Seven Hours earlier
JUDITHE BARRISTER BREATHED HEAVILY THROUGH THE MOUTH. Her bright red hair seemed to glow even brighter as the sweat rolled down her face. Her tired eyes rested on the group of men who took up all the seats in her house.
Their ashen faces stared hard at her and their mouths held no lovely smiles. They wanted this over and done with just as much as she did. She could not imagine what the town's people would do if they saw the men here – if they knew that Sorans were in their village.
If they knew that she was a Soran.
Perhaps, they would do nothing. But she did not want to take that chance, that was why the men needed to get out of her home, out of her life and out of her village as soon as possible. The villagers might do nothing – after all, they knew nothing of the war that waged between darkness and light outside of these place, they knew nothing of the supernatural, they had no idea of the dark lord's powers and how far reaching those powers were getting.
If they knew, they never would have let the soldiers erect their court on their land in the first place. It was not the villagers she was scared of, it was the dark lord's minions who mounted guard just outside her house.
If they caught a whiff of the league of men who were paying her a visit now, all hell would break loose and she had to prevent that at all cost.
For the sake of her daughter.
"What are you saying?" she asked the men, trying to keep her heartbeat in check.
One of the men – Dylan – spoke, she recognized him because he had trained her once, only once and that time she had thought she loved him. Thinking that had been a big mistake which she regretted till this day, acting on those instincts was something she had vowed never to think of.
He looked the same way he had looked twenty-four years ago; the only difference was the white hair which was sprinkled over the black of his hair like salt. And the mustache which sat below his straight nose, mocking her.
"I have come for our daughter." He said, his voice still had that husky, velvety tone which used to warm her insides and butter her heart and his eyes still looked at her as though she was the only thing in the room.
Even now, when they were on opposite sides of the table.
Judithe frowned, trying to pretend she had no idea what he was talking about. She was sure she could see through his lies as well as she could see through his, although she had failed to see it twenty-four years ago.
"I have no one like that here." She replied, tilting her chin and setting her jaw stubbornly. "I don't understand why you would be thinking I have your daughter. Our daughter? If you came all the way here for that, then I am afraid to tell you that you are thoroughly mistaken."
Dylan shook his head. He had expected her to change, to mature but since the last twenty-four years, she was still the spoilt, petulant child she used to be. The spoiled, petulant child he had been in love with. The same child who had absconded with his daughter, the girl who might be the Yajan.
Fine then, if she wanted him to give it to her, there was nothing stopping him.
He stretched his arm out, noting the vibrant thread in the room. They looked rich, filled with raw, untapped energy. He knew instantly that neither Judithe or his daughter had been weaving the threads and stopped to wonder why that was.
Never mind. He told himself, if they wanted to conceal that they were Sorans in this tiny village, that was their business. He was here to get something and he would take it even if it meant using force.
Perhaps, not weaving was a good thing. The less people knew about what she was, the better for her. If they knew, it would not be long before the dark lord found out and sent his army after her. He needed time to train her in the art of magic, to make her stronger, ready for the battle that was to come.
He failed to note the alarm in her eyes as her eyes fell on his weave and ignored the loud cry of "No!!!" which escaped her lips.
He smirked at her. "Not so stubborn now, are we?"
"I told you!" Judithe hissed, glaring dagger at him. "Your daughter is not here. Stop the weave!"
Dylan was never a man who did as he was told, it was one of the reasons why he had been out of the picture for the past twenty-four years.
"Are you scared?" he taunted. "Scared of what I might do with a little weave? Scared that you might not be able to stop me?"
"That is not it, Dylan."
Since his arrival here, this was the first time she was saying his name. Hearing his name from her mouth after twenty-four years stirred up something inside of him. Something which he had pushed to the darkest recess of his heart and buried it there.
He frowned, hating the fact that he reacted to her like this. Even after twenty-four years.
"Then, what is it?" he asked, sounding softer. "Why would you not let me take what I have come for?"
Judithe looked away, whether to hide the tears which sprang to her eyes, or to hide that shame which tinted her cheeks with a pink hue, or maybe it was both. She could not tell.
"Because she is not yours." She yelled. Liar.
Even Dylan could see that she was lying. He sighed, he had tried it the soft way. He began to weave the threads again, his fingers playing around them. He saw the fear in her eyes and thought it was him who she feared.
He was mistaken.