Page 151 of Nocturne

I was a murderer.

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To survive in a place designed to break you isn’t strength—it’s defiance. It’s a constant war against the darkness trying to creep in, an exhausting dance to preserve the smallest shred of light. In a world where cruelty is a religion and despair grows like weeds in the cracks, hope is never a virtue. It’s a liability. Yet, like a fool, I clung to it. I carried it as if it might save me. I believed, against all evidence, that goodness could still exist.

I was wrong.

When I was younger, I thought pain was the worst they could do to me. When the agony grew unbearable, my mind would fold, leaving me adrift in nothingness. But nothingness was merciful. And mercy doesn’t exist there.

Then Willow came into my life—a fragile spark in the abyss. For a moment, I let myself believe she was a gift, some cosmic attempt to balance the scales. I should have known better. In a place like that, gifts are curses in disguise, and kindness is the sharpest bait.

I didn’t know who I became after those first kills. The blood on my hands wasn’t just theirs; it stained the pieces of me I’d thought were untouchable. Still, it was Willow who tethered me to what little humanity I had left. She never asked what happened on those nights. She didn’t need to. She would just talk, her voice filling the silence I didn’t dare break.

The second time they sent me to kill, it wasn’t hard. I’d stopped needing much persuasion. The women they shoved toward me were already ready, their face a mask of hollow acceptance. Before it was done, I heard their thanks.

For what? For choosing survival? For slaughtering someone else so I could live another day in this nightmare? They acted like I’d done something noble, as if there were honour in clawing at scraps of hope. But hope had long since curdled into self-loathing.

The hatred in me grew like rot, spreading through my veins, consuming me. I could feel it—this dark, violent thing coiling around my heart. Willow kept it at bay. She was the only thingthat did. But they couldn’t let me have that. They couldn’t let me keep her.

The day they tore her from me began like the others: suffocating silence, cold stone walls, the reek of decay. I was staggering back from the punishment shed, my body screaming with every step, when I heard the commotion. It came from beyond the ritual grounds, from the other side of the forest—the one place I’d never been.

I didn’t make it far before Bapo found me. He shoved me toward the dungeon, locking the door behind him. I didn’t care about the pain or the freezing dampness of the cell. I only cared about Willow’s empty cot. The door to her cell was ajar, and she was gone.

Panic clawed at my chest, sharp and relentless. When Bapo returned, dragging me into the clearing, I saw her. Willow was on her knees, held down by two men, her face beaten into something unrecognisable. Her arm—the one that hadn’t healed—hung limp at her side.

My breath hitched, and fear surged like fire in my veins. I thought they knew about the miscarriage. About the secret she couldn’t afford them to find out.

I fought like a wild animal, my nails raking Bapo’s arm, my fists connecting in desperation. It didn’t matter. He kicked me to the ground and dragged me forward by my hair.

“Let her go!” I screamed, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar, but my defiance only amused them.

I crawled, ignoring the boots that kicked painfully on my stomach. It was so painful that for a second, my vision clouded, but his kicks didn’t relent. Willow was still fighting, cursingthem through bloodied lips. The sight shattered something in me. Getting to her was the only thing that mattered. When one of the men raised his boot toward her, I scrambled for a nail buried in the dirt and drove it into his shin with all the strength I had left. His howl of pain was my only triumph.

Bapo let me go, walking away, and I didn’t care where. For a moment, Willow and I were together again. She held me, her trembling hands brushing my hair from my face.

“What happened?” I muttered, my voice breaking

“There was something I needed to do,” She whispered.

“What could possibly matter more than escaping?” I demanded.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes darted to the men behind us, wary and resigned.

“A message,” she murmured.

Before I could ask, Bapo returned, Vir in tow. His fury was palpable, his smile a chilling contrast to the violence that dripped from his every word.

“Made a friend, have we?” he sneered, crouching in front of me. “Then perhaps you’ll teach her a lesson.

I froze as he pressed the hilt of that same wretched dagger into my palm, his grip ironclad. He pushed me closer to Willow, who looked at me with something that broke me further: understanding.

“I don’t want their filthy hands on me,” she whispered, her voice steady despite everything. “Do it.”

My tears blurred her face, her bruises dissolving into a swirl of colour.

“Don’t,” I begged, but Vir forced my hand.

He murmured what would happen to her if she didn’t die in my hands. The blade moved in my hand on its own accord—unable to hear the horror he painted—and it cut through the air, through flesh, through the last piece of me that was still human.

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