0.18

"Go lick a rotten fish," Creda screamed.

She was tending to her mother, who had stumbled backward to a sitting position at the doorstep, overwhelmed by shock and grief. Bouma clutched at her chest, her face twisted in pain, as though she couldn't endure any more. Creda massaged her mother's chest carefully, trying to ease her discomfort, but her eyes blazed with anger. "How cheap can he be?" she muttered under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief.

Creda snapped her head toward Malok. "You're shameless!" she spat. "Is this why you came here in the dead of night? To torment a helpless old lady?"

"Torment? Who, me?" Malok asked, feigning outrage at the accusation. "I was being the supportive son-in-law I'm supposed to be. Right, Hiyan?" He turned to Hiyan, who nodded in agreement with exaggerated enthusiasm, his head bobbing comically.

"Tough times these days!" Malok added, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

And this is your way of supporting?" Creda gestured toward her mother, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell me one thing—what are you really trying to do?"

She stepped forward threateningly, leaving her mother’s side. "First, you married my sister with grand, empty promises." Creda began counting on her fingers, each movement deliberate. "Then, as soon as she bore your child, you threw her out onto the street, accusing her of infidelity."

Abruptly, Creda stopped counting, her hand frozen mid-air as if struck by a sudden realization. She rested a hand on her hip, slightly swaying to one side. A bitter smirk curled her lips. "Oh, I get it now," she said. "You accused her because you know the truth—you’re the one who can’t have children."

She scanned him from head to toe with mockery.

Behind her, Bouma gasped audibly. "Creda, shush!" she chided, though her voice wavered, coming out as little more than a croak.

Malok clenched his jaw tightly, suppressing both his anger and the sting of humiliation. Beside him, Hiyan stood stoic, his expression unreadable, as if Creda's words had simply bounced off him.

Creda was undeterred by her mother’s protests. She took another menacing step forward. Though smaller in frame, her fiery presence forced both Malok and Hiyan to retreat slightly, stumbling backward as though confronted by a toddler throwing a tantrum—but one armed with fire.

Creda resumed counting on her fingers, her tone dripping with mockery. "You wanted the child dead. Your own child," she whispered with fake excitement.

Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze raked over Malok with disdain. "But it didn’t matter to you, did it? Because deep down, you don’t even believe it’s yours… do you?" She scanned him from head to toe again, her lips curling into a bitter smirk.

"You made my sister live on the streets like a beggar for months," Creda continued, her voice rising with each word, "while you… while you slept in that old hag, Tessa’s…"

She paused abruptly, hesitating as she turned slightly to check whether her mother was listening.

And sure enough, Bouma was listening to every word, absorbing them as though they were the very food and water keeping her alive. Creda felt a lump rise in her throat, regretting that she might have said too much.

Creda shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She needed to change the subject—quickly. "Why are you even here?" she demanded. "Tell me, what do you hope to achieve by scaring my poor mother like that?" She took another step forward, her voice tinged with frustration.

Malok sighed, letting go of his attempt to be civil. Without warning, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her hard against his chest and wrapping his strong arms around her, pinning her in place.

"Scaring your mother, Creda?" he mocked. "I’m just telling the truth. And by the way, you should learn to assess your opponent before you stand in front of them."

He released her abruptly, his eyes flicking to Bouma, who was struggling to her feet in a desperate attempt to protect her daughter.

"I have huge respect for you, Aunt Bouma," Malok said, his tone suddenly shifting from arrogance to a deceptively respectful smile directed at Bouma. "But not so much for your daughters. Sure, they’re brave, but they fail to understand that a woman’s bravery only brings danger—both to herself and to those around her."

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He gave a deliberate nod. "What I said was true. Samora’s crossing Lavalthon. Turo’s following her like a fool, betting his life on a single fallen trunk. Now Nox is chasing after them too. Claims he’s going to save them both. But I don’t hold out much hope for any of them. For all I know, none of them will return. And even if Nox does find them… nah." He shrugged dismissively. "I’m just here, playing the supportive son-in-law, right? Why would I say something to scare you? Let it go." He finished with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Creda stepped back with a sneer, her gaze dripping with disdain. Though fear gnawed at her insides, she buried it beneath the mask of disgust she wore. She had to.

Bouma stepped forward, her head tilted to one side. "Is it true? Is my Samora…?" She pointed towards the lake, her tear-filled eyes locked onto Malok's, refusing to look away.

Malok nodded, his expression grave. "She is."

Bouma raised her hand to her face, a gut-wrenching wail tearing from her chest. Her knees gave way beneath her, and Creda rushed forward, catching her mother before she could collapse to the ground.

"What have we done?" Bouma cried, her voice breaking with grief. "My poor daughter… How alone, how rejected she must have felt to leave this paradise—this land, her husband, her kin, her mother." She pressed her hand to her chest, as if trying to hold her heart in place, a fresh wave of sobs wracking her body. "Her lovely… lovely sister." Bouma touched Creda’s chin gently, her voice softening as her tear-filled eyes met Creda’s troubled gaze. "And to seek that forbidden land to bear her innocent child…"

What have we done?" Bouma sank to the ground, her palm pressing into the wet earth. "We pushed her to her limit. We taught her never to rely on us again. We forced her to leave everything she knew, everything she belonged to, just to survive." She pressed her palms to her face, sobbing bitterly. Her grief was raw, an agonizing reflection of her regret. "We have… made a terrible mistake." Her wail echoed. "We've done an unforgivable injustice to my baby. And I… I stood by, while my child suffered inside."

Tears welled in Creda’s eyes. Helpless, she wiped her mother’s tears away, rubbing her back comfortingly. Malok’s expression softened at the sight of Bouma’s pain. He crouched beside her, gently prying one of her hands from her face, holding it between his own. He swallowed hard before speaking. "Mother, you need to stay strong now. This isn't the time for breaking down." He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "I agree… we made a mistake."

Behind him, Hiyan stood, mouth agape in disbelief at Malok’s admission. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, struggling to balance as fatigue crept in. The leg he was relying on, weaker and more unstable, wobbled beneath him, but he quickly corrected himself, trying to hide the exhaustion.

Malok continued. "I… I don’t know what to say. I tried to save my wife. I was ready to go to her aid. But you know Uncle Marnoell, right? He never had a good impression of me, so he wouldn’t let me go."

Creda, silently sobbing with her mother, raised her tearful eyes to meet Malok’s gaze. Her voice was low but deliberate. "You were ready to help my sister? After you threw her—"

"On the streets, yes." Malok cut her off, an annoyed look crossing his face. "The thing is, Creda, humans make mistakes. And I’m human—an incredibly flawed one, at that. But letting my wife live on the streets isn’t the same as letting her die a cursed, sinful death." His tone was sincere.

"Trust me. I tried. I really did. But my past mistakes got in the way of doing the right thing this time. Uncle Marnoell didn’t trust me with the task. He gave it to Nox instead. But here’s the thing—I'm not sure how true this is, but I heard from a reliable source that Nox… has changed."

Creda and Bouma looked at him as though they were hypnotized. Their tears began to dry. "I heard…" Malok glanced at Hiyan, as if seeking permission to continue. Hiyan pouted his lips in genuine confusion. Malok sighed, then turned his gaze back to Creda and Bouma, offering them a sympathetic look. "I heard that he’s planning to kill Turo tonight, to become the only candidate for chief."

Bouma gasped audibly. "Our Nox? I can't believe—"

"Neither can I," Malok replied. "But he’s changed a lot in these last few months. Like…" He pressed his hands onto Bouma’s palms to emphasize his next words. "…too dangerously ambitious. And something in my gut tells me he won’t spare Samora if it serves his purpose." He feigned a troubled expression. "He’s my own brother, but I can’t let my wife become his prey, can I?" He nodded, as if to affirm his decision.

Bouma could barely contain the next wave of sobs rising inside her.

"No, no, mother! You shouldn't cry," Malok said, wiping her face gently and pressing warmth into her palm. "You shouldn't cry while I’m still alive. I’ll do whatever I can to stop this. Even if it means going against Uncle Marnoell's orders. Trust me, I’ll risk my life to save Samora."

Creda's brow furrowed, uncertainty clouding her eyes. "Will you, really?"

"Of course." He caressed her cheek. She didn’t flinch.

"But I need to leave now, before Nox gets too far." Malok stood, preparing to go. Hiyan mirrored his movements like a silent shadow. But then, as if something occurred to him, Malok stopped and turned back. "Wait— I forgot. Uncle Marnoell asked us to warn the women and children to stay inside. The lake’s rising. But it’s already getting late for us." He shifted his weight uneasily, glancing toward the river.

Bouma rose quickly. Creda followed suit.

Bouma wiped her tears away with determination. "Don’t worry, son. Creda will handle it. You go ahead. We’ll get it done." She urged him to leave.

"Are you sure?" Malok asked with a hint of concern in his voice. "You both look exhausted."

Bouma nodded with urgency. "We’ll manage. Don’t worry."

Malok left with a cruel smile.