story came out, the women's faces changed.
Nyra squeezed the bow until her knuckles whitened.
— Sons of bitches.
Vaela cried without sound, jaw locked.
— Seven years old.
Serenya didn't cry. In her the rage came clean, hot, almost sacred.
— Where is the house?
Elowen pointed the direction with a trembling hand.
— Far… but I know the way.
— Then you're going to take us — Vaela said, already lifting her carefully. — And on the way… we clean the road.
Serenya looked at the others.
— No one from that group sleeps in a stolen house tonight.
No one disagreed.
---
Elowen doesn't remember every face that fell on the way.
She remembers the sound.
Men who were still searching for her in the woods appeared between the trees and barely had time to understand the mistake. Nyra's arrow found the throat before the scream. Vaela's sword opened chest and shoulder in a single movement. Serenya didn't fight with beauty — she fought with decision. Each body on the ground was one less point on that night's dirty list.
Once, one of the pursuers recognized Elowen and shouted:
— It's her! The gi—
He didn't finish. Nyra had already released the arrow.
— Don't look if you don't want to — Vaela said to Elowen.
But Elowen looked.
Because part of her needed to see that the world could answer.
When they reached the house, the moon was already high.
The low fence was crooked. The old door, marked by boots and the dirt of people who hadn't been born there. Serenya stopped in front, looked at Elowen still covered by the cloak, still far too small for all of that, and spoke without softening too much:
— Now you're going to see a beautiful show.
The women of the kingdom entered.
There was no negotiation. There were no easy prisoners. The massacre was fast and complete: short screams, wood breaking, blood on the floor that had once been only house wood. Someone tried to flee through the kitchen. He didn't reach the window. Someone shouted that he could pay. He paid nothing. The entire house became a short and dirty scramble, until only the breathing of armed women and bodies on the floor remained.
In the end, the leader was left.
They didn't kill him right away.
They dragged the man to the yard, threw him on the ground in front of Elowen and made space. Serenya placed a short knife near the girl's hand. She didn't force it. She didn't make a long speech.
— This one ordered the others.
The leader looked at Elowen and, for the first time that night, his arrogance truly broke.
— W-wait. Wait. I can—
— You can shut up — Vaela said.
— It wasn't me who—
— It was — Serenya cut him off. — If not by the hand, by the order. It's the same rot.
He begged. Spoke of money. Of information. Of routes. Of anything. His voice rose and fell, dirty with fear.
Elowen listened.
Then she picked up the knife.
What followed was not clean. It was not quick. She was seven years old, her hands still trembled, and even so each movement carried the cellar, the mother, the father, the hunger, the hand in her hair, the clothes being pulled. The amazons didn't interrupt. They also didn't celebrate. They only waited.
When Elowen finally stopped, the knife fell from her hand.
For a second, there was nothing.
In the next second, everything she had pushed to the bottom — the father at the door, her mother's voice in the cellar, the days in the dark, the hunger, the thirst, the hand in her hair, the fear, the hatred, the delayed relief — rose all at once.
Elowen cried.
It wasn't a contained cry. It was the kind of cry that hurts in the chest, that fails the breathing, that makes the entire body tremble as if it were going to fall apart. She fell to her knees in the yard, hands dirty, the cloak far too large around her small body, and cried without being able to stop.
Serenya knelt immediately.
— Hey. Hey. Look at me.
Vaela was already on the other side, pulling the girl into a firm hug, one hand on the nape, the other on her back.
— You can cry. You can. Don't hold it anymore.
Nyra approached too, knelt and lightly pressed her forehead to Elowen's shoulder, without trying to make the crying disappear in a hurry. Other women formed a loose circle around them, not as a war guard — as a wall.
— I w-wanted… — Elowen sobbed. — I wanted them… not to…
— I know — Vaela murmured. — I know, little one.
— My mother… my father…
— We know — Serenya said, her voice far less hard than in combat. — You're not alone now.
Elowen grabbed Vaela's clothes with too much force. Cried until her throat hurt. Cried until there was no sound left, only failing air. The amazons didn't pull away. Didn't demand courage. Didn't say to be strong. They just stayed.
When the worst of the trembling passed, Serenya passed her hand through the girl's dirty hair and spoke low, looking at the others:
— She's not going back anywhere alone.
— Of course not — Vaela answered.
— We take her with us — Nyra completed. — The kingdom can handle one more.
Serenya nodded.
— Then it's decided. From now on, you stay with us.
Elowen, still in Vaela's lap, still wet from crying, only managed to nod her head. Not because she understood the size of it. Because for the first time since the door of the house, someone had said "with us" and it had sounded true.
---
In the academy room, Elowen's voice took a little while to return.
She wiped the corner of her eye with her good hand, unable to hide that the story still hurt entirely.
— That's how I went with them. Not as a soldier. Not as a mission. As a child who no longer had anywhere to go back to.
Lysithea pressed her lips together, eyes full.
— And they… raised you.
— They raised me — Elowen confirmed. — With time, I opened up to them. Treated them as family. Because that's what they became. Serenya. Vaela. Nyra. The others too. The rest of my life, until I came to the academy, was with those women.
She looked at the group slowly.
— That's why I didn't talk to the girls who came with me. It wasn't arrogance. I just… couldn't. I already had a family. And I couldn't open the door for anyone else. Until here.
Kuroe held her gaze in silence.
— Until you — Elowen continued. — Until Kuroe approached. Until the whole group. You made me feel that same kind of place again. The same kind of home. That's why I managed to get close. And the mark… the mark only put the feelings in harmony. I still love the amazons. I always will. But you… Joker, Harley, all of you… became my real family too.
The room stayed quiet for a long second.
Harley was the first to speak, her voice lower than normal.
— Then we hear the rest. Life with them. The kingdom. Everything.
Elowen nodded, tired, but firm.
— Next time. I'll tell how it was to grow up there.
Outside, night had already fully fallen over the academy. Inside the room, no one stood up to leave.
The story of the seven-year-old girl had stopped on the road to the kingdom.
And the rest still waited.
**End of Chapter 136**