Chapter 5:
The wagon
My BEAUTIFUL DOOM'S DAY
Chapter 5: The Wagon
The wagon door slammed shut, swallowing the crowd's growls.
Inside, the air was thick and wrong – old leather, yes, but underneath it something sweet and decaying, like flowers left too long in a vase. The darkness pressed against my eyes. Silk curtains blocked the fading sunlight, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and orange.
A figure sat in the shadows. Hood up. Black cape pooling on the seat across from me.
I pressed myself against the far wall. My shackles clinked. The iron was cold against my wrists, the edges still wet with the blood from where I had pulled too hard.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just breathed – slow, even, patient. Each inhale was a soft rasp. Each exhale a whisper.
The wagon lurched forward. Wheels creaked. Somewhere outside, a dog howled – or maybe it was a wolf. I couldn't tell anymore.
Where is he taking me?
I stared at the hooded figure. The fabric was dark, almost black, but it seemed to drink the little light that crept through the curtains. I couldn't see his face. Couldn't see his hands. Just the shape of him, still as a statue.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time had stopped meaning anything.
The wagon rolled over stones, then mud, then something that cracked like dry bones. I flinched each time.
Don't show fear. Don't give him anything.
But my shackles rattled. My breath came too fast.
---
After a long, crushing silence, he moved.
A pale hand emerged from the cape – long fingers, clean nails, no scars. He pushed back the hood.
Raven black hair, falling to his jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Lips that were too still to be beautiful. His eyes were the colour of old gold – not warm, just old. They held no anger, no curiosity, no cruelty. Just... patience.
He studied me like I was a book written in a language he didn't care to learn. His gaze crawled over my face, my torn clothes, my shackled wrists, the dried blood on my hands.
"You're trembling," he said.
I wasn't. I forced my hands still.
"Someone told me you are interesting." His voice was soft, almost bored. A whisper would have been louder. "I don't see it yet."
He leaned back, draping one arm over the seat. The cape fell open slightly, revealing a dark tunic, a silver clasp shaped like a crescent moon.
The same shape as the mark on my wrist.
My blood turned cold.
"You're afraid of me," he continued. Not a question. "That's wise. Fear keeps things alive."
I said nothing. My throat was closed.
He tilted his head. "But you're also angry. I can smell it – like iron, like smoke. Good."
He tapped the partition. The wagon sped up. The wheels groaned.
I looked down at my wrist. The crescent mark pulsed faintly – red, warm – against the iron of the shackles. The silver clasp on his tunic caught the light, and for a moment, the two crescents seemed to echo each other.
He knows. He knows about the mark.
I pressed myself harder against the wall. The wood was rough, splintered. I didn't care.
He didn't speak again. He just watched me with those old gold eyes, patient as a spider.
The wagon rolled on.
---
The sun bled through the curtains, low and red. My first day in this world was ending. I had been awake for... how long? Hours? A day? I couldn't remember.
My eyelids grew heavy. The swaying of the wagon was hypnotic. The warmth of the fading light pressed against my skin.
Don't fall asleep. Don't close your eyes.
But my head dipped. My chin touched my chest.
I dreamed of the panda. It was sitting on my desk, stitching its own mouth shut with a needle and thread. Black thread. The needle pierced its cotton lips again and again, and it smiled at me with its button eyes.
"You signed," it whispered, even though its mouth was closed. "You signed, you signed, you signed."
I woke with a gasp.
The wagon had stopped. The curtains were dark – night had fallen. The hooded figure was gone.
I was alone.
My heart hammered. I looked around, but there was nothing – just the silk curtains, the empty seat, the lingering smell of rotting flowers.
Where did he go?
Then the door opened.
Cold air rushed in. A hand – a different hand, thick and calloused – grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the wagon.
I stumbled. My shackles caught on the doorframe. The hand pulled harder.
"Out," a voice grunted. Pig Belly. "Lord wants you inside."
I looked up.
A mansion loomed against the night sky. Iron gates. Gothic towers. Dark windows that stared like dead eyes.
This is where he lives.
Pig Belly dragged me toward the entrance. I didn't look back at the wagon.
But I felt the crescent mark on my wrist pulse one last time – cold, now, not warm – and I knew I was walking into something I couldn't escape.
I just hope I don't die before destroying this world.
But the mark throbbed again, and for a moment, I wasn't sure that was what I wanted anymore.
---
End of Chapter 5
The wagon door slammed shut, swallowing the crowd's growls.
Inside, the air was thick and wrong – old leather, yes, but underneath it something sweet and decaying, like flowers left too long in a vase. The darkness pressed against my eyes. Silk curtains blocked the fading sunlight, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and orange.
A figure sat in the shadows. Hood up. Black cape pooling on the seat across from me.
I pressed myself against the far wall. My shackles clinked. The iron was cold against my wrists, the edges still wet with the blood from where I had pulled too hard.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just breathed – slow, even, patient. Each inhale was a soft rasp. Each exhale a whisper.
The wagon lurched forward. Wheels creaked. Somewhere outside, a dog howled – or maybe it was a wolf. I couldn't tell anymore.
Where is he taking me?
I stared at the hooded figure. The fabric was dark, almost black, but it seemed to drink the little light that crept through the curtains. I couldn't see his face. Couldn't see his hands. Just the shape of him, still as a statue.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time had stopped meaning anything.
The wagon rolled over stones, then mud, then something that cracked like dry bones. I flinched each time.
Don't show fear. Don't give him anything.
But my shackles rattled. My breath came too fast.
---
After a long, crushing silence, he moved.
A pale hand emerged from the cape – long fingers, clean nails, no scars. He pushed back the hood.
Raven black hair, falling to his jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Lips that were too still to be beautiful. His eyes were the colour of old gold – not warm, just old. They held no anger, no curiosity, no cruelty. Just... patience.
He studied me like I was a book written in a language he didn't care to learn. His gaze crawled over my face, my torn clothes, my shackled wrists, the dried blood on my hands.
"You're trembling," he said.
I wasn't. I forced my hands still.
"Someone told me you are interesting." His voice was soft, almost bored. A whisper would have been louder. "I don't see it yet."
He leaned back, draping one arm over the seat. The cape fell open slightly, revealing a dark tunic, a silver clasp shaped like a crescent moon.
The same shape as the mark on my wrist.
My blood turned cold.
"You're afraid of me," he continued. Not a question. "That's wise. Fear keeps things alive."
I said nothing. My throat was closed.
He tilted his head. "But you're also angry. I can smell it – like iron, like smoke. Good."
He tapped the partition. The wagon sped up. The wheels groaned.
I looked down at my wrist. The crescent mark pulsed faintly – red, warm – against the iron of the shackles. The silver clasp on his tunic caught the light, and for a moment, the two crescents seemed to echo each other.
He knows. He knows about the mark.
I pressed myself harder against the wall. The wood was rough, splintered. I didn't care.
He didn't speak again. He just watched me with those old gold eyes, patient as a spider.
The wagon rolled on.
---
The sun bled through the curtains, low and red. My first day in this world was ending. I had been awake for... how long? Hours? A day? I couldn't remember.
My eyelids grew heavy. The swaying of the wagon was hypnotic. The warmth of the fading light pressed against my skin.
Don't fall asleep. Don't close your eyes.
But my head dipped. My chin touched my chest.
I dreamed of the panda. It was sitting on my desk, stitching its own mouth shut with a needle and thread. Black thread. The needle pierced its cotton lips again and again, and it smiled at me with its button eyes.
"You signed," it whispered, even though its mouth was closed. "You signed, you signed, you signed."
I woke with a gasp.
The wagon had stopped. The curtains were dark – night had fallen. The hooded figure was gone.
I was alone.
My heart hammered. I looked around, but there was nothing – just the silk curtains, the empty seat, the lingering smell of rotting flowers.
Where did he go?
Then the door opened.
Cold air rushed in. A hand – a different hand, thick and calloused – grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the wagon.
I stumbled. My shackles caught on the doorframe. The hand pulled harder.
"Out," a voice grunted. Pig Belly. "Lord wants you inside."
I looked up.
A mansion loomed against the night sky. Iron gates. Gothic towers. Dark windows that stared like dead eyes.
This is where he lives.
Pig Belly dragged me toward the entrance. I didn't look back at the wagon.
But I felt the crescent mark on my wrist pulse one last time – cold, now, not warm – and I knew I was walking into something I couldn't escape.
I just hope I don't die before destroying this world.
But the mark throbbed again, and for a moment, I wasn't sure that was what I wanted anymore.
---
End of Chapter 5
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