A heavy silence had fallen over the clearing.
The carriage, torn open, was still smoking in places. The sky, a metallic gray, had yet to shed its first morning light. The earth was heavy, soaked in blood, scarred with deep furrows as if plowed by monstrous claws.
Annabelle stood there, motionless, arms wrapped around herself, breathing unevenly. And then, without warning, everything gave way. The tears burst forth, hot and silent at first, then violent, uncontrollable. Her face twisted, and she curled up against the horse's flank. The animal did not move, accepting her grief as a stone accepts the rain. She wept for everything she hadn't been allowed to cry for: the fear, the horror, the silent betrayal she felt without yet being able to name it. Her chest heaved with sobs, and for the first time since this nightmarish night began, she allowed herself to be a child. Just a terrified child.
Annabelle remained huddled against the warm flank of the still-living horse, her eyes wide, her cheeks streaked with ashes and tears. The mastiffs, further away, were slowly catching their breath, lying on their sides, watching without moving.
Nicolas broke the silence.
— The coachman...
Georges slowly lifted his head. He hadn't thought about him since the battle ended. It was as if the violence of the moment had erased everything that wasn't essential to their survival.
— He was taken... by her, Nicolas murmured. Into the woods.
The "her" hung in the air. They no longer dared to name Amandinne. Not as she had become.
— We have to go check, Nicolas said. We can't just... leave like this.
Georges nodded, more out of duty than conviction. He had no desire to go back there.
They turned to Annabelle. She looked at them, a fragile silhouette amidst the carnage. Her eyes searched theirs, filled with mute anguish.
— Annabelle, Georges said gently. Stay here. Get some rest. We'll be back soon.
— No, she answered immediately, her voice hoarse but firm. No. Not alone.
— You're not alone. The dogs are here. They'll watch over you.
— I'm scared... I don't want to stay. Not after this.
She was trembling. Nicolas stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.
— Annabelle... listen to me. What you saw tonight... it's enough for a lifetime. Where we're going, it'll be worse. You don't have to see it.
She shook her head, lips pressed together, her tears already receding.
— And what if you don't come back? What if I'm the one the dogs eat next?
Georges crouched down to her level, his eyes meeting hers.— They don't want you. You're safe here. They're on our side. They've already eaten. And we... we need to know. Just for a moment. Stay in the sunlight. And if anything happens, scream. They'll hear you.
They've already eaten? That wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear.
It took long minutes, more promises and not-so-reassuring words before she relented, reluctantly. She remained there, nestled against the warm flank of the horse, which licked her hand slowly with unexpected gentleness. She kept her eyes on the mastiffs, wanting to stay as far away from them as possible. Even with this strange bond, she couldn't trust them.
The two men ventured into the forest, following the dark stains left on the moss. The cold felt sharper between the trees, and every crack under their boots echoed like a gunshot.
They found the horse first. Or rather... what was left of it.Its ribs were spread open like a shattered cage. Its head, crushed, lay on a carpet of red leaves. The broken bones jutted out like blades.
Georges' eyes widened.
— My God...
Nicolas said nothing. He kept walking. Slowly. Like in a nightmare.
A few dozen meters further, they saw him.
The coachman. What was left of him.
The same treatment. Or worse. His torso had been split open in one clean stroke. One arm was missing. His mouth was frozen in a grimace, as if he had seen death coming—but too fast to scream.
Georges gasped, staggered back, and tripped, falling onto the ground.
— He's... He's...
— Dead, Nicolas whispered. Very dead.
He stepped away, unsteady, leaned against a tree. Then he vomited violently.
Silence returned, broken only by his ragged breathing.
— We were right not to bring her... he murmured, eyes red, forehead pressed against the bark. We were right.
Georges stared at the corpse without a word. His eyes held a mix of fear and simmering anger.
Georges felt a hand on his arm. Nicolas, still pale, was helping him up. His legs were still trembling. He swayed slightly, then took a deep breath.
Without a word, they turned back, moving away from the carnage. Every step felt impossibly heavy. The silence between them was heavier still.
It was Nicolas who broke it, his voice rough:
— We have to leave.
Georges didn't answer right away.
— Leave... Without doing anything.
— What can we do, huh? Dig a grave? Carry a body torn to shreds? Look around, Georges. We're screwed if we stay.
— And if they question us? If they ask about the coachman? We'll be the first suspects.
— Not if we disappear.
Georges clenched his teeth. The idea was revolting. But Nicolas was right. No words could explain what they had seen. No court would believe the truth.
They found Annabelle still curled up against the horse, silent. When she saw them return, her gaze locked onto theirs.
— Did you... find the coachman?
A heartbeat passed. Georges looked away. Nicolas didn't answer.
They simply helped her climb into the saddle. She asked no further questions. But her silence was more eloquent than any scream.
Georges cast one last glance at the clearing. Then he whistled softly through his teeth.
The mastiffs lifted their heads. Then, slowly, they started walking behind them.