Life had turned upside down in a matter of minutes.

  Malok had accused Nox of murdering his own family, and no one—not a single soul—had defended him. Why? Had they always thought him capable of something so monstrous?

  He had always been proud of his charm, the way he could capture hearts and never let go. Proud of how his people stood by him, unwavering, no matter what. Proud that, even if no one ever said it outright, they loved him more than his brother, Malok. But today—today, they had listened to Malok. They had turned their backs on him.

  It was a bruise to his ego, a wound deeper than he could bear. His chest tightened, his blood boiled. Even if he tore down four trees with his bare hands, it wouldn’t be enough to ease the rage consuming him.

  "Is this what you killed my wife with?" Malok’s words cut deeper than any blade.

  Creda had gasped. So had the others—his kin, his people. The very ones he had once dreamed of leading.

  But none of that mattered now. Not the accusation, not the fact that he had stupidly forgotten to discard the dagger. His intentions had been good. Even now, he refused to reveal the truth—that it was Turo who had stabbed Samora. No. That would stain Turo’s memory. And he wouldn’t do that. Not when he was dead.

  But the worst part? It wasn’t the accusation. It wasn’t the dagger.

  It was the silence.

  The way no one had defended him.

  How easily they had accepted that he might be a killer.

  Are people truly this shallow? Do they not know the ones who grew up beside them?

  When had he ever been malicious?

  And yet, they believed Malok over him.

  That—that was the deepest insult of all.

  Chief Marnoell rose to his feet, his presence commanding silence. His gaze swept over the two brothers before settling on Nox.

  "What do you say for that?" he asked.

  Nox remained quiet. His mind was reeling, spinning with thoughts he couldn’t piece together fast enough.

  Then—it hit him.

  The lantern.

  Malok’s accusation had thrown a new light on what he had so stupidly overlooked. The mysterious man by the lake. Could it have been him? Could he have been the one who killed Samora—not Turo?

  "Uncle, I saw a man in the woods," Nox said frantically, his words tumbling out in his desperation to be heard. "He looked different. Not like us. And he carried this tiny bundle in his hands. I followed him. He went to the lake, and there—he boarded a vessel, much like our rafts, but stronger, better built. And then… he did something strange. He chanted, like we do in prayer, and—" Nox swallowed, catching his breath. "I swear, I saw him materialize a lantern out of thin air."

  He paused, scanning their faces. "I saw the same lantern near Samora’s body."

  The silence that followed was thick with disbelief—until Malok’s mocking voice cut through it.

  "Wow, Nox. You really are a storyteller," Malok sneered. "Maybe everyone should stop listening to Calla’s stories and start listening to yours instead." His voice darkened with venom. "How cheap can you be? You didn’t just kill my wife—you’re making up wild tales now?"

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Something inside Nox snapped.

  "Your wife?" He spat the words in frustration. "Where was this concern when she was alive? When she toiled on the streets through rain and sun, did you care then?"

  He turned sharply to Marnoell, his last desperate chance slipping through his fingers. "Uncle, I can prove I’m right. Come with me to the other shore—I can show you the proof. Turo didn’t have a lantern when he chased Samora. We did, but it drowned when our raft collapsed. That man’s lantern had ornate carvings—we never disturbed it. It must still be there!"

  But Malok wasn’t finished.

  "Clever, Nox. Really clever," he scoffed. "You didn’t just kill Turo and Samora. Now you want to lure our uncle to the forbidden shore and kill him too? Is that it? So the title will be yours for good?"

  "That’s enough blabbering for one day, Malok. And you, Nox. That's the forbidden land and we've gotten into so much trouble for one trip already. So no one goes there, Nox. Not anymore. No one ever will." The elder's voice was final, as if speaking an undeniable truth. The others nodded, their eyes heavy with a certainty Nox could not penetrate. Chief Marnoell’s voice boomed over the crowd, silencing them all. His expression was unreadable. "I’ve heard enough. Now it’s our turn to deliver justice."

  And so, Chief Marnoell had delivered his verdict.

  Nox was to be an outcast for the next ten years.

  "No one shall offer him food, water, or shelter. No one from the village shall speak to him or have any relationship with him until his sentence is served," Marnoell declared, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd.

  His words struck like a blade.

  "There is no concrete proof that Nox committed the crimes Malok accuses him of. The claims against him are opportunistic—speculative at best." His gaze hardened as it landed on Malok. "I cannot punish a man based on speculation, no matter how clever the accusations seem."

  A murmur rippled through the villagers.

  "Right now, the only proven fact is that Nox defied my orders and went to aid Samora’s family. And that is what I will punish him for."

  Nox’s breath caught in his throat.

  An outcast.

  The weight of the sentence crashed over him. It was the worst fate imaginable—worse than exile, worse than death. He would walk among his kin, see their faces every day, watch them go about their lives—yet to them, he would be nothing. A ghost. Unseen. Unheard. Forgotten.

  Even after ten years, even after they allowed him back within the village walls, they would never see him the same way again.

  His heart pounded as Malok stepped forward, his voice sharp with protest.

  "But Chief—Turo was your son! You're favoring Nox!"

  The accusation hung in the air like a crack of thunder.

  But Marnoell did not falter. His sharp glare cut through Malok’s outburst, silencing him in an instant.

  "Malok," he said coldly, "we all know what you're trying to do. And there's one thing you seem to have forgotten—" he turned, his voice low but firm, "—your age will never measure up to my experience."

  With that, he turned to leave.

  And just like that, it was over.

  The chief's words rang in Nox's ears, dull and distant, as if they had been spoken underwater. The weight of them settled into his chest, cold and suffocating. He barely registered the shuffling of feet, the shifting of bodies—until a voice, small but firm, cut through the silence.

  "Wait." Hiyan's voice trembled, but he stepped forward.

  "I want justice," Hiyan slurred. "I refuse to live with my wife after knowing she was having an affair with Malok."

  He swayed like a man drowning in his own grief, his steps unsteady.

  Chief Marnoell eyed him with quiet scrutiny. "Do you have concrete proof of this claim?" he asked. "If not, we will not interfere in a husband and wife’s matters based on mere suspicion." His voice was steady. "If you still wish to separate, meet me in the morning—preferably when you're sober."

  But Nox wasn’t in a state to care.

  His gaze drifted past the exchange, landing instead on Creda.

  She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t weeping. She wasn’t throwing accusations at him.

  She just stared—silent, tear-filled, accusing.

  That look was worse than any words. It was the quiet kind of hate—the kind that lingered.

  It told him that just when she had started to warm up to his presence, this disaster had turned him into the villain of her family.

  He never wished to marry her, not after she became Turo's betrothed. He never dared to dream of such things.

  But he had at least hoped for peace between them, for some form of understanding. Even if she married another, he would have preferred a relationship unmarred by resentment.

  And Malok had stolen even that from him.

  His feet dragged across the swampy terrain, the thick mud sucking at his steps as he made his way toward the lake.

  His shoulders were hunched, his resolve shattered.

  Everything was over now.

  He had no one. No one to call his own.

  But why did this happen to him?

  And who was that mysterious man by the lake?

  Was he connected to Nox's fate in some way?

  We have two more chapters before moving on to the next—> Book 2: Festerblight.