Everyone sat in silence as the wagon rattled onward and night slowly gave way to dawn. Elysia parted her lips to speak, but Violet—a small, pink-faced girl, beat her to it.
"I am going to escape," she declared.
Every head turned toward her. In some eyes flickered a fragile glimmer of hope; in others, disbelief.
"And how do you intend to accomplish that?" Francesca inquired, her brows arched, a faintly smug expression resting upon her face.
Deep down, Elysia knew it was a foolish notion. One of those men was not like them. He was unlike any creature she has encountered before. She had heard stories of the night creatures but never seen one.
"I have fled from far worse when I was on the run. These men are no greater," Violet retorted, her chest swelling with pride.
Francesca merely closed her eyes and scoffed. She knew too well the fate that awaited those who attempted escape. She had witnessed it before—she chose not to intervene, last time she had she had suffered for it. Most would not survive the horrors of the trading house; some might argue it was kinder not to reach it at all.
Violet lowered herself back onto the wooden floor, but the fire in her eyes did not dim. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"They stop for noise," she murmured. "They must. We are cargo. If the wagon breaks, we are worth nothing."
A thin girl beside her hesitated. "And if they beat us?"
"They will not kill what they intend to sell," Violet replied quickly. "We make them believe something is wrong. That someone is dying. When they open the door..." She glanced toward the iron latch. "—we run. Not one at a time. Together."
A ripple of unease passed through the girls.
"How far?" someone breathed.
"To the trees," Violet said. "They cannot chase all of us. We scatter. They cannot catch what they cannot follow."
Elysia's fingers tightened in her lap. "You assume they are ordinary men. I saw his eyes,they are that of the devil's"
"They bleed," Violet answered sharply. "I have seen worse than them."
She shifted, subtly pressing her palm against the splintered inner wall of the wagon. The wood was old. Fragile in places. Her thumb worried at a cracked seam until a jagged shard loosened in her grasp. She concealed it beneath her skirt.
"When I shout," Violet whispered, her eyes sweeping across their frightened faces, "you scream too. Shake the wagon, make it convincing."
Not all nodded.
But enough did.
Violet drew in a steadying breath. For a fleeting moment, doubt flickered across her expression—but pride smothered it.
Then she rose.
Before anyone could restrain her, Violet suddenly lunged forward, pounding her fists against the wooden walls of the wagon.
"Stop it! Stop the wagon! I cannot breathe!" she screamed, her voice sharp enough to pierce the heavy dawn air.
The horses whinnied at the sudden commotion as she kicked at the door, rattling the iron latch with all her strength. The wagon rocked violently, sending the girls tumbling against one another.
"Help me!" Violet cried, clawing at the splintered wood as shards bit into her fingers. "If we shake it hard enough, they must stop!"
A harsh shout rang out from outside, followed by the crack of reins. The wagon lurched to an abrupt halt.
Silence fell within—thick, dreadful, expectant.
Footsteps approached. A man,the wagon driver appeared at the door, keys dangling between his fingers. Violet lay curled upon the floor, clutching her chest as though struggling for breath.
The lock clicked open.
The moment the door swung wide and the man leaned in, Violet sprang forward and drove a jagged shard of wood into his eyes. He staggered back with a groan, collapsing to the ground, blood flowing from his eyes.
She bolted.
Several girls followed in her wake, leaving only six behind.
Elysia made to run as well, but Francesca seized her wrist.
"Don't."
"But—" Elysia began.
A sound split the morning air.
Not a shout. Not quite a scream.
Something sharper.
The girls who had fled had scarcely made it ten paces down the road when he appeared.
The black-eyed man stepped from the treeline as though the shadows themselves had shaped him.
In his hand gleamed a sword unlike any Elysia had seen—its blade dark and faceted, catching the pale dawn light like polished onyx.
He moved.
It was not natural movement. It was swift—terribly swift. One moment the girls were running, the next they were falling silent, one by one, as though the very air had struck them down. The blade flashed only briefly, black light against grey morning.
Within seconds, it was over.
The road lay still.
No cries. No struggle. Only the soft rustle of wind through the grass.
Violet sat on the ground frozen staring at the mutilated bodies before her, for some cruel reason he had spared her.
Just like Violet the remaining girls inside the wagon could not breathe. Some covered their mouths. Others stared, eyes wide and unblinking.
The man lifted his blade and gave it a single, deliberate shake . Not a drop marred his coat.
He walked towards Violet, grabbed her by her clothes and dragged her roughly towards wagon.
He walked forward slowly.
Measured.
Unhurried.
When he reached the wagon, he stopped just beyond the open door. He lifted her effortlessly and flung her unceremoniously into the wagon.
His gaze—those unnatural black eyes settled upon them.
"Let this serve," he said quietly, his voice calm and almost courteous, "as instruction."
No one dared move.
"No further attempts will be tolerated."
He looked from face to face, pausing on each girl long enough to ensure she understood.
"You will arrive alive," he continued. "What becomes of you afterward will depend entirely upon your obedience."
He stared down at the wagon driver who still laid in the floor,
"Get up you fool. You'll be paying for the damage.
You had one job."
The man swallowed visibly gripping his injured eye.
Francesca's grip on Elysia's wrist tightened, though her face remained composed.
The black-eyed man stepped back at last.
"Close it."
The door slammed shut.
The lock clicked.
And the wagon began to move once more.
Inside, no one spoke.
Not even Violet's name.