Page 38 of Marked By the Enemy
He stepped back. His face without expression, which was normal for him. “We have to stop waiting forit to reveal itself.”
“Agreed.”
“So tomorrow, we force a memory.”
Above, the stars twinkled above us, like pinholes pricked into paper.
“Whose memory?” I asked.
“Yours.”
The following day, Darian woke me up, just back from the river, his shirt still off and hair damp. I knew I needed to wash before we tried to meditate with the bond and work magic, so I went to the forest. The river cooled me. I emerged from its depths cleaner and steadier.
The moment seemed almost sacred as I prepared to commune with the bond, washing away any impurities and cleansing myself both physically and spiritually in the cool, clear water. The forest seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the magic that was about to unfold.
When I returned, Darian was pacing in the largest fighting pit, clothed in a white shirt. “Ready?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Aren’t we going to do it?”
“Yes.” I arrived at the link with memory. The scar on my chest warmed beneath my tunic. The truth that I hadn’t let go of. I whispered, “Show him.”
The air split open like glass under pressure, and the Keep vanished. We stood in a village made of stone and dust. My village. Wind pulled ash through the empty square. The buildings leaned inward like they were listening. The well at the center had long since gone dry.
I hadn’t seen this place in ten years.
Darian stood beside me, silent. The bond rebuilt everything—down to the scent of cracked grain, the slant of shadow before a storm. It did not soften the truth. It did not blur it. It made it sharp.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Where I stopped being a daughter.”
We walked the main path together, past doors sealed tight against memories that still clung to the stone. There weren’t any voices behind them. The stillness was so deep that it felt heavy.
At the edge of the square stood a house. One broken shutter hung loose, tapping against the wall with the wind. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was colder there.
Her body hadn’t moved.
Mom lay across the table, arms stretched out, limbs stiff. Her skin had gone blue. Her wrists remained bound with the same cords I remembered—brown with wear, tied too tight. No one had untied her. No one had come.
Darian stood frozen at the threshold. When he stepped forward, it was slow, as if he feared the floor might collapse. “How did she die?” he asked.
“They said it was punishment. For refusing the draft. Refusing the tax. I don’t know what part of that was true.”
The air pressed down hard, but the bond didn’t interfere. It held back, letting the shape of the memory run its course.
In the corner, the younger version of me sat cross-legged on the floor. Still. Silent. Waiting.
The bond blurred her edges, as if she didn’t quite belong to this world anymore.
Darian kneeled beside her. “You didn’t cry,” he said.
“No. I waited.”
“For what?”
“For the guard to leave. Then I cut the rope. Buried her. Lied about how I found her.”
