The Wolf of the Wilds

The Long Road to Redemption Pt.3

(Make sure you've read part 1 and 2 before continuing.)

An hour had past since the thug had left and she was still procrastinating.

Humming under her breath, she looked up to the window where a dim light glowed between the slats of the shutters. She slowly straightened atop her precarious perch of stacked pallets, leaning forward to peek between the wood. At first, she could only make out blurred movement and mumbling noise, but as she adjusted her view and concentrated, things came into focus.

A woman, Valeria Cerca she assumed, was pacing back and forth, while a man was sat on a tattered long chair. "The suspense is killing me, Carlos. What can we do?" she said, ringing her hands and turning on her feet.

Carlos shifted, looking up at her. "Nothing. We're trapped, and you know it's only a matter of time. We decided to play with fire and now we're going to be burnt."

"I know that!" she snapped, before pausing and wiping her eyes. "I just can't bear to think about what'll happen to our niños. If I died right now, my only regret would be that we couldn't do more to protect them."

She could make out the two small figures tucked under their father's arms. Judging from their lack of movement, they were sleeping. "Mi amor, we've tried everywhere. I agree with you, but there's no one else to turn to."

Helena turned her head away and carefully clambered back down to ground level, glancing up at the window several more times. Gritting her teeth and wrapping her arms around herself, she walked away from the building with an unsteady gait. Her back hit a nearby wall and she stood there, taking deep, calming breaths.

She regretted eavesdropping.

Scrunching up her face, she pinched her arm. "Pull yourself together, Lena," she hissed. "They're targets, that's all. All they are is a name on a list and coins in the Angor's pocket." But was that true? Was that what any of her victims were? Were they just names, or were they people as well?

The doubt that'd been creeping up on her for a while made itself known then. It swung before her like a noose, taunting her, and pushing her as it always did. Looking down at her boots, her hair fell around her face like a black curtain.

She'd never enjoyed killing. By Angor standards, she was efficient and considerate to her targets, but it didn't make her any less of a murderous monster. She still killed. She still tricked herself into pretending that what she did was justified, just a job. "Crap," she breathed, running her fingers over her face. "I'm fucked. I can't do it. I can't do it."

Her eyes glanced up at the window again. Her breaths were shallow and all too dangerously fast. What could she do? What options did she have? She couldn't just flee. Nor could she find the resolve to murder the entire family in cold blood.

"I have to do something," she murmured. "I can't just be idle and do nothing. Either I defy my people or do as they say. There is no in-between." The realisation made her hands feel clammy and the clinging, trickling of dread run down her spine.

Jaw tensed and nails tender from chewing, she took the slow steps around the side of the building. Peering up at the flight of stairs above, she trailed onwards. One by one, her feet barely made a sound on the terracotta tiles.

Finally, she stopped in the entrance.

The door hadn't changed at all in the half an hour she'd been stood there. Eyes trained and fist hovering above the wood, she was unsure of what she was waiting for. Divine intervention? A sign from the beyond? Closing her eyes, she bit the inside of her cheek.