“When the time comes, be ready.”

That was the last thing Will had said to me before he disappeared 3 years ago. The memory blazed in my mind as I tried to breathe silently inside the dark closet. I had been too consumed with grief and loneliness to think about what he had meant. I bit my lip with shame. I had let him down, and I would pay the price for it.

I heard voices on the other side of the door.

“She’s gotta be in here somewhere,” said a male voice with a thick Welsh accent.

“Shut up and keep looking,” said a voice from down the hall, also with the same accent. They were from up north. The Men of the North. That’s what Mum used to call them. My legs felt numb. My hands started to shake. The stories of their brutality flooded my mind.

Suddenly, one of the men kicked the closet door hard. I gasped and jumped backwards, tripping over a dustpan. The scraping noise echoed loudly. I held my breath. This was it. In my last moments, I thought of Will, and Mum and Dad. Maybe this would feel less painful if I filled my mind with happy memories.

The door shook again as the man threw himself against it. I heard a crack forming in the wood. Again, and the door started to come off its hinges. Then it stopped.

I heard a loud thud outside the door. Someone thrown against the opposite wall. The unmistakable sound of a sword going through flesh. Then, the closet door came flying off its hinges as it was violently kicked in. Luckily, I ducked out of the way in time. A tall man stepped in. He was wearing a golden parka - the uniform of the North Mum had described in her stories. I looked away and shut my eyes tight. The man grabbed my arm and pulled me up with ease. He whispered into my ear, the Welsh accent replaced by a familiar English one.

“I told you to be ready.”