At least I could help the villagers a little.
Turning once more, I weave back around buildings and along further streets, finally confident that the Frost Fae have fallen far behind me.
It’s safe now to slip quietly along the pathway leading to the carpenters’ workshop.
I’m nearly to my father, but the silence in this part of the village is eerie.
Behind me, screams shatter the air, the chaos filled with the thumping of running feet and sizzling magic, but here, the silence is oppressive.
I slow down, creeping the final distance to the workshop at the northern tip of the village.
A haze of smoke wafts across the wide, pebbled courtyard at the front of the structure. The building itself has two large doors, both of which are currently wide open, so I can see right in. Within the workspace is the silhouette of the boat Father was working on.
Normally, there are other villagers working here. I didn’t expect them to stay while the village is being attacked, but I don’t see…anyone. Not a soul. Nobody even taking refuge.
I pause at the corner of the nearest building before I reach the workshop, pressing up against its cool wooden supports while I remain in the shadows, wary of making any sound.
A groan reaches me across the distance. “Thyra.”
It’s my father’s voice.
He wouldn’t call me if it weren’t safe.
I hurry from the shadows but keep my footfalls silent, which is a feat in these boots, as I move swiftly in the direction of his voice. Past the far left corner of the carpentry workshop and around to the side.
No!
I smother my cry of alarm as my father comes into view, where he has collapsed against the side of the building, his legs curled beneath him, and his left side leaning against the wall.
A knife protrudes from his chest.
I’m at his side in a heartbeat, kneeling beside him, my hands hovering above the blade’s hilt. If I pluck it out, he’ll bleed badly, but if I leave it there…
“Father.” My whisper is strangled. “Who did this?”
I try to identify the knife’s owner from its features, but it’s a simple weapon. There are no markings on it. Its hilt is wooden, a darker wood than any I’ve seen before, and the small portion of metal visible between the hilt and Father’s chest shows its blade isn’t iron.
Horrifyingly, it doesn’t look like the kind of knife a highborn would wield.
My voice chokes with horror. “Did one of the villagers do this to you?”
But why?My father and I have no enemies here. We’ve worked hard, never asked for more than food and a place to sleep, kept our heads down, and avoided conflict at all costs.
Father’s arm shakes as he raises one strong hand to grip my shoulder. He’s a lean man, his shoulders not as broad as some, but he proved to me time and time again that the strongest are not always the biggest.
“Spirits forgive me,” he whispers, his voice a weak rasp, his dull, black hair falling across his face and sticking to the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “I didn’t foresee this.”
I’m filled with bitter relief that he didn’t deliberately keep these events from me, but it’s concerning that he didn’t foresee them. Worse is the blood seeping through his tunic and the rage growing within me.
“Who did this to you?” I press again. “Father! Who?”
I need him to tell me. I need to know which villager is responsible. I may never be able to seek justice, but at least I’ll know.
“I thought I had more time,” Father mumbles, his blue eyes now glazed, a sight that sends cracks through my heart. “My visions… They didn’t warn me… I thought I had more time…”
Tears burn my eyes, and my voice chokes in my throat.
No. Please.
