Chapter 9: The Chase
1024 Words
It was midday, and the Central Market had reached its first minor peak of human traffic. Both indoor and outdoor passages were teeming with people. Vendors hawked their wares with loud cries while visitors joked and bantered, their mingled voices swirling into Chiara’s mind like an oddly harmonious symphony.
But one sound pierced that harmony like a knife, tearing into her ears.
Though strained and hoarse, she instantly recognized it as Marco’s voice.
Without hesitation, she spun toward its source. Time was critical; her heart tightened like a taut violin string. There was no room for thought, no instinct to call for help. As she sprinted forward, her eyes swept the crowd until she glimpsed a flash of cobalt-blue fabric near a pillar by the market’s exit.
“Marco!”
Chiara’s cry rang out as she bolted for the exit. She collided with a middle-aged woman browsing jewelry, muttered a rushed apology, and surged ahead. Suddenly, another scream ripped through the air. People ahead began jostling frantically, voices rising in alarm:
“Someone fainted!”
“Careful—don’t step on him!”
“Get a doctor!”
……
Someone had collapsed, vomiting. The crowd surged backward, clearing space for the victim while avoiding the mess. Chiara fought against the current, only to be shoved against a wall by the retreating wave. She tried to push forward, but curiosity drew onlookers inward, sealing her path with a living wall.
In this breathless moment where even blinking felt wasteful, the delay pushed Chiara to the brink. She screamed for passage, but all attention fixed on the unconscious figure. No one noticed her.
The midday heat intensified. Indoors, the air thickened, stifling and scarce. Sweat beaded on her temples as she struggled to breathe. She wiped her forehead fiercely, then scanned the brick wall behind her. Spotting uneven protrusions, she gritted her teeth, kicked off her cumbersome platform shoes, and leaped. Her right hand grabbed an overhead ledge.
Chiara had always guarded this secret passion. Only Cesare had once caught her scaling a rooftop; few knew that under cover of night, the Vice Chancellor’s daughter slipped into men’s attire to traverse the Ornisi Palace’s heights. Her status demanded refinement—astronomy, philosophy, music—not the scrappy skills of street boys. And this thrill belonged solely to her, a private rebellion in a world that dictated her every move.
Until now.
She climbed and swung along the market’s inner walls, using uneven bricks to vault over the packed crowd. Below, bystanders gaped at the lithe, silk-gowned figure—a barefoot, golden-haired girl darting above them like a phantom.
“Who is she?”
“Gods, what’s she doing?”
“Look at that gown—a noble’s daughter? But I’ve never seen her before.”
……
Unnoticed, Chiara vaulted toward the exit. Through the chaos, she spotted a man hauling Marco through the crowd and bursting into daylight.
Her jaw clenched. She scrambled onto a crossbeam, crouched low, and raced forward. At the doorway, she launched herself downward. Spectators stumbled back; a young girl shrieked and fell. But Chiara didn’t land among them. Mid-fall, she seized the doorframe, swung like a pendulum, then dropped clear. She tumbled twice down the outer steps before staggering upright.
Her hairpins had scattered. Golden strands clung to her sweat-drenched temples, her gown smeared with dust. Yet she barely registered her disarray. Before fully steadying herself, she was running barefoot down the street, leaving stunned whispers in her wake.
*
Emerging from the market, Chiara glimpsed a cobalt-blue blur rounding a distant corner. She exhaled and sprinted after it.
The beam-jump had sprained her right ankle—no shoes to cushion the fall. But pain paled against the scorching paving stones beneath her bare feet. Each step burned like dancing on a griddle. And Marco—her heart blazed hotter than the stones.
She followed the abductor into a shadowed alley, her strength waning. Dizziness blurred her vision; her pace faltered. Yet her quarry showed no fatigue. Just as despair gripped her, the man halted abruptly. Simultaneously, Chiara tripped on her hem and crashed onto the cobblestones.
The impact shattered her resolve.
Gasping, she stared at mud-caked boots before her. Slowly, she lifted her head. The blue-clad youth loomed over her, backlit by the alley’s gloom.
Though shadowed, details sharpened: a gray-blue scarf masked his lower face, but above it, wild black hair veiled his eyes. Marco hung limp over his shoulder, unconscious from the chase.
“Do you know what awaits those who pursue me?” The man’s voice rasped like a rusted saw.
Chiara could barely breathe.
“You could have lived,” he murmured, crouching. One hand steadied Marco; the other tugged down the scarf, revealing a scarred jaw and broken nose. Before she could react, his fingers locked around her throat. “You should never have crossed me.”
Forced upright, Chiara met his eyes—blood-red, unblinking. His lips parted, baring two sharp fangs.
*This…*
A word flickered in her mind—then vanished.
Instinct screamed danger. Her scalp prickled; terror widened her eyes as the fangs neared. Yet proximity to death ignited defiance. Summoning forgotten strength, she swung her fist at his face.
*Crack.*
Her knuckles struck stone. Pain shot through her hand; the man’s neck hadn’t budged. A monster—untouchable by human force.
Despair choked her. Calling for help would doom others. Even her full strength couldn’t break his grip.
As the fangs descended, his hold slackened.
She looked up. Behind the monster stood a figure cloaked in black. From the shadows, a pale, slender hand emerged—elegant in its cream shimiz sleeve—and clamped the creature’s neck.
In the monster’s crimson eyes, Chiara saw her own reflection: pure dread.
Backlit by faint alley light, the cloaked man stood straight as a blade. His grip on the crouching beast mirrored an executioner’s hold—a reaper from hell mid-sentence.
The monster’s mouth opened. No sound came.
A soft *c***k*.
The cloaked hand twisted left. The head snapped clean off its spine.
Like autumn twigs beneath a boot, sundered by the sun.
- Writer
