Chapter 11: The Shattered Starlight
Marko took a long breath. Then spoke in a low tone.
"She is not a prize to be won in a feast."
"It is about children's marriage," Marko finally replied, his voice soft, eyes steady. "Why not leave it up to them?"
He sipped from his cup and smiled thinly. "We seniors interfering too much... it's not always a good thing, don't you think?" He looked toward Singha with a calm but pointed gaze.
The smile on Singha's lips never reached his eyes. He clapped, loud and showy, drawing the tribe's attention once more.
"Good, good! It's indeed a matter for the young. And I think our beautiful princess here will surely come to like my son." He looked toward Maria with a gaze that felt like flame scorching silk. "Darling, my son may be a bit childish and might've touched a few flowers..." —his voice dripped with mock modesty— "but those flowers were never fit to become the daughter-in-law of the great Ragnar tribe."
Singha rose and walked toward Maria. The feast around them dimmed into background noise. He leaned close to her ear, his voice low, venomous.
"You know my son likes you," he hissed. "And I don't mind burning your little tribe to the ground and taking you with me tonight. But I'm being kind. I don't want to ruin your people's evening. You understand what I'm saying, don't you?"
Maria's heart thundered in her chest. Her breath grew shallow. Sweat traced down her spine like ice. Her eyes flickered toward her father, then her mother. Their helpless faces—broken by years of enduring cruelty and compromise—told her the truth: there was no escape.
"I will... marry," Maria whispered, her voice trembling like a withered leaf in the wind.
"Aha!" Singha roared, his laughter booming through the night. "What a wise and beautiful daughter-in-law I have!"
Maria's mother, Sofia, opened her mouth to object, her eyes gleaming with tears, but Marko gently grasped her wrist and shook his head.
Then came the final blow.
"Maria, why don't you and Roy take a stroll around, hmm?" Marko said with forced cheer.
"Father…?" Maria's voice cracked.
Sofia gave her a glance—a silent, sorrowful gesture that said: survive.
Maria stood, stiff as a puppet. Roy, grinning wide, strutted toward her like a wolf finally let off the leash.
They walked into the darkness of the night, firelight shrinking behind them. Maria tried to maintain distance, but Roy closed it every few steps, his words greasy with intent.
"You know," Roy said, chuckling, "I always liked girls with fire in their eyes. You got that, Maria. It's kinda sexy."
She remained silent, watching the ground.
"What, cat got your tongue?" he said, brushing his hand against her arm. "Don't be so uptight. We're going to be married. Might as well get used to each other, right?"
Maria stiffened.
"You know, in my tribe," he continued, voice low and oily, "brides give their grooms a little treat before the wedding. Builds trust, you know? So why don't you—"
"Don't touch me," she snapped, jerking her arm away.
Roy paused, then chuckled darkly. "Feisty. I like that. You'll be screaming my name in bed before the moon changes."
He leaned closer. "You've got the kind of body that makes men start wars, you know that? Soft lips, soft hips... If we weren't out here, I'd already have you on your knees."
Maria's stomach twisted with revulsion, but she kept walking. Every step took them deeper into the night, into the tall shadows of the dark forest.
Roy didn't notice. He was too drunk on power and lust. But Maria—Maria felt the trees watching, the darkness pulsing. She didn't know what was waiting in that forest.
But whatever it was, it couldn't be worse than him.
The night deepened as Roy's laugh echoed through the trees, sounding less human and more beast-like with every passing moment. Maria kept her pace steady, every step calculated, every glance careful. The dense trees loomed closer, their branches like skeletal arms scratching at the silver moon.
Behind them, the glow of the Brakkar bonfire was now little more than a flicker—too far for help, too far for witnesses.
Roy reached out again, grabbing her wrist with a firm grip.
"You're walking too fast, sweetheart," he muttered, pulling her toward him. "We've got nowhere to be but right here... you and me. In this beautiful moonlight. So why not make some memories?"
Maria yanked her hand back. "You said we're out for a stroll, not a hunt."
He smirked. "Who said you can't enjoy both?"
She stopped walking, breath shallow, jaw clenched. Her eyes flicked around—there were trees, thick underbrush, and further ahead, the jagged silhouette of the Dark Forest proper.
Roy stepped in close, his body almost pressing against hers. "You're gonna be mine anyway. So why not stop pretending you're some pure little flower?"
"Because I'm not yours yet," she said, sharp as a blade.
"Oh, Maria," Roy whispered, brushing a strand of her hair back. "You're too smart for this tribe. You should be glad. I'm giving you an out. If we were in Ragnar lands, you'd already be under me, begging."
That was it.
Maria shoved him back, hard enough that he stumbled.
He laughed again. "Now that's what I like. A little fight before the fun."
But she was already walking again—no, running.
The woods swallowed her.
Roy cursed, adjusting his belt as he chased after her, his boots crushing leaves and twigs underfoot. The further they went, the darker it grew. The Brakkar bonfires were lost behind the thicket, and only the pale glow of the moon offered any light.
"Maria!" he yelled. "Don't make me angry. I can be real gentle... or real rough!"
But Maria didn't respond. She darted between trees, her leather boots silent, her breath sharp and rapid. Her mind raced. Just keep going. Just keep moving.
A sudden root caught her foot. She tumbled hard, scraping her palm on a rock.
Behind her, Roy's voice was growing louder.
"You think the trees will save you? They're older than your tribe and twice as cruel."
Maria pushed herself up and moved again—slower now, limping slightly. Blood smeared her palm, and the sharp sting of torn skin reminded her how real this nightmare was.
Then something shifted.
The forest, though familiar, felt... off.
The air changed—denser, colder. The silence was deeper, like sound itself had been swallowed. The wind no longer rustled the leaves. The animals had gone quiet.
Even Roy noticed it.
He slowed his steps. "Where the hell are we?"
A distant howl echoed—low, long, and unnatural.
Roy stopped.
Maria was still moving, though now cautiously. Whatever fear she felt for the forest, it was a pale shadow compared to her fear of him.
Then, from the branches above, a whisper.
Snap.
A branch moved. A shadow flickered.
Roy looked up. "What the fu—"
Something dropped.
It wasn't an animal. It wasn't human.
It was something in-between.
A flash of metal—a gleam of a bone-white mask. And then, silence again.
Roy screamed. "Who's there?! Show yourself!"
Another shadow passed through the trees. Another whisper of movement. Leaves stirred. Something was circling him.
Roy spun in place, panic blooming now. His bravado was gone.
"Maria! Where are you?!"
She didn't answer.
She had dropped low, crawling beneath the bramble, watching from the undergrowth. Her breath caught as she watched Roy—her tormentor—begin to unravel.
Then it struck.
Not a creature, not a beast—but a man.
Swift as wind, quiet as a falling leaf. From above, a boot connected with Roy's chest, knocking him backward. Roy hit the ground with a pained grunt, rolling into the dirt.
Maria gasped quietly.
Out of the darkness stepped a figure. Tall, lean, cloaked in grey and forest-black. A hood covered his head, but his face was obscured by a mask—ivory white, with carvings shaped like roots and veins, eyes dark and unreadable.
The stranger spoke, voice calm. "You're far from your lands, Ragnar."
Roy spat dirt. "Who... the hell are you?"
The stranger took a step forward. "A shadow. A whisper. A memory." He tilted his head. "You came here to take what wasn't yours. But the forest doesn't allow thieves."
Roy tried to draw his dagger.
Too slow.
The masked man's foot was already on his wrist, pinning it down.
"I should kill you," he whispered. "But I won't."
"Wh—why?" Roy gasped.
"Because your life... is worth more ruined than ended."
And with a swift, calculated motion, the masked figure knocked Roy unconscious.
Maria stayed hidden, barely daring to breathe.
The stranger turned.
And spoke.
"You can come out now."
She froze.
"I know you're there," he added. "You run quiet, but not quiet enough."
Maria rose slowly from the brush, her hair tangled, her face scratched, but her eyes fierce.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The figure removed his mask.
It was a young man—barely older than her. Black hair, tied back. Eyes that burned with clarity and weight. His features were calm but edged with tiredness, like he'd lived a hundred lives.
"I'm no one," he said. "But you can call me... Tyris."