Chapter 7

CLAUDIA. The journey from Sangria Amori to my hometown feels long and short at the same time. As I sit there in the carriage watching the palace disappear behind a mountain in the distance and begin to see the tall magnolia trees surrounding the famous springs of my home, I can’t help but feel a mixture of longing and relief. Longing because it’s been my home for years and years. I have made good memories and bonded with amazing people. I overcame a lot of bad things. I met the one I thought I would know forever. But the relief comes from the loss of all of that. From the knowledge that from now on, I would be free from that palace and everyone in it. Especially Achilles. My heart still makes a little flip at the simple thought of his name. I still have to clench my hands and pierce my own palms with my nails to remind myself that I shouldn’t be thinking about him. But thankfully, I don’t have to acknowledge it because the carriage finally stops. The coachman Peter calls out from the front, smacking the carriage door with his cane. “You’re here now, girl. It’s time to move out.” I gather all my bags and sling them all on my shoulders, slightly struggling with the weight as I climb down the rickety old carriage. “Thank you so much, Peter.” I give him a happy salute, about to head to the arch that reads Nightshade Springs. But then, I hear him calling out, “Are you sure you’re going to be safe from here on?” That makes me pause. So far, throughout the whole journey, I haven’t sensed any Rogues at all. But Peter has a point. The infestation of Rogues is very much real and rampant, and I haven’t been to my hometown in five years. I honestly don’t know what’s waiting in store for me here. But still, I don’t want to bother him. If there is any danger out here, I would rather face it; I know that he has a family. So I just smile at him. “I got it, Peter. Thank you again and be careful on your way back!” He looks uncertain, but he leaves anyway, whipping the horses until they gallop faster. Soon enough, he’s gone. And I’m alone in the middle of the woods, surrounded by the familiar fresh scent of springs and pine. The scent of home. A soft smile appears on my face as I start to walk, following the stone path that leads to the edge of the village where the cemetery is. I suppose it’s a grim thing to start with, but I’ve been meaning to visit my parents’ graves for the past years. Grief and the start of the revolution put a halt to all of that, so now I feel quite happy that I get to see them, even if it’s just this way. My mom was a maid like I am. Or was. Either way, she served the palace too, specifically as a handmaiden to the former Queen. My dad was a gardener. She died from deadly flu five years ago, and he followed right after. Back then, I thought this was unfair. How could they leave me in this world alone? I was resentful. But eventually, I realized that it may have been out of love. He was never able to be apart from her for any period of time, and not even death could stop him from chasing after her. They told me that they met each other at a gathering for servants, and my father fell in love with my mother when he first heard her sing. I honestly can’t blame him. She had the most wonderful voice, and he always said that I had that beautiful voice too. I never really knew if he was just making that up, but the ones who heard me sing also told me that I do have a pretty voice. The memory brings a smile to my face, and as I approach their graves, I find myself humming along to the tune of my mother’s lullaby. Their graves are now covered in ivy. I sweep some of the leaves away and light a candle for them. I sit there for a while, watching the light flicker on their gravestones. I reach out and feel the warmth, opening my mouth to talk to them like I always did, but that’s when something strikes me. The sour, rotten smell. My entire body freezes. I shoot to my feet, clutching my bags closer to me as I look around. My heart is beating in my ears and I almost want to whimper, but it only gets worse when I finally see a single Rogue. It’s hiding behind gravestones in the distance, its eyes gleaming with hunger and malice as they focus on me. Its low growls make the ground hum. There’s tension in the air, thick and suffocating, telling me it’s been stalking me like prey for a while now. It’s still far but ready to spring. Ready to chase and feed. And I know that if I take one step back, it will come out and kill me. I slowly exhale, stepping back and feeling it move with me, keeping the distance between us the same. Bit by bit, I ease my bags off my shoulders and set them down. The eyes of the Rogue follow my movement like two laser pointers. I slip my hand in my pocket, looking for the silver knife that Maia gave me as a parting gift, ready to it down. As though on cue, the Rogue leaps into the air as soon as I raise the knife. But I’m ready this time. I don’t come to meet it. Instead, I stand my ground, waiting for the perfect moment. As soon as it flies midair to pounce on me, I duck right under it and run the knife along its throat. The Rogue falls to the ground with a whimper. It scrambles to get upright again, but before it can do so, I stomp its fragile head flat with my boot, its blood spattering everywhere. “Thank the gods,” I mutter, but that’s when I realize that I spoke too soon. As soon as the Rogue stops moving, the forest seems to come alive right before me. More Rogues emerge from the trees, sniffing and snarling, their eyes alight with joy when they see a perfectly good meal severely outnumbered. All at once, they jump toward me. A scream breaks out of my lips. I raise my bags to shield myself, but at this point, it’s only a matter of time before they take me down and feast on me. I’m only waiting for the pain now…. But before it can come, I hear loud bangs in the distance. Gunshots. Followed by the loud thuds of the Rogues hitting the ground, dropping like dead flies. I lower my bags in horror. All the Rogues are dead, their heads bleeding from a single smoking puncture wound between their eyes. I’m about to turn around to see my savior, but then I feel the still-hot muzzle of the gun against my back. “Drop your knife if you want to live. Who are you and what do you need?”