Page 105 of The Violet Raven

I need to think. I need to act. I need to escape.

With a savage tug on my hair, he pushes me to my knees, the sharp pain ripping through my scalp like fire. I grit my teeth, swallowing the cry that threatens to escape. My hands claw at his fist, nails digging into his skin, but his grip remains ironclad.

“Come an’ hold ‘er down while I take ‘er in the dirt—right where she belongs,” he barks, his voice a sickening blend of cruelty and triumph.

My stomach drops as two shadowy figures move closer, their dark shapes looming over me.

“No!” The word rips from my throat, raw and desperate, echoing into the stillness of the forest. If anyone—anyone—is nearby, they’ll hear. They must hear.

I feel his movements behind me and hear the distinct sound of fumbling as he attempts to undo his pants. Panic surges, and I thrash harder, my whole body bucking against the two surly men now forcing me toward the ground.

The first grabs my arm, his hands rough and cruel. The second closes in on the other side, pressing me downward with unrelenting force. I twist, bucking against them, but their combined strength pushes me closer to the forest floor. My heart thunders, the world around me narrowing into a chaotic blur of survival instinct and blind panic.

One of them reaches for me, his rough hand snaking downward with vile intent. His touch grazes my thigh, and bile rises in my throat as his fingers creep closer, aiming for what he has no right to take. “Oi!” the brute behind me barks, voice cutting through the chaos. “None of that. She’s mine. Ye’ll not be touchin’ ‘er before me.”

The vile hand recoils instantly. A slap cracks through the air, sharp and jarring, as the brute strikes the man hard across the side of his head. The impact reverberates through the suffocating silence, shattering—for just a moment—the grotesque tension hanging over us.

A surge of anger wells up within me, burning away the edges of my fear. Determination floods my veins, sharpening my thoughts. I make a split-second decision, forcing my body to go still.

Let them think you’re defeated—just for a moment.

The instant I feel their grips ease, I strike.

With every ounce of strength, I throw my head back, aiming true. A sickening thud meets my effort, and the brute howls in agony. He stumbles, his hands releasing me as he cups himself between the legs, writhing in pain.

I don’t wait to savour the moment. Seizing the opportunity, I rip my arms free from the men’s grasp, grab my downed dagger, and twist, rolling away with all the speed I can muster. The forest floor scrapes against my hands and knees, but I don’t care. Distance is all that matters.

“Ya daft bitch!” the man roars, his voice raw with fury and humiliation.

Every nerve in my body screams at me to run, to flee this nightmare as fast as my legs can carry me. But before I can take even a single step, the air itself seems to split open, and a blood-curdling scream tears through the stillness of the night, cutting into the quiet like a jagged knife. It isn’t just loud—it’s piercing, primal, and haunting, a sound that claws its way beneath my skin and roots me to the spot.

I whip around, my breath catching in my throat as the scream hangs in the air, stretching out like an endless wail of torment.

It’s high-pitched, laced with sorrow so raw it feels tangible, as if the forest itself mourns with it. My chest tightens, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The sound reverberates through the trees; the echoes overlapping in a way that makes it feel as though the source is all around, nowhere and everywhere at once.

It came from no man—or creature I’d ever encountered. For a fleeting moment, confusion eclipses my fear, my mind scrambling to identify the source of the sound. But nothing I can think of matches the sheer, bone-chilling horror of it.

The men’s bravado vanishes in an instant. They freeze, heads snapping around, searching for the source of the unholy sound. Even the one who violated me stills. His pained groans cut off beneath the crushing weight of the scream.

Their attention snaps toward the comrade standing furthest from the group. My heart hammers as my eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light filtering through the trees. And when I finally make out the scene before me, my stomach knots with terror.

His head is gone.

Not just gone—removed cleanly, severed in a single stroke. His lifeless body stands motionless for a brief, heart-stopping moment before crumpling to the ground like a felled tree, the sound of his collapse reverberating through the oppressive silence.

The men’s confidence shatters, giving way to chaos. They scramble to unsheathe their weapons, their shouts frantic and disorganised, clashing with the eerie stillness of the forest. The one who violated me remains hunched over, clutching himself in pain, oblivious to the severity of the danger bearing down upon them.

I can’t waste the chance. The opening is clear. I inch backward, preparing to sprint into the shadows, but just as I turn, something appears and pauses my retreat.

It materialises from the darkness as if born of the shadows themselves.

A phantom figure—tall, unnaturally pale, its ghostly pallor shimmering faintly against the blackened backdrop of the forest. It has the distinct form of a woman, clad in a ragged silver dress that ripples as if caught in an unfelt wind. Wild, wispy silver hair frames a face I can barely discern, its features obscured but radiating a haunting intensity.

The figure moves with a speed and grace that is impossible to track. One moment it stands motionless, the next it seems to glide through the darkness, its ethereal form shifting in and out of the shadows like smoke caught in moonlight.

The men barely have time to react before it descends upon them with terrifying precision.

One assailant, bolder—or more foolish—than the others, lunges at the phantom with his sword, a guttural shout escaping his lips. But the figure moves as if expecting his every action. With an effortless sidestep, it avoids the blade, its movements a fluid blur.