"This is injustice!" Bouma screeched, her voice cracking in grief.

Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying, her throat raw from hours of mourning. Beside her, Creda sat silently by Samora's corpse, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed quietly, her gaze fixed on her sister's lifeless form as though willing her to breathe again. Every so often, a broken whimper escaped her trembling lips, but her focus remained split—partly on Samora and partly on the tense exchange between Bouma and Marnoell.

"This is injustice," Bouma repeated, her voice faltering, but her resolve unshaken. "You can't deny her a place in the cremation grounds. She's your niece!" Her tone shifted from rage to desperate pleading as she gestured toward Samora's body, bound with vines, her once vibrant face now pale and still.

Marnoell stood rigid, arms crossed defensively over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil as they darted away from Bouma's piercing glare. He planted himself firmly between the ceremoniously adorned Turo’s body and the grieving Bouma, as if his stance alone could deflect her accusations.

The villagers encircled them in somber silence, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty. No one dared to step forward or voice their opinion, each one acutely aware of the volatile emotions simmering in the air. Malok and Hiyan stood among the crowd, Malok leaning heavily against Hiyan’s frail frame for support. The news that Nox had returned alive had struck Malok hard, almost sobering him. But the aged toddy he’d consumed earlier clung stubbornly to his senses, clouding his thoughts like a dense fog.

"I have to plan my next move based on what Nox has to say," Malok had slurred earlier, insisting that Hiyan bring him to the lakeshore despite his drunken state. Now, he swayed unsteadily, listening intently as Nox recounted the harrowing events of the past night.

Nox's voice had trembled as he described the raft’s collapse, the crocodile attack on Dias and Ayan, Dias’s gruesome death, and Turo’s unnatural demise. He spoke of how Samora had died, of their horrifying conclusion that the baby had clawed its way out of her womb, killing her in the process. He had shared his belief that Turo’s death was linked to the cursed child.

Marnoell had accepted Nox’s account without question, placing implicit trust in him—much to Malok’s simmering contempt. But Malok, still muddled by drink, had held his tongue, knowing he wouldn’t be able to speak with any semblance of coherence. He waited, biding his time until his mind cleared enough to act.

Now, Nox stood awkwardly behind Marnoell, his unease evident. As soon as he had finished his grim recounting, the villagers' mutterings had turned against Samora.

It began with Tessa, who reminded everyone of how Samora had lashed out the night before. "She struck Daya on the head and ran off into the night like a madwoman!" Tessa had spat. Others quickly followed, voices rising to paint Samora as the root of all their misfortunes. They blamed her for Turo’s death, for Dias’s tragic end, for everything that had gone wrong. The whispers of blame grew into a tide of condemnation that engulfed the crowd.

Marnoell, swayed by their accusations, had turned against Samora as well. Nox watched in silent dismay as his uncle’s expression hardened. He could see the waves of grief and anger tipping Marnoell’s judgment. Slowly, Marnoell began to believe what the others were saying—that if Samora hadn’t fled that night, Turo might still be alive.

"Injustice?" Marnoell’s voice cut through Bouma’s laments, sharp and unyielding. "How is this injustice in any way? Your daughter made her choice—she decided to leave us. Had she stayed, things would have been different." His voice faltered for a moment, betraying a sliver of emotion, but he quickly cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. He clasped his hands behind his back, assuming a posture of authority before continuing.

"Had she stayed, I would have talked sense into Malok, convinced him to take her back as his wife. I’ve been discussing it with Phyto for weeks. Ask him if you don’t believe me." Marnoell nodded toward Phyto, who returned the gesture with a solemn nod.

"Yes," Phyto confirmed, his voice steady. "We were only waiting for this issue to pass so we could help the couple rebuild their life. But your daughter ruined everything. And look at the price we’ve all paid. She lost her life, and not just hers—she’s taken our future with her. She’s the reason Turo is dead."

Bouma’s gaze darted helplessly from Phyto to Marnoell, then to Nox. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she searched for even a shred of support.

“But, Uncle…” Nox took a tentative step forward. "We can’t deny her a space in the cremation grounds. She’s one of us,” he argued softly, his voice tinged with pleading.

“She’s not one of us anymore,” Marnoell interjected, his tone like cold steel. “The moment she chose to leave this land, she became an outsider. I have no obligation to offer cremation space to an outsider. Especially one who betrayed us—one who killed Turo.”

The accusation struck Nox like a blade. His stomach churned as his fingers instinctively brushed against the hidden bulge at his waistband—the dagger he’d taken from Turo’s body before they left the forbidden land. He had planned to discard it along the way but hadn’t yet found the chance. Now, the weight of the weapon felt unbearable.

Samora didn’t kill Turo, he thought. If anything, Turo was the one who stabbed her.

Nox opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He wanted to defend Samora, to tell them she’d likely been running for her life. But to do so would cast Turo in a damning light—and the truth was, he didn’t know what had truly happened that night. None of them did.

“No!” Marnoell’s voice rose with finality. “I won’t let you burn her corpse alongside my son’s. She doesn’t deserve such dignity.”

Bouma’s chest heaved as a deep, mournful wail tore from her throat. “Brother!” she cried, falling to her knees and clutching at Marnoell’s feet. Her grief poured out in unrestrained sobs, shaking her small frame.

Marnoell shifted uncomfortably, the rawness of her gesture momentarily shaking his composure. But he quickly steeled himself, his face hardening again.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Don’t do this to us,” Bouma pleaded, her voice breaking. “Please, you can’t let my child rot like this. She’s already ripped apart.” Her trembling hand gestured toward Samora’s body, bound with vines and leaves that had begun to wither and shrink, exposing the gore beneath.

The villagers averted their gazes, some murmuring silent prayers. Flies buzzed around the corpse, drawn to the festering wounds, as though she were nothing more than a feast for them.

Marnoell took a step back, shaking Bouma’s grip from his feet. The sudden movement caused Bouma to stumble forward, landing on the ground with a muted cry of despair.

Creda, who had been quietly sobbing beside her sister’s lifeless body, rose to her feet with a suddenness that startled the crowd. Her red-rimmed eyes glared at Marnoell, blazing with fury. She looked small and fragile compared to the towering men gathered around her, yet her wrath loomed larger than any of them. Her chest heaved with the force of her anger, her entire being trembling.

“Mother!” she shrieked, her voice sharp with indignation. “Why would you lower yourself to his feet? Do you think he has a heart to melt at the sight of your suffering?”

Marnoell’s gaze flickered with disbelief at her audacity. His stern composure faltered for a moment as he met the burning rage in Creda’s eyes.

Creda’s chest rose and fell as her voice wavered, a mix of grief and scorn. “He doesn’t even have a heart. It’s just a stone lodged in his chest.”

Bouma turned toward her daughter, shaking her head in warning. Her voice trembled as she tried to hush her. “Creda, stay quiet,” she pleaded, but the strength of her authority had long since drained away.

Creda ignored her. She turned her fiery gaze toward the crowd, her voice rising as she gestured at Malok, who was still leaning heavily on Hiyan for support. “They abandoned Samora long ago, when this disgrace of a man”—she spat the words, her disgust plain—“accused her of a sin that he himself has been committing under all your noses.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Bouma’s brow furrowed in confusion, but the rest of the villagers, including Marnoell and Nox, turned their full attention to Creda. Even the women, who had been whispering among themselves, went silent, their gazes fixed on her.

“Yes!” Creda declared, her voice ringing with bitter conviction. “He’s been sleeping with that hag, Tessa—his own friend’s wife!”

The collective gasp from the crowd was audible. Hiyan’s jaw dropped as he slowly turned to look at Malok, who remained drowsy and unsteady but alert enough to sense the growing hostility directed at him. Tessa’s face turned a pale, sickly shade as her eyes darted nervously around, scanning the faces of the villagers and, most of all, her husband, Hiyan.

Bouma scrambled to her feet and lunged toward Creda, clasping her hand tightly over her daughter’s mouth in a desperate bid to stop her from speaking further. “What madness are you spouting, Creda?” she hissed. “Stay quiet!”

Hiyan’s face contorted in rage as he heaved Malok off his shoulder, letting him stumble to the ground. Malok sprawled at his feet, too weak and inebriated to defend himself.

Creda wrenched her mother’s hand from her face and pushed her away gently. “What are you doing, Mother?” she demanded, her voice cutting through Bouma’s desperate whispers. “He threw your daughter into the streets and went on bedding another woman like it meant nothing. And now you stop me from exposing him? You’re defending him?”

“What choice do we have?” Bouma murmured, her voice cracking. She moved closer, embracing Creda in an attempt to calm her. “Creda, men can be like that sometimes.”

“Men can be like that?” Creda’s voice dripped with incredulity. She pushed back against her mother’s arms, her expression a mix of shock and fury. “That’s the same filthy accusation he used to ruin your daughter’s life! What kind of mother are you?”

“Creda, please,” Bouma whispered, tightening her hold on her daughter. “Calm down.”

Throughout the exchange, Marnoell stood quietly, watching the drama unfold with an impassive expression. His gaze lingered on the sun, now slipping westward. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice sharp and impatient.

“If you’re done with your hysterics and baseless accusations, step aside,” he said coldly. “We have to see to my son’s funeral before the sun sets.”

“Hysterics?” Creda protested, her voice rising. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I heard you perfectly, my good daughter-in-law,” Marnoell replied, his tone maddeningly calm. “And I choose to interpret your words as grief-driven spite, understandable given your sister’s tragic demise.” He nodded as if offering a measure of grace, though his words only deepened the tension. “As you are a member of both our families, your position here is delicate.”

“What?” Creda’s scowl deepened, while Bouma’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears.

Marnoell pressed on, ignoring their reactions. “You were betrothed to my son. Now that he’s dead, you are his widow. You remain my responsibility, and I will not punish you for your grief.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. Creda’s face twisted in incredulous fury, and Bouma clutched her chest as if the intensity of Marnoell’s declaration had physically struck her.

“But,” Marnoell continued, his calm demeanor hardening, “I cannot permit your sister’s body to be cremated alongside my son’s. You may do as you wish for your sister, but I expect you back home before sunset. There is a ceremony… for widows.” He hesitated, the harshness of his words seemingly weighing on him, though not enough to stop him from uttering them. “Your mother can explain,” he added, sparing himself the indignity of elaborating further.

With that, he gestured for the mourners to lift Turo’s bier from the ground. The men moved obediently, preparing to carry it toward the cremation grounds.

But Creda wasn’t done. Breaking free from her mother’s grip, she stepped forward, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a defiant line.

“Chief Marnoell!” she called out, her voice cutting through the shuffling of the gathered mourners.

Marnoell turned back to her with thinly veiled impatience, the crowd’s attention following his gaze.

“First of all,” Creda began, her voice steady and cold, “I am not some ‘common’ member of both families. I refuse to accept the title of Turo’s widow.”

The crowd gasped audibly at her words.

“We weren’t married, were we?” she continued, scanning the onlookers for confirmation. No one dared to contradict her. “I am my mother’s daughter. No one’s daughter-in-law.”

Marnoell opened his mouth to retort, but no argument came. His lips closed in frustration as Creda pressed on.

“Second,” she declared, her voice ringing louder now, “it has never been mandatory to seek the chief’s permission to cremate our dead. When has this rule ever existed?” She turned her gaze to the crowd, challenging them. Silence met her words; no one spoke.

“Let it be,” Creda softened her tone, though her stance remained firm. “You all decided Samora was a nobody the moment she left this land. Fine. I will not argue against that. But she is still my sister. And I am still one of Tuscanvale. I have the right to cremate my family in our cremation grounds, and I need no one’s permission to do so.”

A hush fell over the gathering. Marnoell opened his mouth again, his lips forming the beginnings of a counter-argument, but no words came. Frustrated, he drew a deep breath and cleared his throat.

“You are correct, Creda,” he said finally, his tone low but tinged with a sharp edge. “I cannot forbid you from cremating your family member. But you are too young and naive to think you can challenge my authority so easily.”

His voice dropped into an unnervingly calm cadence as he turned to address the crowd. “However, I do hold the authority to forbid every man in this village from touching that disgusting bunch of flesh.” He gestured at Samora’s body lying in the dirt, his disgust apparent. “Yes,” he repeated, louder this time. “Any man who helps with the cremation of that corpse—he and his family will be cast out from this land.”

The crowd stirred uneasily, some shifting in discomfort while others averted their eyes.

Marnoell turned back to Creda, his expression cool and unyielding. “Now,” he said, his tone dripping with finality, “let’s see how you manage to cremate your sister with no man to light her pyre. The cremation ground is all yours.”