The sun was just beginning to sink behind the hills when the carriage rolled out of Elerwood. The cobbled roads glowed orange in the dying light, birds circled low over the trees, and laughter still echoed faintly from the town square.
Inside the carriage, Virelle leaned her head against the window, a smile resting on her lips.
"That almond cake was worth every coin," she murmured, hands folded around a small paper bag of lavender biscuits.
Serenthia sighed dramatically. "Speak for yourself. I had to dodge two gossiping duchesses and a retired knight."
"You do have a very memorable glare," Virelle teased.
Lia purred smugly in Virelle's lap, belly round from stealing nearly an entire buttered croissant.
They were warm. Full. Content.
And completely unprepared.
The road turned narrow as the carriage passed beneath a thick grove of trees—part of the outer gardens of Elerian territory. The horses slowed naturally.
Then stopped.
The driver called out nervously.
"Hello—? What's this?"
A voice from the shadows answered. "Apologies, milord. Road's closed today."
The next sound was the crack of a whip, followed by a sharp cry.
The horses shrieked. The carriage jolted.
"Get down!" Serenthia barked, already reaching for her hidden dagger.
Too late.
The door was wrenched open. Three figures in dark cloaks and masks surrounded them. One lunged for the princess, another grabbed Virelle by the arm, yanking her from her seat.
Lia hissed, claws flashing—but a net came down over her before she could leap.
"Don't hurt them!" one of the masked figures snapped. "Just bind and cover their heads. Take the cat too—it might be useful !"
Virelle struggled against rough hands. "Let go of me!"
Serenthia spat in someone's eye. "You idiots realize who I am, don't you?!"
"Yes," the leader said coldly. "That's exactly why you're coming with us."
They were bound and blindfolded, hands tied loosely behind their backs. Virelle could hear Serenthia breathing steadily beside her, every breath full of rage.
Lia meowed angrily somewhere close—muffled by a sack, likely.
"are you okay?" Virelle whispered.
"Barely," Serenthia muttered back. "You okay?"
"Yes."
The carriage rattled over rough terrain, jostling them in their seats. Time blurred. They could've been riding for minutes or hours. The smell of damp earth and smoke filled the air.
Then—
It stopped.
Rough hands yanked them down one by one. Virelle hit the ground hard, her knees bruising instantly. Someone pulled the blindfold away.
She blinked into dim torchlight.
A run-down estate. Overgrown with weeds. A crumbling greenhouse sat in the corner, vines choking the glass. Bandits. Mercenaries. A few looked well-trained. Most just looked desperate.
"You brought her?" a voice said sharply. "I told you not to touch the duke's daughter!"
"She was with the princess," the leader argued. "Couldn't leave witnesses."
"Fools," the voice snapped. "We only needed the royal. Now we've got two noble families who'll burn the countryside to the ground."
Virelle tried to move.
The mercenary closest to her raised a hand.
"Try anything, and the cat dies first."
Her blood turned cold.
Lia meowed in fury from a wooden cage, her silver fur puffed like a cloud of lightning.
"Touch her," Serenthia growled, "and I'll gut you with a spoon."
The mercenaries laughed.
Virelle's pulse raced.
Someone needed to do something.
Someone had to—
After sometime later they were locked in a small empty room.
Mainwhile outside.
A sudden breeze passed through the broken windows.
No one noticed it.
Until the light flickered.
The torch by the door went out.
Then the next.
A whisper of fabric moved through the air.
A shadow passed by the roof.
Then—
CRACK.
A support beam fell.
"WHAT—?!"
A masked figure dropped from the rafters, black cloak trailing like wings. He landed without sound.
All eyes turned. Weapons drawn.
He moved too fast.
The first mercenary reached for his sword—and was disarmed with a flick of the wrist. The second aimed an arrow—only to be knocked unconscious by the butt of a staff he hadn't seen appear.
Virelle's eyes widened.
"Who—?"
Serenthia stared.
"Is that a gaurd?!"
He looked no older than 18 or 19. Lean. Agile. His face hidden beneath a black mask, only his eyes visible—sharp, golden, unreadable.
He moved like shadow wrapped in flame.
One by one, the mercenaries fell.
Not dead.
But humiliated.
The boy cut the ropes from Virelle's wrists with a swift flick of a dagger, then did the same for Serenthia. Without a word, he smashed the lock off Lia's cage and lifted the kitten gently into his gloved arms.
Lia blinked at him. Then nuzzled against his chest.
He paused—just for a breath.
Then vanished into the darkness like a gust of wind.
"Wait—!" Virelle called, but he was already gone.
Gone.
Guards arrived not long after, having tracked the carriage trail.
Serenthia, holding Lia now in her arms, paced the wreckage of the mercenary camp with narrowed eyes.
"He knew we were there," she muttered. "He was waiting."
"He was young," Virelle whispered, still stunned. "But he fought like someone trained by royal guards."
Lia purred in her arms, but her eyes stared out into the trees—thoughtful.
That boy… he felt familiar.
Was he a part of the story but who?