The night I cannot forget
Marek
I was five when Blackridge destroyed my pack.
The bells woke me first. They rang from the watchtower in broken bursts, too fast for a gathering and too violent for prayer. By the time my mother entered my room, orange light had already begun spreading across the ceiling.
She wrapped me in a cloak and carried me into the corridor. No one explained what was happening. They did not need to. Smoke had entered the house, and the screams outside were louder than the bells.
My father met us near the stairs. Blood covered one side of his shirt. He looked at my mother, then at me, as though he wanted to remember us before leaving. He pressed his hand against my head.
“Stay with her.”
Those were the last words he ever spoke to me. He disappeared into the courtyard with the other fighters.
My mother carried me toward the lower halls. People rushed past us with children, weapons, and whatever belongings they had managed to take. Some were crying. Others had gone silent. The Vale estate shook beneath another impact. Part of the ceiling collapsed behind us. My mother did not stop.
She took me into a storage room beneath the kitchens and moved several sacks away from the wall. Behind them was a narrow wooden door I had never noticed before. A tunnel waited beyond it.
My cousin Liora was already there. She was older than me and usually laughed whenever I became frightened. That night, she looked as afraid as I felt.
My mother placed me in her arms. She told Liora to take me through the tunnel and keep moving until we reached the forest. Liora asked whether she was coming with us. My mother looked back toward the stairs. That was her answer.
I began to cry. She covered my mouth and held me against her chest. Her heart beat so hard that I could feel it through both our clothes. Then footsteps sounded above us. My mother pushed us into the tunnel and closed the door.
Liora carried me through the darkness. The passage was narrow and cold. We had not gone far when shouting came from behind us. Wood broke. A wolf snarled. Then my mother screamed.
Liora almost stopped. I held on to her and begged her to go back, but she kept moving. Tears ran down her face as she carried me toward the pale light at the end of the tunnel.
We emerged behind the old shrine at the edge of the forest. The snow had begun to fall. Liora lowered me behind a fallen tree and told me not to move. She went back toward the tunnel entrance, hoping my mother might still come through. She never returned.
I stayed where she left me. From behind the tree, I could see part of the road leading to the estate. Blackridge soldiers moved through the snow while wolves searched between the trees.
The Vale residence burned above them. I watched the flames climb across the roof. Somewhere inside were my room, my toys, and the wooden wolf my father had carved for me. All of it disappeared into the fire.
Then I saw him. A boy stood near the road beside several Blackridge fighters. He looked much older than me, perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and firelight touched the side of his face.
Even then, before I knew his name, I thought he was handsome. The thought made no sense. Nothing beautiful should have existed on that night.
He wore a dark coat marked with the Blackridge crest. The adults around him treated him differently. They stepped aside when he moved and watched him whenever the sounds of fighting came closer. He was calm. Too calm.
I studied him from my hiding place, unable to look away. He never saw me.
His attention remained on the burning estate while Vale prisoners were dragged toward the road. A woman fell in the snow, and one of the guards pulled her up by her hair. The boy’s face changed. Only for a moment. He looked disturbed, but he did nothing.
Someone called his name. Lucan. I repeated it silently. Lucan Blackridge.
I did not yet know that his full name was Lucan Thorne. I did not know that his father had led the attack or that Lucan would one day inherit everything stolen from us. I only knew he belonged to them.
A hand closed around the back of my cloak. I screamed as a guard dragged me from behind the tree. Lucan turned toward the sound, but another soldier stepped between us. By the time the guard pulled me onto the road, Lucan had already looked away. He never saw my face.
The guard demanded my name. I refused to answer. He struck me and asked again.
“Marek Vale.”
The moment I spoke, the men around me became still. One of them laughed. Another called me the last little curse of Vale.
They carried me toward the other prisoners. Only a few had survived. Some were injured. Others stared at the burning estate as though they had left part of themselves inside it.
The Blackridge Alpha stood before them. Lucan stood at his side. The Alpha announced that the Vale pack had been judged for dealing with witches. He claimed we had protected forbidden covens, hidden their books, and allowed their magic to enter wolf blood.
I did not understand most of it. I understood punishment.
The dead would be buried without pack honours. Vale land would belong to Blackridge. The survivors would repay the crime through service.
Iron collars were brought from the wagons. They had arrived prepared to take prisoners. A guard locked one around my neck. It was too large and cold enough to burn my skin.
I looked toward Lucan again. He was listening to his father. He still had not noticed me. For one foolish moment, I wanted him to. I wanted the handsome boy beside the Alpha to see that I was frightened. I wanted him to stop what was happening.
He did not.
The surviving Vales were chained together and led away from the ruins. I walked until my feet went numb. When I looked back, the estate was almost gone.
That night, Blackridge took my home, my parents, and my freedom.
Years later, I have learned that beauty can also be a cloak for the most grotesque evil. Now, I know better than to mistake something beautiful for something kind.
