‡Chapter Fourteen‡
MARTINA 
I can't see.
The thought kept repeating in my head, over and over. A rough sack covered my face, its rough fabric scratching against my skin. It robbed me of my vision completely. My hands were tied behind my back, the ropes so tight they bit into my wrists. I was bound to what felt like a thick pole, and no matter how much I shifted, I couldn’t free myself. My knees pressed against the cold, hard ground, trembling under the weight of the chains fastened around my ankles. They were heavy, dragging me down, making it impossible to stand.
Around me, there was noise. So much noise. The air was thick with the sound of murmuring voices—dozens, maybe hundreds of them. Their whispers and shouts blended into a chaotic hum, too loud for me to make out any words. But I didn’t need to hear what they were saying. 
My heart pounded, fast and irregular. This was it the public trial. And I was at the center of it. I could feel the crowd’s eyes on me, their judgment pressing down like a weight I couldn’t shake off. My breathing grew shallow, not because the sack was suffocating me, but because the air itself felt heavy, thick with fear and hatred.
As the shock began to wear off, my mind flooded with thoughts and emotions. Panic. Confusion. Rage. How did it come to this? I never thought I’d end up here, tied up like a criminal. I didn’t even remember what happened. One moment I was just living my life and the next, they were calling me a monster. Accusing me of things I couldn’t even comprehend. And now?
Ah, f*ck this...
They can't kill me. They wouldn’t be able to prove a damn thing. Screw those witnesses, I don't care. If I ever got out of this mess, they’d see exactly what kind of monster they were so desperate to find.
I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m in pain.
And it’s probably not the end of this agony. My whole body feels like one giant bruise—every inch of me throbs with a dull, relentless ache. My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to the roof of it, and my stomach twists and grumbles, desperate for something—anything—to fill it. I can feel some of my teeth loosening, each one sending sharp jolts of pain with every breath. My body has taken too many hits, too much damage. It’s getting harder to tell if I’m still alive or just stuck in some endless nightmare.
Dying almost feels like the easier option.
It’s not over. I tell myself again and again, but the words feel hollow. I’m so damn tired. My eyelids are heavy, my head slumps forward, and every time I move—no matter how small—it sets off a chain reaction of pain. My muscles scream. My bones ache. I might actually drop dead in front of them.
Shit.
My body’s so heavy, and I can’t stop shaking. How much longer? How much more of this do I have to endure? All for their stupid beliefs, their twisted fear. They’re convinced I’m a monster, and they won’t stop until they break me completely.
But I’m not a monster.
I can’t even kill a pest on our farm. I remember freezing up the last time I saw a rat near the grain sacks, too soft-hearted to even chase it away properly. How the hell could I ever be what they say I am? This whole thing is insane.
Shit.
Even if I somehow survive this trial, what then? The beatings might stop, but the hatred won’t. The fear won’t. I’ll never be able to walk through the streets without their eyes on me, burning holes into my back. They’ll never see me as anything but the thing they accused me of being.
Contempt. Fear. Disgust.
That’s all that’s waiting for me.
Shit. Fuck.
Plus there's three life in my palms, if I die they die. What did I even do to deserve this kind of twist in life. 
*DONG! *DONG! *DONG! 
The bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each chime sent a jolt through my body, a slow countdown to the second round of this nightmare. My stomach twisted, and my breathing grew shallow.
"Silence!"
The voice sharp and commanding, echoing so loudly it felt like it bounced off every wall around me. Where the hell am I for it to echo like that? A stadium? A coliseum?
Shit.
That only meant more people. More eyes. The humiliation was already unbearable, but this—this was going to be so much worse. What if—
Argh!
The sack was ripped off my head with a violent tug, so rough it yanked at my hair, sending a fresh wave of pain across my scalp. My head jerked to the side on instinct, and I kept it there, my face turned away from the crowd. I didn’t want to see them. I didn’t want them to see me.
I clenched my eyes shut as the sudden rush of light seared through the darkness I’d been trapped in. Even through my closed lids, the orange glow of torches burned against my vision. How long had I been in the dark? It felt like years.
Shit.
I could feel them. Their stares. Heavy. Piercing. Full of judgment and fear. It crawled over my skin, made me feel exposed in the worst possible way.
Slowly—so slowly—I opened my eyes.
The first thing I saw was him.
The boy with the bandana. The one who’d spoken to me through the bars of my cell like we’d been friends forever. Like he knew me. And now—he was crying. Silent, but his face was wet, his eyes red and desperate.
I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t lift my head. My face burned with shame, my body too broken and battered to pretend I had any dignity left. Every breath tasted like blood, and the bruises across my skin ached with every twitch of my muscles.
Fuck.
"My beloved civilians," a voice called out—smooth, practiced, and far too calm.
"To ensure everyone’s safety, we have captured the assumed monster that lurks in the shadows of our city. And along with her, those whose loyalty to the palace has faltered. For fairness, these people will undergo a trial. Should she be proven to be a monster, a public execution will commence—along with these men who aided her in hiding."
"The trial will begin now."
The crowd roared.
Fuck!
A sharp pain shot through my scalp as my hair was yanked upward, forcing my head back. My neck strained, and I couldn’t fight it—I was too weak, too hurt. My face was dragged into the light, and the crowd finally got their full view of me.
There were too many. Too many faces, too many eyes. The sheer number of them blurred together into a wall of shapes and shadows, but I could still feel their stares—heavy and merciless. My humiliation was complete. My heart pounded so fast it hurt.
I couldn’t breathe.
"Martina, 19, height 5'7, gender: female," a voice announced, cold and official. It echoed over the crowd, every word ringing out like a sentence.
"The granddaughter of Wilson and Catherine is now facing a heavy accusation of being a mutant—one of the abominations the government has sought to eradicate for the past hundred years. Martina has post significant threat to humanity's safety."
My chest tightened. My stomach twisted.
A threat. I am a threat...
The words hit harder than any fist.
"And now she will undergo a physical trial to search for any signs of monstrosity."
The crowd erupted. Cheers. Jeers. Shouts. The sound crashed over me like a wave, loud and suffocating.
A physical trial.
I knew what that meant.
Pain.
“Well, we meet again, woman. Let’s see if you’re indeed a normal person.” I knew that voice—I’d never forget it. This bastard again.
The Marshal’s voice was low, almost amused, his breath hot against my ear. His grip on my hair tightened like he wanted to rip it straight from my scalp.
My body tensed with anger, but I could barely move under the weight of the chains. Still, I forced the words out.
"I’ll die first before you even prove I’m a monster—"
I never got to finish.
The punch came fast and hard, slamming into my abdomen like a sledgehammer. All the air in my lungs rushed out in a strangled gasp, and the pain exploded through my body. I doubled over—or I would have if the chains let me. Instead, I stayed there, bound and helpless, as blood filled my mouth and spilled past my lips.
I coughed, my body convulsing, and the taste of iron spread across my tongue. My stomach twisted violently, and for a second, I thought I’d vomit right there. The urge to curl up, to protect myself, was overwhelming—but the chains kept me upright, locked in place, leaving me no way to ease the pain.
The crowd roared again.
I couldn’t tell if they were cheering or jeering. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fire in my gut and the cold, cruel voice still whispering in my ear. The pain in my abdomen was still burning—sharp and hot—when the Marshal finally let go of my hair. My head dropped forward instantly, and for a brief second, I was grateful just to bow down, to let the weight of my head pull me away from his grip. I tried to breathe through the pain, shallow and careful, but every inhale felt like knives digging deeper into my stomach.
Then his boot crashed into my side.
A sickening crack echoed through my body, and the pain—God, the pain—flared so fiercely I couldn’t even scream. The sound that escaped me was more like a strangled groan, broken and desperate. My vision blurred, and my knees buckled, but the chains kept me upright even as I felt myself crumble inside.
My ribs. I knew they were broken the second his foot slammed. Every breath now was agony, every twitch of my body sending sharp, unbearable pain through my chest.
I coughed again, and more blood spilled from my lips, splattering onto the cold, dirty ground. I sagged forward. The only thing keeping me from falling completely was the damn pole I was tied to. I was shaking, my muscles jerking from the sheer force of the pain, and my face pressed against the ground—kissing the dirt like I belonged there.
The crowd roared, and I couldn’t tell if they were satisfied or disappointed. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the fire in my ribs and the bitter taste of blood filling my mouth.
What the hell were they even trying to prove with this so-called "trial"? What were they waiting for?
Did they want me to fight back? Was that what they needed to call me a monster?
Or were they just waiting for me to die?
And this misogynistic fuck beside me really likes beating women.
I could hear his little chuckles—low and satisfied—as I lay there, slumped against the ground, drowning in pain. My body trembled, every breath a struggle, and still, he laughed. Like this was some kind of sport to him.
I wanted to tear that sound from his throat.
But I couldn’t even lift my head.
“You’re quiet now,” he sneered, his boots shifting closer. I heard the gravel crunch beneath his feet.
“What happened to all that fight, huh? Where’s that sharp tongue of yours?”
I stayed silent. Not because I was afraid—no, fear had burned out a long time ago—but because I couldn’t waste the air. My ribs screamed with every shallow breath, and the copper taste of blood still coated my tongue.
“Nothing to say?” His voice was mocking, almost sing-song.
“I guess monsters bleed just like the rest of us after all.”
I gritted my teeth, biting back the words I wanted to spit in his face. Words wouldn’t help me here. They’d only earn me more pain.
But God, the rage was building. It was there—hot and heavy, bubbling just beneath the surface.
If I could move… if these chains weren’t holding me down…
But I stayed still, forced to listen as the crowd cheered him on like this was some grand entertainment. Like my suffering was a spectacle. And he was loving every second of it.
Fuck.
The word echoed in my mind as I felt it—his boot pressing down on my head. The pressure grew with every second, my skull pinned against the cold, filthy ground. My neck strained, twisted at an unnatural angle, and the pain crawled down my spine like fire. He kept pushing, and I swear—if he pressed any harder, he’d snap my neck right there.
But even through the agony, a smirk tugged at my bloody lips.
Because I finally understood.
So this is what they wanted.
Entertainment.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder the more brutal he got, their voices merging into one monstrous sound. They weren’t here for justice. They weren’t here for truth. They were here to watch me suffer—to see blood and broken bones and call it a trial.
I spat out a breathless laugh, bitter and weak.
"What do you even want to see… to prove I’m a monster?"
My voice barely rose above the noise, muffled by the dirt my face was smashed into, but I knew he heard me. I could feel the shift in his stance—like a predator who just noticed its prey moving again.
But I wasn’t done. Not yet.
"Maybe…" I coughed, my throat raw, my ribs screaming with every word.
"Maybe I could actually do it… if you tell me properly what you’re seeking."
Let them hear it. Let them admit what they really wanted. The Marshal went still. The crowd quieted, just a little.
And in that silence, I knew one thing for sure—this goddamn bastard wanted a fight.
So maybe I’d give them one.
"So you're asking for death?"
The Marshal’s voice dripped with mockery, but there was something else there—curiosity. Like he was wondering just how far I’d go.
The pressure on my head finally lifted, and I gasped, dragging in air like I’d been drowning. Every breath burned, my ribs protesting with sharp, stabbing pain, but at least I could breathe. For now.
I heard him kneel beside me, his armor clinking softly as he moved. The crowd, once roaring with excitement, had shifted—now they were murmuring, whispering. I couldn’t make out their words, but I knew that sound. It was the sound of people wanting more.
And this bastard knew how to give it to them.
He grabbed my hair again, yanking my head up so fast my scalp felt like it was on fire. I hissed through my teeth, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out. I kept my face down, blood dripping from my lips, refusing to meet his eyes.
"We want to break you," he said, his voice low and cruel, meant just for me.
"Until steam comes out of your body and heals your wounds… Just like how mutants regenerate their broken limbs and flesh."
My blood went cold.
So that’s what they were waiting for.They weren’t just looking for a fight—they were waiting for me to do something… unnatural. Something no human should be able to do.They wanted a proof. 
"Untie her."
The order left the Marshal’s mouth like venom, and before I could even process it, I heard boots—more than one set—clanking against the stone floor, marching toward me.
My hair was finally released, my head dropping forward in exhausted relief. The cold air hit my neck, but the small comfort didn’t last.
Because then—
Shit!
The chains fell away from my wrists with a harsh clatter. I barely had time to register the feeling of freedom before the Marshal’s hand shot out and seized my right wrist, slamming it down against the hard ground. Pain shot through my arm, but before I could react, my left hand was yanked back—restrained by another force.
One of his men. Of course.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I struggled, but it was useless. My body was weak, battered, and they were too strong. The bruises burned, my ribs ached, and my stomach churned with a rising tide of panic.
And when I finally dared to look up—
The Marshal was smiling.
That same sick, playful smirk, like he was savoring every second of this. And when his eyes met mine, they glimmered with something even worse than hatred—amusement.
My breathing turned shallow. I could feel it—fear—twisting my face, breaking through the mask of defiance I’d tried so hard to hold.
I could take punches. I could take kicks. I could take humiliation and pain and the weight of their hatred.
But this?
Shit.
The knife flashed again, catching the light. The Marshal turned it slowly, like he wanted me to see every edge, every gleam of that sharpened steel.
"Well," he said, voice low and almost gentle—mocking me with every word.
"This one’s best to remain missing… or you’ll miss your head too."
The meaning hit me like a hammer. My throat closed, my pulse roaring in my ears. He wasn’t just playing anymore. He was about to take something I could never get back.
The crowd grew louder — a wave of voices crashing against each other — but it all faded into the background as the Marshal pressed the flat of the knife against my hand. My skin flinched at the coldness of the blade, and my breath quickened, coming out in short, panicked bursts.
"Please—" I didn’t even know who I was begging. Him? The crowd? Whatever god might still be listening? But the Marshal just grinned.
"Oh, don’t start praying now. It’s too late for that."
The knife turned — the tip dragging lightly over my knuckles — and stopped just above my pinky.
"No—no, no, please—"
I thrashed. Or tried to. My right arm stayed pinned under his weight, my left held back by whoever was helping him. My legs kicked uselessly against the heavy chains still locked around them. The panic rising in my throat felt like it was suffocating me.
.
.
.
"Stop."
The voice rang out above the crowd—sharp, commanding—the same voice that had recited my judgment.
Everything froze.
The knife, cold and unforgiving, stayed pressed against my skin, but it didn’t move any deeper. My breath caught, my entire body tensed, waiting for pain that didn’t come.
"The prophets have arrived."
The crowd fell silent. Just like that, the chaos turned into an eerie, suffocating stillness. Even the Marshal went still. His cruel grin disappeared, his face going blank and stiff. But his grip on my arm stayed tight—too tight—and the knife still hovered dangerously close.
I stayed frozen, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest. Blood rushed in my ears, and I couldn’t lift my head, couldn’t look at whatever was happening around me.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the stone. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of steps that demanded attention without a single word. I didn’t need to see them to know the crowd was parting, making way.
The prophets.
The Marshal let go of my arm. Just like that. He released me without a word, and the absence of his touch almost startled me more than his violence. My arm fell limp at my side, trembling, and I barely held back a whimper as I curled my hurting hand toward my chest.
I kept my head down, teeth clenched against the pain and fear. I didn’t dare look up. I didn’t want to see them.
But I could feel them.
Their presence was like a weight in the air—heavy, suffocating. It made the crowd’s silence even more unbearable, and for a long, stretched-out moment, no one spoke.
In that silence, I felt my eyelids grow heavy, dragging down like weights I couldn’t fight. The dizziness hit me hard — a slow, spinning pull that made everything around me tilt and sway.
My body folded in on itself, trembling. I curled up, arms wrapping tight around my battered frame, as if holding myself together was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely. My face pressed against the cold ground, the rough texture scraping against my skin.
The pain was everywhere — my ribs ached with every shallow breath, my limbs felt too heavy to move, and my head throbbed so badly I thought it might split open. But worse than all of that was the exhaustion. It was bone-deep, a crushing weight that made me want to close my eyes and never open them again.
The world around me started to fade — the murmuring of the crowd, the sound of boots shifting on stone, even the cold seeping through my skin. Everything slipped further away.
But just before the darkness could take me, I heard that voice again.
"Get up."
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The authority in it cut through the haze in my mind like a blade.
But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even lift my head.
"Get. Up."
A hand grabbed my arm — not rough like the Marshal’s, but firm. I was being pulled forward whether I could stand or not. My knees scraped against the ground as they dragged me, but I was too far gone to care.
The last thing I saw before my vision blurred completely was a pair of polished black boots stopping just a few feet in front of me.
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