Nine hundred and ninety-nine steps. Even wrapped in fox fur, Layla still fell, her head cracking open on the stone, her bones screaming as if ground to splinters. Her clothes hung in tatters, fluttering in the bitter wind.
She knew every one of these steps intimately—which paving stone was loose, which one had a chipped corner.
But they were heartless, dead things. Three years of kneeling, three years of intimate familiarity, and they remained as hard and unyielding as iron.
Just like him. Heartless.
Layla lay in the snow, watching the endless sky scatter its white flakes. A desolation vaster than the sky opened up inside her.
A blur of shouting reached her ears. She moved her lips, but no sound came out.
The crowd of pilgrims surrounding her was suddenly shoved aside.
"Move! Get out of the way! Nothing to see here!"
Several men in coarse cloth rushed in, hauled Layla up, and started dragging her away.
Forced upright, her consciousness fading, she swayed and nearly collapsed again. Every bone felt shattered, immobile. With all her strength, she could only manage a whisper thin as a mosquito's hum. "Who are you? I don't know you!"
They bundled her roughly into a waiting carriage, their voices loud and brash. "Madam, you've taken this tantrum far enough. Look at the state you're in! How are we supposed to explain this to the master?"
Nearby bystanders heard this and shrugged it off as just another noble family's domestic dispute. As the carriage rattled away into the distance, they gradually dispersed.
Only then did Layla understand what Eva had meant with her parting words.
The carriage traveled several miles to a dilapidated temple. The men dragged her out.
They lunged at her, tearing at her clothes. Layla clawed desperately at the ground, trying to crawl away, but it was useless.
One of them leered, "Pretty thing, whatever your man couldn't give you, we brothers here will make sure you get your fill!"
Layla's lips were bloodless. She trembled. "How much did Eva pay you? I'll give you ten times! Just stay away!"
A man with a limp yanked her by the hair, dragging her back like a ragdoll. "Ten times? Don't make me laugh. After we've had our fun, we'll have that bitch by the throat. You think we'll ever want for money again?"
With that, he ripped open the skirt of her dress. A flash of pale thigh was exposed.
A knife-sharp cold shot through Layla. She clutched the tattered remnants of her cloak, pressing it desperately between her legs.
Just as the limping man was about to force himself upon her, he grunted suddenly and pitched forward, collapsing to the ground.
Behind him stood Julia, holding a shattered clay pot, her face streaked with blood, her eyes like those of a vengeful spirit.
She glared at the remaining men, her voice ringing out. "Come on then! Touch my lady again, I dare you! I'll take every last one of you with me!"
Brandishing the sharp fragment of pottery, she moved slowly to stand in front of Layla, shielding her.
Seeing it was just a young maid, the men's initial fear evaporated.
One of them sneered. "What? Worried we won't have enough fun? Come to join the party?"
Julia yanked the large ceremonial blade from the moss-covered hands of a forgotten temple's guardian statue. With a wild cry, she charged, slashing madly.
Unarmed and unwilling to risk their lives, the men shoved each other in their panic and fled.
Layla lay on the ground, watching as Julia dropped the heavy blade. Her whole body shaking, Julia stumbled over and gathered Layla into her arms, tears streaming down her face silently. She didn't dare make a sound—afraid of frightening her lady, even more afraid the men might hear and return.
Layla tried to lift an arm to hug her back, but she didn't have the strength to even raise a hand.
"Julia, don't cry," Layla whispered, her voice a thread. "We're done with this life. We're not living like this anymore."
Julia nodded fiercely, her tears falling faster. "They've already sent word to the border, by the fastest horse. To Anthony's Manor. We're leaving Bradley's Manor. We're not staying here!"
Finally allowing her defenses to drop, a wave of blackness swept over Layla. Her last coherent thought before she lost consciousness was:
*In seven days, our paths diverge. Forever.*
*Bradley, you and I… we're finished.*
