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The suffocating sense of death loomed over her. Her stomach churned violently. She retched, vomiting the sour remnants of yesterday’s meal onto the ground.
The grave pit was a large grave mound. It was as high as a small mountain, and there was a big tombstone standing on it, engraved with many names. Freya’s terror reached its peak, her throat releasing sharp, desperate screams for help.
One of the guards opened the cage door and grabbed her by the hair. Then, he yanked her out and tossed her onto the ground. Freya felt a wave of pain flood through her body; she curled up, trying to crawl away.
The guard immediately seized her hair again and dragged her toward the grave mound, shoving her against the tombstone. He pointed to the names carved on it and roared, “Do you even recognize these names? You don’t understand, do you? They’re all the people you killed!”
Freya shook her head frantically, gasping, “N-No, it wasn’t me—“
Before she could finish, the enraged villagers surged forward.
Her screams cut through the crowd, echoing in the valley, sending birds scattering in fear.
Black clouds gathered from all sides, quickly blotting out the sky. Thunder rumbled, drowning out Freya’s screams.
Blood began to seep from under the crowd, flowing like a winding stream.
Outside, Penny, Yuna, and the others had no idea what was happening to Freya. From the chilling cries and the blood that stained the villagers’ knives, axes, and hoes, it wasn’t hard to imagine the horrors she was enduring.
They sought revenge for their deceased loved ones in the most direct way. They didn’t need to tear her apart slowly. A villain like her shouldn’t be allowed to live another moment, for the souls of the wronged could never find peace as long as she remained alive. Gradually, Freya’s screams faded. Her body was hacked beyond recognition, with only her face and head still somewhat intact. Her limbs and torso were a bloody mess.
Freya was still alive, but the pain made her teeth chatter, and the fear of death made her feel as though her insides were being torn apart.
The faces of those around her were filled with murderous rage. They raised their knives and axes, bringing them down upon her body. The stench of blood filled the air, and the sight of it reminded her of the day her soldiers slaughtered the villagers. Back then, her soldiers had done the same-raising their swords and knives to hack at the unarmed villagers. Blood soaked the ground, and its scent filled the air. It was a smell that, for a brief moment, filled her with a twisted sense of exhilaration.
She didn’t see them as mere innocent villagers. Their refusal to betray the young general, even under threat of death, was enough to show that his identity was no ordinary one.
Freya was the first female general, a position that demanded military accomplishments to back it up. She even entertained the thought that she could rise to the rank of duke or even minister, just like any man.
Why not? Women could achieve great feats, too.
As heads rolled at her feet, she simply kicked them aside. Her expression was cold as she ordered, “Continue killing them. Don’t stop until they come out.”
As her consciousness gradually blurred, she suddenly remembered this scene. A deep sense of terror overwhelmed her, as if she no longer recognized the person she once was. That monster couldn’t have been her! She must have been possessed by evil spirits to commit such atrocious acts.
The roar of the villagers around her gradually turned into the screams from that time. They cursed her in words she couldn’t understand. The more vicious their words, the angrier she became. She remembered how, with a single swing of her sword, she had decapitated a child no older than seven or eight.
The severed head had rolled a few paces, blood spilling from it, the child’s eyes still wide with the terror and fury of death.
A flash of cold steel crossed her as vision. As she curled into herself in fear, she felt a sharp chill at her neck, followed by a sudden pain on her scalp. However, it wasn’t painful as she expected. She was lifted, and then she saw it her own body, severed from her head.
Her head had been severed from her body!
Her eyes were wide with horror.
Soon, she lost consciousness and fell into boundless darkness.
–
In Starhaven, Blake woke up from a nightmare, his whole body soaked through as if he had been pulled out of water.
Blake gasped for air, his chest tightening as though gripped by a massive hand, making it impossible to breathe. “What’s wrong with you?” Viola had been woken by the commotion. She looked at him sitting up, clearly in a daze. “Another nightmare?” she asked impatiently.
Lately, he had been having nightmares every night. Viola couldn’t help but wonder how much guilt weighed on him to make it happen so often. What frustrated her most was that he often called out Freya’s name during these nightmares.
When he didn’t respond, still clutching his chest and gasping for breath, she sneered, “Dreaming about Freya again? Did she die in this one too?”
“She’s dead,” Blake murmured, his face drenched with either sweat or tears-it was hard to tell. “It felt so real… I dreamt that the villagers hacked her to death. She died miserably. Her head was severed, and there was blood everywhere. Her body…was torn apart.” Hearing him say this in the middle of the night made Viola’s skin crawl.
“Enough!” she snapped. “Whether she lives or dies is none of your concern. Just go back to sleep.”
Blake swung his legs off the bed and stood up, his body heavy with exhaustion. “You sleep. I’m going to the study.”
Viola’s frustration flared. “You always go to the study. What do you think the servants will say about me?”
Blake didn’t even register her words. He stood, clinging to the edge of the bed for support. His mind was consumed by the echoes of Freya’s screams in his dream.
He stumbled out of the room, the sound of rain hitting the roof catching his attention. It had started raining without him noticing, the relentless downpour rolling down in streams.
As he walked down the corridor, the flickering lamps outside swayed violently in the wind, their light casting eerie shadows. His silhouette was distorted, at times looming like a monstrous figure, at other times swaying like a ghost.
The wind and rain combined into a mournful chorus that sounded like wailing spirits. The thought of Freya’s anguished cries from his dream made his chest ache. It felt as though his heart had been tossed into a boiling pot of oil-painful, searing, unbearable. He had intended to go to the study, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own, carrying him instead to the Blessed Haven.
By the time he pushed open the door, he was drenched through.
In just a month or two, the once well-kept residence had become overgrown with weeds. The servants no longer came in to clean, and the place was engulfed in darkness. The only light came from the lamps outside, casting faint shadows that barely illuminated the courtyard.
The wind howled, and the rain poured down in sheets. Blake stood in the yard, not moving another step.
He stared at the closed doors of the hall, the same ones he had passed through countless times before.
Each time, Freya would emergen et with a mocking expression, her voice sharp as she asked, “So, you stilt remember the way to Blessed Haven?”
But she would never ask that again.
A strange feeling twisted in his chest. Was it pain? Or discomfort? Perhaps it was relief.
He wasn’t sure if Freya was truly dead, but this dream-it had been too real. It was more vivid than any nightmare he had ever had.
In his dream, he had seen her head fall, her eyes wide with terror and hopelessness. He had even heard her voice calling his name.
The memories of when they first met flooded his mind. Even now, he couldn’t tell if he had ever truly loved Freya. He felt like he still couldn’t understand what love was.
When he returned from Victory Pass, he told Sophie that he didn’t know how to love until he met Freya. Freya had made his heart race. When he held her hand, his pulse quickened. He wanted to be close to her Seeing her bright, carefree face, his gaze followed her instinctively.
Blake knew Freya wasn’t beautiful, nor was she gentle. But there was a wildness about her, like a wildflower blooming in his heart. Her boldness made him smile and made his eyes sparkle with affection.
As for Sophie, had he ever loved her?
The question gnawed at him, hammering at his mind.
He opened his mouth; the cold rainwater splashed into it, but it did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. The pain was sharp-so sharp it brought him to his knees.