Widows Of The South Novels & Stories

They said I was born unlucky, that I was deranged—so lost in grief that I mistook my brother-in-law for my husband. My daughter and I wandered the bitter winter streets with nowhere to go. Cold, starving, and abandoned, we froze to death in each other's arms. Whenever I recalled it, rage flared so hot I could have dragged that entire family into the grave with me. Watching Josh rush to have Caleb's body cremated, I felt nothing but icy contempt. I sneered inwardly, 'If you want to spend your life with Catherine, then I'll grant your wish. From today onward, you can live as Caleb forever.'

No man has ever managed to awaken the passionate side of me again. I just hope that when I’m old and gray, my daughter will finally forgive me. She’s the only one I have left, and I couldn’t even attend her wedding because I wasn’t invited. From what I know, she’s been married for almost a year now. I wonder how she’s doing. Is she pregnant already? I’d be so happy if she were. I turned my head when I heard someone greet me. It was one of my neighbors. I waved back and greeted her, too. She’s also a widow like me and lives alone. Actually, all of us living in this small area are widows, and our neighbors call our block the “Widows’ Web.” Whatever! They have no idea what we went through after

“Who are they?” The man swallowed hard. “The Harringtons.” The name hit like a gunshot. I turned away slowly, walking back toward the chair. The Harringtons weren’t unknown to me. They are prominent and untouchable. They are philanthropists on paper but monsters underneath. “And their daughter?” I asked. The man hesitated. I looked over my shoulder. “Say it.” “She’s recently widowed,” he said. “Her husband died under strange circumstances. After that, their financial situation collapsed.”

The reflex of four heads turned in the direction where Ignazio was now with his male cousins. "Why him?" Falisha asked, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, come on, he's a worrisome bachelor too," Francisca replied with a melancholic expression. "Oh God, Ef. He's a widower, not a bachelor," Sara chuckled mockingly. Falisha nodded in agreement. "Exactly, he's even more worrying," Francisca lamented louder. "He can't live alone forever, can he? Regardless, he's a normal man. He surely needs a wife to accompany him every night." Francisca innocently said, making her two cousins laugh.

Outside, dawn was breaking over New Eidolon, sickly and pale, the city waking into another day of its own long violence. Inside, two people stood in the sub-level where loyalty went to be tested, and held on to each other in the specific aftermath of a choice that had cost something real. The Widow had sent assassins, bought docks, planted spies, built her network over years with the patience of a woman who had survived everything. She had not accounted for this. For a daughter who chose grief over safety. For a king who waited while she grieved. For what happened when those two things stood in the same room and decided, together, that they were not finished.

I blinked, realizing I didn’t know she had been married. “I had no idea you were married before.” She looked away as if the memory was too painful to revisit. “I didn’t think it was important. But Anthony has a way of preying on vulnerable women. Especially widows.” A chill ran down my spine. I was a widow, too. Did she see me as his next victim? “How did you two meet?”

At that name, the widow’s composure fractured for an instant—just an instant—but long enough for Savannah to see it: a flicker of recognition, of old grief bound to secrets. “You carry her shadow like your own,” the widow said at last. “But shadows are not free. If I give you what I have, then you will owe me a debt. And debts, my dear, must be paid in blood or loyalty.” The fire cracked in the hearth. Savannah felt her pulse trip, Colton’s hand brushing her wrist beneath the table, steadying, grounding. Yet the choice already loomed. *** The widow rose at last, her gown whispering like a prayer. From the mantel she lifted a lacquered box, small, unassuming, yet bound with a clasp of iron. S

There's no way people still remembered them. However, just when the old man was sure the other guy was just bluffing. Amelia turned to the side and showed the sixty or so wronged women's spirits behind her. There were the bride's two younger sisters in there, and also the widow who was bullied by the whole town. Back then, the widows in the small town were all the wives of soldiers who died before the formation, trying to protect Great Abyssin. According to the law, they all got money as compensation.

Adaeze commanded. Sarka. The Widow had a name. It sounded like the snapping of a dry twig. "The Librarian of the Ruined Temple," the Widow hissed, her faceless obsidian head tilting. "You have grown old in your cave, Adaeze. You still cling to the Moon as if she hasn't already turned her back on us." "The Moon doesn't turn," Adaeze replied, her voice like granite. "Wolves just forget how to look up."