Chapter 3 Scars In Silence

The world didn't stop for a broken heart.

Avelyn learned that the hard way.

The morning after her rejection was just like any other in the village-except that everything had changed. The sun rose with its usual golden arrogance, birds chirped as though the earth hadn't just fallen from beneath her feet, and the villagers moved about their business with laughter and chatter in their throats.

As if her world hadn't crumbled the night before.

As if the man who'd once held her soul in his hands hadn't shattered it into a thousand jagged pieces and walked away with someone else on his arm.

She walked slowly through the village paths, head held high out of habit, not pride. Whispers trailed behind her like smoke.

"She really thought she could be his mate."

"She was never good enough for him."

"She has no parents, no power-what did she expect?"

They thought her deaf. They thought her blind to their sneers. But she saw it all.

Felt every word like a stone to her chest.

She said nothing.

She never did.

It wasn't because she was weak. Avelyn had learned long ago that silence was sometimes the only shield the world allowed girls like her. She'd grown up in this village, raised by the quiet strength of her mother and the unwavering discipline of her father. They were warriors in their own right, brave and good-hearted. But the gods had not spared them.

When she was barely sixteen, her mother had gone to the river and never returned. Her father followed two seasons later-lost during a border patrol near the cursed woods. The grief had left her hollow, but she bore it in silence, for there was no one else.

No family. No lover. No home that truly felt like hers.

She survived.

That's what she did.

And so, when Malrik rejected her-loudly, publicly, and cruelly-she didn't scream. She didn't beg. She didn't cry where they could see her.

Instead, she returned to the little stone cottage at the edge of the forest. The place her parents had left her. The place that still smelled faintly of her mother's herbs and her father's leathers. Dust clung to the shelves. Shadows pressed against the walls.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Her fingers traced the outline of the old frame that sat on the mantle. Her parents stared back at her from the faded image, smiling with the same pride they always wore when they looked at her. Her mother's hair was braided down her back, wild and long. Her father stood tall, one arm around his mate, the other resting protectively on Avelyn's shoulder.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

"I wish you were here," she whispered into the silence. Her voice cracked. "I wish... I didn't have to face this alone."

She curled up beside the hearth and let the memories rise like ghosts.

She remembered how her mother used to braid her hair by the fire, humming old songs from her tribe. How her father taught her to hunt, how to walk silently through the woods like a shadow.

She remembered the way her father's eyes would soften when he looked at her mother. The way her mother would smile when Avelyn entered the room.

She remembered what love was supposed to look like.

And then she remembered Malrik.

His lips. His hands. His promises.

Empty. All of it.

His rejection wasn't just a severing of the bond-it was the theft of a future she'd dared to hope for.

Her fingers curled into fists. Her nails bit into her palms, hard enough to leave marks.

She didn't cry again.

She'd done enough of that in the dark.

---

The days passed slowly, stitched together by silence and aching.

Avelyn stayed in the cottage, avoiding the village. No one came to check on her. No one brought food or even a word of comfort. In a place filled with people, she had never felt more alone.

Sometimes she wandered the forest nearby-the only place that didn't whisper judgment.

The trees didn't care about rejection. The wind didn't mock her. The earth didn't flinch at her presence.

Here, she could breathe.

Here, she could think.

Her footsteps often led her to the edge of the glade where she and her parents used to train. The worn stones still bore the dents from her father's blades. The bark on the old oak was still scarred from her mother's throwing knives.

She ran her fingers over those cuts, her heart twisting with memories.

They had taught her strength.

They had believed in her, even when no one else did.

She remembered the last words her mother ever said to her: "You are more than what they see. One day, you'll show them what they missed."

She hadn't believed it then.

She wasn't sure she believed it now.

But something was changing.

---

One evening, as twilight fell, she sat on the floor of the cottage, surrounded by her father's old journals. Most of them were filled with maps and tactical notes. But one, bound in dark leather, was different.

Inside were pages of their family history-tales of bloodlines and power.

Power that ran in her veins.

Vampiric strength inherited from a long-forgotten bloodline.

Her mother had whispered of it when she was young but warned her never to speak of it aloud.

"Some powers are not meant for this world, Avelyn. They fear what they don't understand. You must protect it. You must protect yourself."

So she did. She hid her strength. She never fought harder than necessary. She dulled her senses. She lowered her gaze. She stayed small.

Because being seen as strong could get her killed.

And now?

She had stayed small for Malrik.

She had swallowed her power for love.

And look where that had brought her.

---

That night, something inside her cracked open.

She walked to the old mirror above the washbasin. Her reflection stared back-pale skin, dark circles, amber eyes that once shimmered with hope now dulled by sorrow.

She pulled her sleeves up, revealing faint white scars on her forearms. Some old. Some newer.

Not from blades.

From her own nails, digging in when the silence got too loud.

From climbing trees and falling. From training alone. From surviving.

She ran her fingers over them.

Each one was a reminder.

She had suffered.

But she had endured.

She was still here.

And she would not stay broken.

Not for Malrik.

Not for the villagers.

Not even for the version of herself that had once dreamed of love.

---

The next morning, she packed a small satchel.

Dried herbs. A flask of water. A dagger with her father's initials etched into the hilt. A cloak of deep green.

She stepped outside as the sun rose, the light gilding the tops of the trees in gold.

For the first time in days, she smiled.

Not because she felt joy.

But because she felt purpose.

She would leave the village.

She would disappear into the world beyond-the one her parents spoke of in hushed stories. The one where power didn't have to be hidden. Where a girl like her could become something more.

And when she returned-if she returned-it would not be as a forgotten, rejected girl.

It would be as something else.

Something stronger.

Something dangerous.

---

Avelyn cast one last look at the cottage, her heart heavy but steady.

"I'll make you proud," she whispered to her parents' memory. "I swear it."

Then she turned.

And walked into the forest.

Alone.

But not lost.

---