The shattering of glass woke Astonya from a fitful sleep. She slapped her husband’s shoulder, crying, “Dror, Dror!”
“Woman, let a man get his sleep. There’s hard work to be done in the morning,” Dror muttered, rolling away from his wife.
“I think someone broke in!”
Dror blinked sleepily, then realized what Astonya was saying. He kissed his teeth, rolled out of bed, and ran toward their bedroom door. He shouted as he slammed the door open with a meaty arm, “Let this be a warning: if you’re not gone before I find you, there won’t be enough of you left for the Guard to send to the gallows!” He crossed the hallway and entered a cracked-open door, returning with a heavy wooden mallet. The hallway was empty; his home was eerily silent.
Maybe just some street kids throwing rocks, Dror thought. Glass windows were a foolish idea. Should have stuck with solid, dependable wooden panels, made by his own hands.
The quiet pressed in on him, telling him he was missing something.
“I think I heard it in Arralyn’s room!” Astonya whispered loudly.
The hairs raised on Dror’s arm. She hasn’t made a peep—not even when I yelled. Arralyn was a smart girl, though—perhaps she ducked under her bed at the first sign of trouble and hushed herself. Dror looked back at his wife. “Block the door behind me, just to be safe,” he whispered, then began walking toward his daughter’s room. Instead of shifting furniture to block the door, Astonya opened it wider and poked her head out; Dror felt his wife’s eyes on him as he lifted his mallet.
The stone floor of his home felt unbearably chill on his feet as he took one, two, three long steps to reach his daughter’s door. A cold sweat formed on his back as he pulled the latch and pushed the door in.
A pillow and a blanket on the floor. A bed empty. Shattered glass near the base of the wall. A streak of dark liquid on the windowsill, barely visible in the moonlight.
Heart hammering in his chest, Dror dropped to his belly, looked under Arralyn’s bed, and saw nothing other than a few dusty toys that hadn’t been touched in years. Something snapped inside him. A wordless, animal sound tore fee from his throat.
“Dror! What is it?” Astonya shouted.
Dror was on his feet in an instant and ran to the window, heedless of the glass shards that dug into his heels. He tried to climb out the window, but his short, barrel-like body couldn’t be forced through; Dror only managed to get an arm, shoulder, and his head out before getting stuck. Shredded nightshirt tickled his ribs, then soaked up hot blood, as he wriggled against serrated teeth of glass. His eyes swept frantically over the street beyond; he hoped to see his daughter unharmed. Great Hundz, protect her! Dror prayed.
There was a shuffle of movement at the edge of Dror’s vision, but, the moment he turned his head, whatever it was disappeared. A distant sound—did he hear a girl’s cry of fear, or was he imagining it?
“No!” Astonya cried behind Dror. He felt her hands on his back, trembling, before a tear-soaked cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. “Help!” Dror hoped that someone, anyone would hear him. He filled his lungs, swelling his chest even as the broken glass of the window scraped his ribs, and bellowed: “ARRALYN!”
Copyright © 2025 by David Ludlow
Boo Ludlow 