Page 53 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Malka stared at the sky as Danya recounted the events.

“We’d dealt with the Paja’s extended stay as best we could.

But last week, something festered in the air.

I had woken earlier than I intended; the dawn had only just arrived.

Even the moon’s glow had not disappeared completely.

I had barely begun to dress when someone yelled for help.

Masheva had been beaten by an Ozmini knight who accused her of stealing the Order’s sacrament, which had gone missing in the night.

“When Father Bro ? ek came, he ordered that every house in Eskravé be raided to search for it. They were violent, trampling over people with their horses if we could not move quickly enough.

“But the worst were the Paja peasants, who assailed us in droves. Like they had been on the brink of violence the entire time they were there, and this was all they needed to justify their attacks.

“They beat the sick. Even grabbed Yael from her bed and kicked her until she bled from her mouth, nose, and ears.

“They destroyed everything. Throwing rocks against our synagogue windows, striking matches and tossing them on the ground until the weeds caught fire. They threw themselves on people fleeing their houses and dismembered them, cutting off their arms and legs and heads like flower petals.

“Even when the sun set, they did not stop. Nowhere was safe. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing the tearing of limbs or someone’s dying pleas.

“When they finally decided to leave Eskravé, they took Imma with them. Once they complete their tour, they’re going to bring her here to make a public display of her d—” Danya took a shaky breath.

“Her death. To show what happens to disobedient Yahad. It took us longer to reach here without horses, they’ll be here any day. ”

Hollowness dug inside Malka, shoveled her out. “Where’s Hadar? Abba?” Her eyes roved over the familiar villagers, frantic and distressed.

“Abba fled with some others. But…” Danya kneeled over, another sob racking her body. “Hadar is gone, Malka.”

She did not process the words. How could she? Language had ceased all meaning when Danya uttered them. Years later, she would recall the cadence of them with startling accuracy. Replaying in her mind in an endless loop. Something she would come to know as well as her own name.

No. No. No.

If she denied it enough, it wouldn’t be true.

All the pain Malka had endured—Mavetéh’s creatures, Brother Asak’s stone feet, the Valonian guard’s iron fists—dwindled at the strength of this.

In a few words, Danya had turned Malka’s world upside down. All she could think of was Hadar’s doe-like face, the vivid wonder behind her eyes, her contagious laugh. Gone forever.

The thought of Hadar in pain was a sharp dagger between her ribs. The thought of a world without her twisted the blade.

“I tried so hard to save her,” Danya continued. “I ran back to our house as quickly as I could. So fast, I thought my legs would give out. But she wasn’t there. She had run out during the commotion. She found someone dying in the street and was trying to help her when—”

Danya could not finish. Tears consumed her.

Malka crawled forward on her knees and wrapped Danya close. Danya cried into her shoulder, and Malka held on to her like a lifeline.

Malka had only ever wanted a peaceful life with her family, to wake each morning to the hum of the fire and work with Imma as a healer.

She wanted to celebrate holidays with her family and watch Hadar grow up.

To see Imma grow old and wise and watch as Danya constructed a life she loved.

She wanted this life so much that she had stepped into Mavetéh.

Stepped into her death for the chance of getting that life.

She had made a bargain with a golem and deceived the archbishop for it.

And it was all for nothing.

Mavetéh had been her enemy. What stood between her and that peaceful life. But she was wrong. Mavetéh had not been the only threat.

The greatest threat to her and her people were those who wielded their beliefs like weapons. Who sought to eradicate those whose beliefs were different from theirs—beliefs that threatened their supremacy.

“Danya,” Chaia said hesitantly. “Do you know what happened to my parents?”

Danya shook her head. “I’m not sure. They were part of the group that fled with Abba. While some of us escaped here, another group headed south toward the Balkisk Kingdom.”

Something flickered across Chaia’s face. Vilém wrapped an arm around her. She buried her face in his neck.

To her left, Amnon had gone deathly pale. “My family, Danya?” he asked, voice small.

“Your brothers escaped toward Vy?. Your father… I’m sorry, Amnon.”

He nodded, but his hand shook around his cane.

Her people had become refugees. Her home had been destroyed. Hadar was gone.

Through blurry eyes, Malka sought Nimrah. She kept to the back of the crowd, burying herself into her cloak as if willing herself to disappear, her lips still swollen from what they had done. What Malka had taken for herself to satiate her own desires.

The Rayga, Malka had deemed her. But perhaps she and Nimrah were not so different, after all. Nimrah was created to protect the Yahad, and yet Eskravé was pillaged. Malka always did what was necessary to protect her family. And yet, Hadar was dead.

They had both failed.

The lanterns had long grown cold by the time they returned to Chaia’s house.

Chaia had excused herself to shed her wedding gown for a simple blouse and trousers.

When Malka saw past her own grief, she realized this day was ruined for Vilém and Chaia.

Their wedding, a day of happiness and new beginnings, now rife with grief and sorrow.

Amnon heated some water and steeped tea in several mugs.

Nimrah set a cup on the table for Malka.

She lingered close, as if waiting to say something, but Malka did not move her gaze from the chipped groove of the mug in front of her.

She did not want to acknowledge Nimrah. To confront what they had done—what they were about to do.

She was wildly stupid for what had happened in the alleyway.

She had let herself be distracted. Let herself take what she wanted.

If there was any way she could’ve prevented…

but that was foolish thinking. She was one person.

Even Kefesh, the magic of her people, had abandoned her.

Left her to feel even more powerless than she could’ve imagined.

What mattered now? Everything Malka had journeyed for was gone. The home she knew, the family she loved. Imma now sentenced to death; her only crime being a talented Yahadi healer. The Ozmins couldn’t stand to think the Yahad could be as skilled as them, as talented.

“You’re allowed to feel, you know,” Chaia said. “However you want to feel. Angry, sad, hurt, afraid.”

Malka hadn’t heard her reenter the room. She sat next to her in a creaking chair. The room had emptied, and Malka hadn’t noticed. All she saw was the crack in her mug.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel. They’re gone.

Eskravé is gone.” Malka traced her finger along the ridge of the chip.

“I survived Mavetéh. I brought Amnon back from the brink of death. I stole a prisoner from a highly guarded dungeon. And yet, I couldn’t stop this.

I couldn’t protect those I hold most dear. The people who needed me.”

She had been willing to bend the earth to give Hadar the childhood Malka had once had.

But instead, Hadar had died alone. Died before life unfurled its wings to her.

“In the palace, I eavesdropped on a conversation between Sévren and Prince Ev ? en. Sévren spoke to the prince like a father, but the words he said… he whispered to him about maintaining control over Ordobav. To lead with an iron fist like his grandfather. He said something was his choice to decide.”

Chaia’s lips thinned. “Of course, they would do this as a power play. There was a similar attack on a Yahadi village equidistant from Valón up north. Eskravé was nothing but Sévren’s next calculated move on his chessboard of control.

He’s destroyed the Yahadi villages who traded most with Valón, who traveled here most often. It’s probably just the beginning, too.”

“No one in Eskravé had their hand in powerful politics. They killed children. ”

“We will honor them, Malka,” Chaia said fiercely, grabbing Malka’s hand. “We will tell stories of them, like we do with the Shabhe Queen and her bravery during the Feast of Lots. We will tell stories about them until our throats run dry and our lips bleed.”

Malka snubbed at this. “We’ll waste away in such stories. What difference will it make? They are still dead.”

Chaia frowned. “What are humans without stories, Malka? Do you think it won’t take stories to shift the tide of war, to build nations up from the ground?

Behind every tyrant is a story that justifies their means; behind every brutalized culture are stories that string generations together like emerald beads.

Their stories will have meanings, and we will not forget them. ”

“Is that what you’re thinking about? How their deaths can be weaponized against the Ozmini Church? Against Prince Ev ? en?”

“Malka, do you think I’m not also grieving?

That when I snuck away from home in that cart I could’ve known that would be the last time I’d be able to see Eskravé?

That their deaths do not eat at me? That I would not give anything to learn the fate of my parents, that there is a possibility they died thinking I was dead?

You are not the only one who has lost. I am angry.

I am hurt. But I find my strength in a higher purpose. ”

“You sound like him,” Malka said. “The Maharal.”

Chaia shrugged. “His teachings have inspired me.”