Gerral's boot smashed Connor's jaw. Once, his teeth shattered. Twice, his nose flattened into pulp. Gerral had lost count after the fifth stomp. Connor's face is a mangled mess of blood and ash now, but Gerral's growl never faltered. "Slapped me, did you?" He spat on Connor's chest. "Let's call this… interest."
The trident shrieked downward, shearing through Connor's damaged leg in a brutal rip.
"Kicked me?" Gerral hissed, flinging the useless limb into the rubble. "Here's a favor—no more kicking for you."
The others stood by, watching as he took his fill of the tattered body.
Sylas tossed a healing potion to each of them.
Milla scowled. "You said we only got one!"
"I got it from him. You don't want it? Give it back!" Sylas snapped.
Milla gulped hers.
Minutes later, they stood renewed—wounds sealed, eyes alight—circling Connor's wheezing, broken body. His remaining eye still tracked them somehow.
"Where. Is. NORA?!" Gerral roared, driving his boot into Connor's scorched chest—THUD!
"SPEAK!" THUD!
But only wet, ragged breaths slipped from Connor's lips.
"SPEAK!" THUD!
Alan's hand clamped down on Gerral's shoulder. "He's as good as dead. Search the house."
The children scattered.
Alan checked the kitchen—burnt onions clung to the air, a pot of half-rotten stew leaking across the tiles.
Milla searched the first room—bare walls, a cracked mirror. She kicked the dresser open. Empty.
Emma combed through the second room—a toppled bookshelf, pages torn and scattered. Her fingers brushed a faint blood smear on the floorboards. Cold.
Sylas entered Connor's study—scrolls reduced to ash, the desk obliterated by Alan's blast. He sifted through the wreckage, pausing when something caught his eye beneath the shattered desk—a crumbling parchment booklet, torn and missing half. He pocketed it.
Gerral approached the back room. The door groaned as he pushed it open. Light filtered through a shattered window.
An iron bed frame stood in the corner, the sheets unnervingly clean save for a single, crushed blood stain at the center—untouched, as though left preserved deliberately like a souvenir.
A single pillow lay lazily on the mattress. Gerral flipped it over. "Alan!" he called.
—
Alan crouched by the bed, counting the blood streaks beneath the pillow. "Thirty."
His fingers brushed the newest stain, dry blood dusting his fingertips. "She was here." His voice tightened. "Where did he hide her?"
Milla yanked the dresser open, hinges screeching in protest. Only moth-eaten linens lay inside. "Empty. Again."
Gerral dropped to his knees, peering under the bedframe. "Dust. Mold. Nothing."
Nora listened to the wood creaking from above. Her cheek pressed against cold soil, each shallow breath whistling through the gag in her mouth. They're here. They're HERE!
She kicked weakly, bare toes scraping the underside of the floorboard. "Mm-here!" The plea died in a muffled cry, drowned by the roar of the waterfall outside.
Closer.
The floorboards groaned under Gerral's weight as he leaned on his knees. Nora slammed her head sideways, her temple bruising against unyielding wood—Thup.
Emma stiffened. "What's that?"
Milla paused. "Waterfall. Rats in the walls?"
Alan gritted his teeth. "Connor wouldn't leave her here. Spread out—check the surroundings."
Nora's bound hands dug into the soil behind her. No. NO! Pain stained her battered nails as their footsteps faded above.
But Gerral lingered, tapping the floorboards with his trident. "Something feels… wrong." He crouched by the shattered window, his thumb brushing off dried blood on the shards. Below, faint footprints pressed into the mud—small ones. Nora's.
"She's here," he muttered.
Nora's toe scraped the wood—a splinter spearing her toenail. "Hh-here—" The hum gurgled through her throat.
Gerral's head snapped toward the noise. Rat? He dropped, peering under the bedframe—still empty.
"Damn it!" The trident slammed downward—Thunk! Hollow. He struck harder—Chhhhk! It pierced through.
"Alan!" Gerral called as he wrenched the boards apart. Rot and mildew surged upward, stinging his eyes. "NORA?!"
Scritch-scratch!
Gerral's trident wrecked the floorboard. He ripped the wood apart, revealing a cramped cavity between the foundation and the floor, barely high enough to accommodate his head. Rotting earth clung to the beams.
"NORA!" He wedged his shoulders into the gap, damp and dim.
Scritch-scratch.
His cheek scraped against the soil as he strained southward. Empty. North—a rat nest made of torn cloth, but no Nora. East—nothing. West—
"GAH—!" Mold spores clogged his throat, choking him. He nearly pulled back, but—
There she was. Nora lay curled on her side, her shoulder pressed against the soil and timber above her. Rope bound her wrists behind her back, her ankles raw from thrashing. Her throat wheezed with each shallow breath as Gerral's muffled voice reached her.
Here. HERE!
Her ankle thumped weakly against the earth.
"Nora, damn you—ANSWER!" Gerral's shout echoed in the suffocating space.
A faint thud answered—not rats.
Gerral pulled himself out of the gap and stroked the floorboards. Splrrk! There—a silver strand of hair. A pale ear peeked where he tore through.
"FOUND YOU!"
He ripped the boards apart, pulling Nora's frail body into the light. Her clothes were gone, saved for the strap that gapped her mouth and the moldy dirt that painted her skin. She was gaunt and pale, but she was alive.
Gerral's hands trembled as he cradled her. "Took your damn time," he rasped.
Outside, the waterfall quieted to a hush.
He released her binds and wrapped her in the bedsheet before shouting: "Alan! Milla! She's here!"
—
The children stormed into the room. Milla shoved past Gerral, sending his trident clattering to the floor. "NORA!"
The girl flinched, clutching the bedsheet tighter around her frail frame. Her eyes darted wildly, too wide, too panicked, as Milla dropped to her knees beside her.
"SHO!" Milla barked, stabbing a finger toward the boys. "Out! Now!"
Alan didn't hesitate. He grabbed Sylas and Gerral by their collars, dragging them backward.
Sylas scowled. "We're not peeping—"
"OUT!" Milla shouted and slammed the door shut behind them.
Outside, Gerral paced the hall. "Is she decent yet?!"
Sylas leaned casually against the wall, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Worried she'll outdo your style? Look at yourself—"
"I'll hang you by your ribbons, Sylas!" Gerral growled.
"Done!" Milla yanked the door open. "She's… stable."
Inside, Nora sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in Emma's spare dress. Her fingers picked absently at the hem, her hollow gaze fixed on nothing. Each breath wheezed through her dried throat, the sound hauntingly shallow.
Sylas lingered in the doorway, his voice softer than usual. "Nora… did you...know?"
Her head dipped—just once.
"Connor!" Gerral's voice sliced through their hidden words like a blade. "We'll make him pay."
Before Alan could respond, Nora's hand shot out, clamping onto Gerral's wrist with a startlingly tight grip. Her cracked lips moved without sound: N-O.