The convoy pressed forward down the winding forest road, the atmosphere tense and heavy with unspoken concerns. The towering trees formed a dense canopy above, casting dappled shadows over the group as they moved cautiously. The clatter of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels were the only sounds breaking the oppressive silence, save for the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by an unseen breeze.
Lysandra sat in one of the supply wagons. Every jolt and bump of the wagon sent a dull ache radiating through her body, but she gritted her teeth and bore it. Her tunic was torn and bloodstained around the fresh bandages, the sharp tang of antiseptic still clinging to her skin. Despite her discomfort, her sharp eyes scanned the surrounding forest, refusing to let her guard down.
"Here," said the wagon driver, a younger man with wide eyes and a nervous demeanor. He handed her a waterskin, his hands shaking slightly. "Thought you might need it."
Lysandra took it without a word, nodding her thanks before taking a small sip. The cool water was a welcome relief, though it did little to ease the growing anxiety. The rune carved into the tree and the ambush that followed played on an endless loop in her mind, her instincts telling her the two were connected. But she had kept that detail to herself, unsure what it meant—or if she could trust anyone with it and if so, who?
From her vantage point, she could see the convoy's layout. The royal knights flanked the group, their polished armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. The Shadow Blades moved less conspicuously, their dark leathers blending seamlessly with the muted tones of the forest. Their captain, Roderic, rode near the front, his sharp gaze constantly scanning the road ahead.
And then there was Alaric. The prince rode beside the wagon for much of the journey, his posture straight and composed, though his eyes frequently flicked toward her. She ignored him as best she could, focusing instead on the path ahead, but she could feel his concern like a weight pressing against her.
Alaric's eyes narrowed as he continued to glance toward Lysandra, his concern deepening with each passing mile. Her sharp features, usually so composed and resolute, were now marred by a faint sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. Her cheeks, normally pale, were tinged with an unnatural flush that stood out against the grime and blood staining her skin.
He adjusted his reins, nudging his horse closer to the wagon. "Lysandra," he said softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You don't look well."
"I'm fine," she snapped, not bothering to meet his gaze. She shifted slightly in her seat, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate her injured shoulder, but the movement only made her wince.
"You don't look fine," Alaric countered, his tone firm but laced with worry. "You're sweating like it's midsummer, and your face is flushed. How's your shoulder?"
"It's attached," she replied dryly, though the strain in her voice betrayed her. She wiped at her brow with the back of her hand, glaring at him as if daring him to push further. "I told you—I've been through worse."
"That doesn't mean you should," he shot back, his eyes narrowing. "If the wound's infected—"
"It's not," she cut him off, though her sharp tone lacked its usual bite. She leaned her head back against the side of the wagon, closing her eyes for a moment as the weight of the day bore down on her. "It's just… the heat from the bandages. That's all."
Alaric wasn't convinced. His gaze flicked to the bloodstained wrappings beneath her cloak, dark patches beginning to seep through the fabric. He felt his jaw tighten. "If you don't slow down, you're going to make it worse."
She opened her eyes at that, fixing him with a pointed look. "And what would you have me do, Your Highness? Lie down in the middle of the road and wait for death to catch up?" Her voice was sharp, but her usual fire was dimmed, the weight of exhaustion evident in every word.
"Don't be dramatic," he said, though there was no humor in his tone. "At least let me check the wound. If it's infected, it's not something we can ignore."
Lysandra let out a long, slow breath, clearly debating whether to argue. Finally, she looked away, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine. But make it quick."
Alaric dismounted swiftly, tying his horse to the back of the wagon before climbing up to sit beside her. He reached for the edge of her cloak, his movements careful but deliberate. "Let me see," he said, his voice quieter now.
Lysandra didn't protest, though she kept her jaw clenched as he gently pulled back the fabric to expose the bandages. The wound beneath was red and swollen, the edges angry and inflamed. Alaric's brow furrowed as he examined it, the signs of infection unmistakable.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, reaching for the small pouch tied to his belt. He pulled out a vial of salve and a strip of clean linen, his movements quick and efficient. "This is going to sting," he warned.
"It already stings," Lysandra replied flatly, though her grip tightened on the edge of the wagon as he applied the salve. She hissed through her teeth, her knuckles whitening as the pain flared.
Alaric worked quickly, wrapping the fresh linen over the old bandages to secure them in place. When he finished, he sat back slightly, his expression a mix of relief and frustration. "You need to rest," he said firmly. "And I don't mean sitting here pretending you're fine."
Lysandra's lips twitched into a faint smirk despite the pain. "You don't give up, do you?"
"Not when it comes to keeping you alive," he replied, his tone serious. He lingered a moment longer, his gaze meeting hers. For the first time, she didn't look away.
"Thank you," Lysandra said softly, the words reluctant but sincere, her voice carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability.
Alaric looked at her, startled by the unexpected gratitude. Before he could respond, Lysandra did something even more unexpected. With a weary sigh, she shifted slightly in her seat and leaned her head against his shoulder. Her body tensed at first, as if she wasn't sure of the gesture herself, but exhaustion and pain won out, and she let her weight rest against him.
Alaric froze for a moment, his eyes wide, unaccustomed to this side of her. Lysandra, sharp-tongued and fiercely independent, rarely allowed herself even a hint of vulnerability. And yet here she was, her head resting against him, her guard lowered for the briefest of moments.
His surprise quickly gave way to a sense of quiet responsibility. Carefully, as if afraid to disturb her, he shifted slightly to make her more comfortable, keeping his shoulder steady beneath her. He glanced down at her, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the flush still coloring her cheeks.
"You really should rest," he said quietly, his voice softer now, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile truce they'd stumbled into.
"Don't ruin the moment," she murmured, her tone still laced with her trademark sarcasm, but it lacked its usual edge. "I'm just… conserving energy."
"Of course," Alaric replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Conserving energy."
The wagon jolted slightly as it rolled over a bump, but Lysandra didn't pull away. Instead, she let out a quiet sigh, her eyes slipping shut for a brief moment as the rhythmic creak of the wheels and the steady clatter of hooves filled the silence.
Alaric remained still, his gaze fixed on the forest ahead, though his thoughts were entirely on the woman leaning against him.
The convoy moved steadily through the shadowed woods, the creaking of wagon wheels and the rhythmic clatter of hooves the only sounds breaking the forest's uneasy silence. Lysandra remained leaning against Alaric's shoulder, her breathing shallow but steady. The warmth of his presence was strangely comforting, a grounding force against the fatigue and pain pulling at her senses.
The forest seemed to grow darker as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the long shadows of the trees merging into an oppressive twilight. The royal knights at the front of the convoy began to murmur amongst themselves, their unease palpable. Even the Shadow Blades, seasoned as they were, moved more cautiously, their eyes darting to every shifting shadow and rustling branch.
Alaric's horse, tethered to the back of the wagon, snorted and pawed at the ground. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
Then, without warning, a sharp cry rang out from the front of the convoy.
Alaric straightened immediately, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. Lysandra stirred at the sound, her head lifting from his shoulder. "What's going on?" she asked, her voice hoarse but edged with the sharpness of someone accustomed to danger.
"Stay here," Alaric said firmly, already moving to dismount the wagon.
Lysandra grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong despite her condition. "Don't be stupid," she hissed. "You don't even know what you're walking into."
He met her gaze, his expression resolute. "Neither do you. You're injured—stay here."
Before she could argue further, another cry echoed through the woods, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel. The knights at the front were already forming a defensive line, their polished armor catching what little light filtered through the trees.
Lysandra swung her legs off the edge of the wagon, wincing as pain lanced through her shoulder. "If you think I'm sitting this one out, you don't know me very well," she muttered, grabbing her dagger from her belt.
"Lysandra—" Alaric began, but she cut him off with a glare.
"Save the lectures, Your Highness. Let's go."
With no time to argue, Alaric nodded reluctantly, helping her down from the wagon. The two moved cautiously toward the commotion, weaving between the wagons and horses as the sounds of battle grew louder.
As they neared the front of the convoy, the sight that greeted them sent a chill down Alaric's spine. A group of cloaked men had emerged from the treeline, their movements unnaturally smooth and deliberate. They wielded curved blades that gleamed faintly in the dim light, their faces obscured by dark hoods.
The knights held their ground, their shields locked together in a tight formation. The Shadow Blades flanked them, their movements precise and fluid as they worked to hold the attackers at bay.
Lysandra's sharp eyes scanned the scene, noting the attackers' strange coordination and the deliberate way they avoided the wagons. "They're not here for the convoy," she said grimly, her dagger gripped tightly in her good hand. "They're targeting someone specific."
Alaric's jaw tightened as he drew his sword. "You think it's me?"
"Possible,but, we're not going to find out by standing here." she said her voice low.
Lysandra tightened her grip on her dagger, her injured shoulder throbbing as she moved forward beside Alaric. The air was thick with tension, every sound amplified—the clash of steel, the shouts of the knights, the eerie silence of their attackers. As they inched closer to the fray, Lysandra began to feel it: a strange, unsettling sensation washing over her.
Her vision blurred for a moment, the forest around her seeming to warp and shift. The ground felt unsteady beneath her boots, and a faint ringing began to echo in her ears. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog, but it only deepened.
"You okay?" Alaric asked, glancing at her with concern as they moved.
"I'm fine," Lysandra lied, her voice tight. "Keep moving."
But she wasn't fine. Her limbs felt heavy, as if something unseen was pulling at her, draining her strength with every step. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to focus. This wasn't the time to falter.
As the two of them joined the fight, the sensation grew worse. Lysandra moved with precision, her dagger finding its mark as she slashed at one of the attackers. The figure crumpled to the ground, but her victory was short-lived. Her knees buckled slightly, the world tilting as she struggled to stay upright.
Alaric fought beside her, his sword a blur as he deflected an incoming blow. He turned toward her briefly, his expression tightening when he saw her pale face. "Lysandra—"
"I said I'm fine!" she snapped, her voice sharper than intended. She lunged at another attacker, her movements growing more sluggish with each strike. The strange feeling clawed at her mind, making it harder to think, harder to fight.
Then it happened.
A sudden rush of attackers surged between them, driving a wedge in their defense. Lysandra felt herself being pushed back, her boots skidding on the uneven ground as the cloaked men closed in around her. She caught a glimpse of Alaric, his sword swinging in a wide arc as he tried to reach her, but the crowd of enemies swarmed like a tide, separating them further.
"Alaric!" she shouted, her voice strained as she parried a strike aimed at her side. Her dagger flashed, and another assailant fell, but her movements were becoming erratic. The light-headedness was unbearable now, her vision swimming as her body fought against her commands.
"Lysandra!" Alaric's voice carried over the chaos, filled with urgency, but she couldn't see him anymore. The forest seemed to close in, the sounds of the fight muffled as if coming from a great distance.
Panic flared in her chest as she stumbled, her dagger slipping from her grip. She fell to one knee, the world spinning around her. The shadowy attackers paused briefly, as if waiting for something, before one of them stepped forward, a curved blade glinting in their hand.