"Careful! Careful!" Nox warned as Bhola and Khotal lifted Samora’s shredded body from the stone structure onto the makeshift bier.
Grief consumed them all. Samora’s corpse was so mangled they had to gather large leaves and vines to hold her spilled abdomen together before moving her. The hardest part was scooping the innards by hand and pressing them back in place, all while trying not to vomit in revulsion. Nox had pulled the dagger from her abdomen long before allowing Bhola and Khotal near her. He had tucked the blade into his waistband, deciding it was better if no one discovered that Turo had stabbed her before everything fell apart. He planned to discard the weapon, perhaps in the lake, long before they reached Tuscanvalle. A bloodstained weapon would only serve as evidence of Turo’s desperate act against his own family.
Samora’s body hung limp as Bhola and Khotal hoisted her from the bloodied ground onto the bier. They worked quickly to secure her with vines and creepers, ensuring the makeshift bandage wouldn’t slip and let her insides spill along the way. Losing parts of her in the darkness of the forest would turn their grim task into an even greater horror. The first light of dawn peeked over the Maverielle Mountains, but they didn’t dare rely on its weak glow to guide them.
Once they secured the bier, Bhola and Khotal carried it outside. Nox followed and paused, his gaze locking onto Turo’s body lying in the dirt. The stench of vomit and urine from the corpses hung heavy in the air around him.
Earlier, back at the campsite, Bhola and Khotal had tried to reassure him that Dias had been taken by an animal, not the monster. They pointed out the drag marks leading inland. The lack of any signs of struggle made them believe Dias had already died before the predator found him. They’d also shown him a trail of human footprints heading along the shoreline, insisting they belonged to Turo and that he had escaped the animal’s attack.
But Nox had told them the truth then: Turo was dead.
The revelation had struck Bhola and Khotal hard. Their usual lightheartedness had vanished, replaced by a grim grief of seriousness that made Nox wonder if they were the same men he’d known before.
Now, as they prepared to move on, Nox’s mind circled back to a troubling thought. If the predator had been drawn to Dias’s blood, why hadn’t it approached Samora or Turo when he was gone?
“Maybe it was the smell,” Bhola offered, his voice low as he glanced at Turo’s body. “Or something about the fluids that kept it away. Animals can be strange like that.”
Nox stared at the ground, trying to make sense of it. The explanation made sense, but the unease in his chest refused to settle.
Whatever the reason, Nox felt a grim relief that he could at least bring their bodies back to Tuscanvalle. If even that small dignity had been denied, he would have been mortified beyond words.
He hefted Turo’s lifeless body onto his shoulders, the weight digging into him as much as the grief. Dawn crept closer, pale light spreading over the forest, but it did nothing to ease the suffocating dread in his chest. Samora and Turo’s deaths didn’t feel like an ending—they felt like the prologue to something even darker. He shook his head, forcing the thought aside.
“The terrain’s rough,” he warned Bhola and Khotal, who carried the makeshift bier. “Keep it steady. I don’t want to scrape her off the forest floor again.”
The three moved through the dense woods, their silence heavy with exhaustion and despair. Nox scanned the ground for tracks, for anything that might explain what had torn Turo and Samora apart. But the area was too disturbed—their own movements had trampled any clues into oblivion. He clenched his fist in frustration.
Minutes later, the lake’s shore came into view, along with the raft Bhola and Khotal had hastily built to get them home. Nox stepped into the shallows, his gaiters sinking into the mud, and carefully laid Turo’s body onto the raft. The wooden platform bobbed mournfully in the water, almost as if it shared their grief.
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Bhola and Khotal followed, carrying Samora’s bier. They edged into the water with tentative steps, careful not to lose their grip or let her body dip below the surface. Nox reached out to help, gripping one side of the bier as Khotal offered the other. Together, they eased it onto the raft.
But as the raft rocked, Khotal stepped aboard too soon, sending a ripple through the water that tilted the platform. Nox and Bhola shot him a sharp glare, but said nothing. The raft settled soon. They laid Samora’s corpse beside Turo’s.
Bhola paused suddenly, his expression frozen with an unspoken thought. Without a word, he turned and sprinted back into the thicket.
“Bhola!” Nox called in confusion. Khotal shouted after him too, but Bhola didn’t stop to explain.
They waited in silence as Nox sat beside Turo’s shrunken, lifeless form, his hands resting on the corpse’s cold, shriveled palms. Khotal slumped down next to him, lips parted, his empty gaze fixed on the slowly brightening sky.
When Bhola returned, he held a bundle of vines. “To tie them down,” he muttered, out of breath. “What if the raft rocks too much, and they—” He trailed off, the words hanging heavy in the air.
Nox started to protest, to point out that tying them down might trap their bodies if the raft sank like it did earlier, but he swallowed the comment. Now wasn’t the time for criticism. He nodded instead, grateful for Bhola’s consideration, and the three of them worked in silence to secure Turo and Samora to the raft.
Once the bodies were tied, Khotal untied the rope that moored the raft to the shore. He crouched at the back, gripping his oar, while Nox and Bhola took theirs and began paddling. The raft glided into the lake, the thin line of Tuscanvalle’s greenery just visible on the horizon.
They fell into a tense, suffocating silence. None of them could find the words to comfort each other, nor did they dare try. Each was consumed by their own fear, pain, and grief. What could they even say to Chief Marnoell when he asked where his son was? How would they meet Bouma’s gaze and tell her that they had brought back her daughter as a lifeless corpse?
And no one dared to ask aloud what had become of the baby. Nox had suggested it must have clawed its way out of Samora’s womb. It was a chilling explanation that made too much sense given the prophecy. The baby was said to be a monster, after all. But the idea gnawed at them—something about it felt too grotesque, too wrong. It wasn’t just the grief weighing on them now. It was the heavy, inescapable dread that the worst was yet to come.
The closer they drifted toward Tuscanvalle’s shore, the stronger the foreboding grew. Just last night, they had longed to return home, to escape the horrors of the forbidden land. Now, the thought of reaching the shore filled them with unease. The land ahead seemed almost hostile, unwelcoming. For a fleeting moment, Nox considered turning the raft back toward the forbidden land. It seemed less terrifying than what awaited them in Tuscanvalle.
As the shore came into view, their unease deepened. The men who had once stood beneath the great banyan tree had moved closer to the rocky part of the shoreline. Some sat on the jagged rocks, their postures tense, while others stood, staring out at the water. Chief Marnoell paced restlessly along the shore, his movements sharp with impatience. They hadn’t yet realized what the raft carried.
Nox’s stomach churned with guilt. They had been tasked with bringing Turo and Samora back alive. What they brought instead would shatter the village. Nox gestured silently to Bhola and Khotal to steer the raft away from the rocks. The last thing they needed was for the raft to tip.
When they finally reached the shallows, the group onshore began to stir. The men moved along the shoreline toward them, while the women, who had gathered beneath the scattered palms, hesitantly stepped closer. Nox kept his gaze fixed on the water, avoiding their eyes.
“Careful,” he murmured to Bhola and Khotal, his voice hoarse. Together, they worked to lower the bodies from the raft to the ground.
The boys and younger men reached them first, stopping dead in their tracks as their eyes fell on the gruesome sight. Their mouths hung open, silent except for the sharp intakes of breath. Soon, the older men and women caught up, the murmurs of confusion giving way to gasps and cries of horror as they took in the scene.
Chief Marnoell parted the crowd, striding forward with a sharp urgency. Without sparing a glance at the others, he reached Nox and pulled him into a tight embrace. “You’re back,” he said, his voice light with relief. “We were worried sick.”
He stepped back, holding Nox at arm’s length and noticed the tremors racking the younger man’s body. Nox’s shoulders heaved as he began to sob uncontrollably, the sound raw and broken.
Marnoell’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong, Nox? Why are you crying?” he asked, his tone deflated in worry. Then, as if struck by a sudden realization, his expression changed. “Where are they?”
Nox didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He simply stepped aside, his head bowed. Bhola and Khotal followed suit, revealing the two mangled corpses laid on the ground.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Chief Marnoell froze, his eyes fixed on the bodies, his mind refusing to accept what he saw.
Then, slowly, tears welled in his eyes. His lips parted, trembling as if he wanted to speak, but no words came.
“Samora!” Bouma’s anguished scream shattered the stillness, piercing the air like a blade.
Her cries echoed through the dawn as streaks of red and orange bled across the eastern sky.