Page 12 of Rebel's Fated Mate
I couldn't answer, my throat constricted with a nauseous blend of revulsion, sorrow, and impotent rage. After so many years of peace and seclusion, Sylvanaar had been exposed and the Emperor intended to purge every last remnant of our secret world.
The screams of the dying echoed through every fiber of my being as I watched in numb horror, paralyzed by the sheer brutality unfolding before me.
Women and children fled in blind panic, only to be cut down by the Bloodguards' ruthless blades or perforated by volleys of arrows raining from the skilled marksmen positioned along the cliffs above.
"We have to help them!" Marek's anguished cry barely registered over the din of destruction. He moved to charge forward, desperation contorting his features.
I seized his arm in a vice-like grip, using all my strength to yank him back. "No! It's too late, there are too many of them! We'd just be throwing away our lives."
Reason warred with [MN28]futility in his eyes as they bored into mine, glistening with unshed tears of helpless rage. All around us, the wails and pleas for mercy echoed from every corner, each one a shard of darkness piercing my soul.
"Jenna! No, please gods no!" A broken voice pierced the air, its desolate timbre slicing through the chaos. I whipped my head around to see Marik, the baker's husband, cradling Jenna's lifeless form against his chest, her golden tresses matted with bright scarlet.
Jenna, who had just given birth to her first child mere days ago, the rosy babe I had marveled over swaddled in her loving embrace. Now that spark of new life was brutally extinguished, the tiny, orphaned infant wailing in abject terror nearby as the Imperial butchers closed in.[MN29]
"Marek...we have to go," I choked out, bile burning the back of my throat as I tore my gaze away from the unfolding atrocity. "There's nothing more we can do here."
He stared at me in mute hostility for a beat, shoulders quaking with scarcely leashed emotion. Then his jaw went taut, compressing into an unyielding line of grim resolve.
"No," he growled in a tone I scarcely recognized. "I cannot leave. Not while my family still suffers this unholy purge."
Before I could tighten my grip or formulate a response, he broke free of my grasp and took off at a dead sprint towards the Kingdom square where the bulk of the massacre played out in a crescendo of death rattles.
"Marek, no!" I cried out, panic and despair lancing through me in equal measure. I sprinted after him, downy wisps of smoke and ash searing my lungs with each ragged inhalation.
He was fast, desperation lending wings to his feet as he wove a serpentine path through the rubble-choked streets. I could just make out his form as he vaulted over a pile of shattered masonry and smashed crates, putting on an extra burst of speed as he raced into the Kingdom's heart.
What I saw then will be forever etched into my mind's darkest depths, a waking night terror to haunt my steps.
Three obsidian-clad archers poised on the roof of the ruined tavern, their wicked composite bows trained on Marek with unsettling calm amid the chaos. As one cohesive unit, they drew and released in a blur of lethal precision.
I witnessed the sickening impacts as if the world had shifted into a nightmarish trance of slow, agonizing motion. The first arrow punched through Marek's leading thigh, instantly blossoming a crimson explosion of ruptured flesh. The second took him high in the back, the cruel broadhead protruding from his abdomen even as his forward momentum faltered with a stunned grunt of shock and torment.
Then the final missile hit its mark, burying itself in the back of Marek's skull with a meaty thunk that reverberated through my bones like the tolling of a death knell. He crumpled bonelessly to the bloodstained earth, already still and lifeless before his body finished falling.
A soul-sundering wail of anguish tore from my very depths as I rushed forward, no longer heeding the pandemonium erupting all around me.
My whole world had contracted to the broken form lying face down in a rapidly spreading pool of vitality, those vibrant green eyes I had known since childhood now dimmed to a sightless, glassy stare.
I wanted to gather him in my arms, to cradle his body against me and weep futile apologies for my failure, for my selfish desire for self-preservation while he gave everything for love of family. But the harsh reality came crashing back down, smothering any shred of focus or reason.
The Imperial hounds had seen it all, their gazes swiveling toward me with grim intention.
The archers' pitiless eyes bored into me, their bows creaking as fresh arrows were nocked in preparation to usher me into the same oblivion claimed by Marek's shattered body. I knew in that instant there would be no mercy, no opportunity to even say farewell to the life I once knew.
Rage, sorrow, and terror merged into a molten tide of pure adrenaline that propelled me into frantic motion. I spun on my heel and ran, ran as I had never run before, lungs searing and heart thundering a frenzied rhythm against my ribcage.
The rush of bowstrings reached my ears, followed by the wicked hiss of razor-tipped shafts slicing the air mere inches behind me. I zipped around the smoldering husk of the old tannery, grateful for the scant cover as I hurtled through the choking smog lingering in the narrow alleyway beyond.
All around me was a nightmarish tableau of death and desolation, a once-vibrant community reduced to a butcher's abattoir. Mukka, the ancient druid's dismembered quarters hung from the jagged wreckage, her sightless eyes reflecting the roiling flames consuming her hut.
Trevan, the wandering bard whose drunken refrains had so often filled the tavern with raucous cheer, lay in an unceremonious sprawl just outside its shattered entrance. A glance revealed his mandolin's neck protruding from his bloodied gut in a twisted sort of irony.
Again, that soaring ember of faith flared within me—a desperate hope that the dire bear, that primal guardian, might somehow manifest and turn the tide of this slaughter.
I strained to catch any glimpse through the swirling veil of smoke and ash, seeking even the faintest shadow or distant roar that might herald his arrival.
But there was nothing, only the omnipresent wails of the dying and the metallic crash of steel against stone. Of course it was foolish, I chided myself, to place any hope in dreams and nonsensical fables. Still, I could not extinguish that final, sputtering flicker of fragile optimism as I pressed onwards, fleeing the only home I had ever known.