Burn Them All

Chapter 2

Elyse Pov

I yanked the door open, hope flooding through my veins like wildfire.

The street was chaos. People running, shouting, crying. Some in celebration, others in grief. I pushed through them, scanning every face, searching for his.

“Jason!” My voice cracked. “Jason!”

A soldier stumbled past me, blood soaking through his uniform. Another limped by, supported by two women. More kept coming, an endless stream of the wounded and the walking dead.

But no Jason.

“Excuse me.” I grabbed a passing soldier’s arm. “Jason Thorne. Do you know…is he…”

The man’s eyes were hollow. “Check the carts.”

My blood turned to ice.

The carts.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My feet carried me forward anyway, toward the wagon train at the end of the procession. Toward the bodies covered in blood-stained sheets.

Please no. Please no. Please no.

The mantra repeated in my head with every step. My hand found my stomach, pressing against the life growing there. Our baby. Our future.

He promised.

Someone shouted. The crowd surged forward as another cart rolled to a stop. I was pushed closer, close enough to see them unloading the dead.

One by one.

Like cargo.

A body landed at my feet with a dull thud.

The sheet had slipped, revealing dark hair. A familiar jaw. Gentle eyes that would never open again.

The world tilted.

“No.” The word came out strangled. “No, no, no…”

I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands hovering over his face. Afraid to touch him. Afraid that touching him would make it real.

His skin was cold.

A sound tore from my throat, something animal, something broken. My hands found his chest, his face, his hair. Still damp with blood. Still smelling of smoke and death and the end of everything.

“Jason.” I shook him, gentle at first, then harder. “Jason, please. Please wake up. Please….”

Someone tried to pull me away.

“Don’t touch me!” I screamed, jerking free. “Don’t you dare ”

“Miss, we need to move him.”

“No.”

“The funeral is tomorrow. We have to…”

“I said no!”

But they were stronger. More of them. They hauled me back as others lifted Jason’s body, carrying him away like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t my whole world.

I couldn’t feel my legs. Couldn’t feel anything except the hollow ache spreading through my chest where my heart used to be.

The only person who loved me was gone.

I should have followed them. Should have stood up and walked behind the cart like the other widows, the other grieving families. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but sit there in the dirt, staring at the spot where his body had been.

The baby. I needed to think about the baby.

But all I could see was Jason’s face. All I could feel was the cold of his skin.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the crowd to thin. Long enough for the sun to shift across the sky.

Eventually, something inside me clicked back into place. Some primal survival instinct that forced my body to move even though my mind had shattered.

I stood. My legs shook, but they held.

I followed the direction they’d taken him.

The streets blurred together. I walked like a ghost through my own life, invisible to everyone around me. No one stopped me. No one spoke to me. I was nothing now. Less than nothing.

They’d taken him to his sister’s house.

Margaret. She’d never liked me, never thought I was good enough for her brother. But she was all the family Jason had, so he’d tried to maintain the relationship despite her coldness.

The door was open. I could see people inside, hear their voices discussing funeral arrangements. Margaret’s sharp tone cut through the murmur.

“…can’t believe he married that creature…”

I stopped at the threshold.

Through the doorway, I could see Jason’s body lying on a table. They’d cleaned him up, dressed him in fresh clothes. Made him presentable for burning.

But he still looked dead. Still looked like a stranger wearing my husband’s face.

I couldn’t go in. Couldn’t face Margaret’s hatred on top of everything else. So I sank outside the door, my back against the wall, and I waited.

The voices inside continued. Planning. Arguing over details that didn’t matter because Jason was dead and nothing else mattered.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and stared at nothing.

The tears had stopped. My throat burned from screaming, from sobbing, from begging a corpse to wake up. Now there was just… emptiness. A vast, hollow space where my future used to be.

How was I supposed to raise a child alone? How was I supposed to survive in a world that hated me without Jason’s protection?

How was I supposed to wake up tomorrow knowing he never would?

Night fell. The house grew quiet. People left, offering Margaret their condolences, their support. No one looked at me sitting outside. No one offered me anything.

I didn’t move.

Stars appeared overhead, cold and distant. I remembered lying in Jason’s arms, looking up at stars like these, listening to him talk about the future. About the life we’d build together.

All lies. All impossible dreams.

The baby shifted inside me. Too small to feel, but I knew it was there. Growing. Waiting to be born into a world that would hate it as much as it hated me.

I pressed my hand against my stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Morning came eventually. It always did, even when you wished it wouldn’t.

They brought Jason out as the sun rose. Six men carrying his body on a platform, Margaret walking behind with her head held high. Other mourners followed, a small procession winding through the streets toward the burning grounds.

I stood. My legs cramped from sitting all night, but I ignored the pain. I fell into step at the back of the procession, far enough away that no one acknowledged my presence.

We walked in silence. No songs, no prayers. Just the sound of feet on cobblestones and the occasional sob from someone who’d actually been allowed to grieve.

The burning grounds were outside the village, a cleared field where funeral pyres stood like skeletal trees. They laid Jason on one, surrounding him with wood and kindling.

Margaret spoke. Something about duty and sacrifice and honor. Words that meant nothing because Jason was dead and words wouldn’t bring him back.

They lit the fire.

I watched the flames climb higher, consuming the wood, reaching for Jason’s body. Watched smoke rise into the morning sky, carrying pieces of him away on the wind.

When it was over, when the fire had burned down to ash and embers, I approached the pyre.

“I need his ashes.” My voice sounded strange. Hollow.

Margaret turned to me, her face cold. “Absolutely not.”

“Please. Just a handful. Something to…”

“You’ve done enough damage. Leave.”

“I’m his wife…”

“You’re the reason he’s dead.” Margaret’s eyes blazed. “If he hadn’t been so distracted worrying about you, if he’d kept his mind on the battle…”

The words hit like physical blows.

“That’s not…I didn’t…”

“Get out of here. You’re not welcome.”

The other mourners had gathered around Margaret, forming a wall between me and Jason’s ashes. Between me and the last piece of my husband.

I couldn’t fight them all. Couldn’t even find the energy to try.

So I turned and walked away.

I left them there with Jason’s remains, with the right to mourn him properly. I had nothing. Nobody to bury, no ashes to keep, no grave to visit.

Nothing but memories and a growing child who would never know his father.

The walk home passed in a blur. I kept expecting to feel something rage, despair, anything. But there was just numbness. Just the mechanical movement of putting one foot in front of the other.

The house was exactly as I’d left it. Jason’s cup is still on the table. His cloak hung by the door. Everything was waiting for him to come back and reclaim it.

But he never would.

I stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by ghosts of our life together, and tried to figure out what I was supposed to do now.

Keep living, I suppose. For the baby.

Even though living felt impossible.

A knock at the door startled me out of my thoughts.

I stood there for a moment, confused. No one ever visited. No one except Jason, and he was..

Another knock. Harder this time. Urgent.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Something felt wrong. The knock was too aggressive, too demanding.

I moved to the door slowly, one hand instinctively protecting my stomach.

Maybe it was Margaret, came to blame me some more. Or one of the village elders, here to drive me out now that Jason wasn’t around to protect me.

I should run. Hide. Pretend I wasn’t home.

But where would I go?

I reached for the handle. Pulled the door open.

And froze.

My father stood on the threshold, flanked by two guards. His face wore an expression I remembered from childhood, cold satisfaction, like he’d just won something valuable.

“Hello, daughter,” he said, his smile sharp as a knife. “We need to talk.”