Lysandra struggled to rise, her hand groping for her weapon, but her strength was slipping away. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and utterly alone. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard Alaric shouting her name, but the sound was drowned out by the rush of blood pounding in her ears.
As the figure loomed closer, Lysandra's hand instinctively shot out, trying to grab hold of anything—a weapon, the ground, her attacker—but her strength failed her. Before she could react further, rough hands grabbed her arms, pinning them behind her back. She tried to fight, but her body felt sluggish, the strange light-headedness making it nearly impossible to resist.
A coarse fabric bag was suddenly pulled over her head, plunging her into darkness. Her muffled shouts of protest went unanswered, and the edges of the bag smelled faintly of damp earth and smoke. Panic surged as she felt herself being lifted off the ground.
She kicked weakly, but whoever was carrying her was strong and unyielding. Their movements were fast and deliberate, and she could hear the hurried crunch of boots on the forest floor as they carried her away from the battle.
The sounds of the convoy—the clashing steel, the shouts of the knights and Shadow Blades—faded rapidly into the distance. The attackers were retreating deeper into the woods, moving quickly and efficiently. Lysandra strained her ears, trying to pick out any familiar voices, but all she could hear was the heavy breathing of her captors and the occasional rustle of branches as they pushed through the dense forest.
"Alaric!" she shouted, desperation creeping into her voice, though she knew he was too far away to hear her. The name echoed briefly in her mind, her thoughts turning to the prince. He would realize she was gone. He would come for her.
Wouldn't he?
The grip of her captors tightened as if sensing her resolve to fight. Her shoulder throbbed painfully with every jolt of movement, but she forced herself to stay alert, to memorize every detail—the direction they were heading, the uneven terrain underfoot, the faint scent of pine mingling with something metallic in the air.
Lysandra felt the rough shove of her captors as they forced her down against the base of a tree. The bark pressed uncomfortably into her back, and her breathing came in heavy, labored gasps as the bag over her head was abruptly yanked off.
The forest was darker now, shadows deepening under the thick canopy above. Around her, half a dozen figures moved with purpose, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods. One of them stepped forward, their gloved hand gripping the hilt of a sword. Without hesitation, they pressed the blade to her throat, the cold steel biting against her skin.
Lysandra's breath hitched, but she refused to let her fear show. Her sharp eyes glared up at the figure, defiance blazing in their depths.
"Careful," the one holding the sword said in a low, gravelly voice. "Wouldn't want to nick the wrong artery."
A second figure approached, this one smaller but no less intimidating. They knelt beside her, their hands reaching for her injured shoulder. Lysandra flinched instinctively as they prodded at the bandages Alaric had so carefully wrapped. Pain shot through her, and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying out.
"She's still strong enough to struggle," the second figure remarked, their voice cold and clinical. They peeled back part of the bandage, exposing the angry, inflamed wound beneath. "But the poison is spreading."
Lysandra's heart sank at the words,Poison. That explained the dizziness, the sluggishness that had overtaken her during the fight. The arrow she'd taken was meant for Alaric—poisoned and precise.
From behind the group, a taller figure emerged, their presence commanding. The leader. They wore a cloak that was slightly finer than the others, their movements deliberate as they stepped closer to where Lysandra was pinned.
"Is it working?" the leader asked, their voice smooth and calm, with an undercurrent of authority that made the others straighten instinctively. They stopped just a few paces away, their sharp gaze flicking between the second figure and Lysandra.
The one examining her wound nodded. "It's beginning to take hold. A few more hours, and she'll be dead."
The leader's sharp gaze darkened at the words, their lips pressing into a thin, displeased line. They turned slowly, their cloak swirling slightly as they faced the one examining Lysandra's wound. "That's not what we were hired to do."
The one holding the blade to Lysandra's throat stiffened slightly, but the leader ignored them, stepping closer to the figure tending to her wound. "The lord who hired us was very specific," the leader continued, their voice low but carrying a dangerous edge. "The prince was to die. The bastard was to be taken alive. Not poisoned. Not desd. Alive enough to answer questions."
The second figure straightened, their hands still hovering near Lysandra's shoulder. "The arrow was meant for the prince," they explained defensively. "She threw herself in the way. We didn't account for her taking the hit."
The leader's eyes narrowed, their jaw tightening. "That's the problem with hiring fools who can't adapt," they snapped. "You don't shoot unless you're sure of your target. Now, thanks to your incompetence, the prince is still alive, and she—" they gestured toward Lysandra, who glared back with venom in her eyes—"is less useful to us than she should be."
Lysandra's head swam, her body trembling as she fought the poison coursing through her veins. But even in her weakened state, she couldn't resist spitting out, "Glad to see your little plan isn't working out."
The leader's attention snapped back to her, their eyes narrowing further. They stepped closer, towering over her as they spoke, their voice cold and cutting. "You're in no position to gloat, Bastard of Eldren. You may have ruined our shot at the prince, but you've still fallen into our hands. And trust me, we'll make use of you."
The figure holding the blade to her throat pressed it slightly closer, the sharp edge biting into her skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood. "Should I silence her, boss?" they asked, their voice gruff.
"No," the leader said sharply, raising a hand to stop them. "The lord who hired us won't appreciate damaged goods. Keep her conscious for as long as possible, and make sure she doesn't try anything."
They turned to the rest of the group, their voice rising with authority. "We move at first light. Secure her and make sure she doesn't die. The lord won't be pleased if we fail again."
The group began to move with purpose, setting up a hasty perimeter around the clearing. The leader cast one last, lingering look at Lysandra, their expression hard and unreadable, before disappearing into the shadows to consult with another of their men.
Lysandra, her breathing ragged and uneven, clenched her fists in the dirt beneath her, her mind racing for any shred of a plan. Before she could focus further, a new figure approached—a shorter man with a satchel slung across his shoulder. His face was partially obscured by a hood, but the assortment of vials and herbs dangling from his belt marked him clearly as the group's healer.
"Hold her still," the healer muttered, his voice clipped and impatient. The figure with the blade at her throat stepped back slightly, though their grip on her arm remained firm.
The healer crouched beside Lysandra, setting his satchel on the ground and opening it with practiced efficiency. Without so much as a glance at her, he began unwrapping the blood-soaked bandages from her shoulder. Lysandra flinched, the motion sending fresh waves of pain shooting through her arm.
"Don't squirm," the healer said flatly, dabbing at the wound with a cloth soaked in some bitter-smelling liquid. "This'll hurt."
"Hurt?" Lysandra rasped, her voice dry and mocking despite her state. "That's an understatement."
He didn't respond, methodically cleaning the wound before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a fresh roll of bandages. As he worked, his sharp eyes flicked toward her pale, sweat-drenched face. "The poison's spreading slower than expected," he remarked to no one in particular. "She's stubborn. That's good—it'll help."
"Help with what?" Lysandra managed, though her voice wavered as the healer pressed the bandage tightly against her shoulder.
The healer reached for a small vial filled with a thick, green liquid. He uncorked it, the acrid scent hitting Lysandra's nose and making her stomach churn. "The antidote," he said curtly, tilting her chin up with surprising force. "You're lucky the boss wants you alive. Otherwise, I'd let the poison do its job."
Without waiting for her reply, he pressed the vial to her lips and tipped it back. Lysandra instinctively tried to resist, but the liquid slid down her throat, bitter and burning. She gagged, coughing violently as the taste coated her mouth and the antidote began its work.
It hit her like a wildfire. Her veins burned as if they were filled with molten iron, and her shoulder throbbed with a pain so sharp it nearly knocked the breath out of her. Lysandra doubled over, her fists clawing at the dirt as the cure fought against the poison.
"Easy," the healer said, though his tone lacked sympathy. "The cure sometimes feels worse than the poison. Just ride it out."
"Ride it out?" Lysandra snarled through gritted teeth, her body trembling as the pain seared through her.
"You'll be fine," he said, standing and wiping his hands on his cloak."Just don't die, or the boss will have my head."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Lysandra slumped against the tree. Her breathing was ragged, her body drenched in sweat, as she slowly loses consciousness.
The next morning arrived shrouded in mist, the forest blanketed in an eerie, pale haze that muffled sound and dulled the sunlight. Lysandra stirred beneath the tree where she had been left, her body aching and stiff. The pain in her shoulder was still sharp, but the searing heat from the poison had dulled to a lingering throb. The antidote had done its work, though it had left her drained and weak.
Her sharp eyes fluttered open, squinting against the pale light filtering through the canopy above. The faint sounds of her captors' movements reached her ears—murmured voices, the clink of weapons being checked, and the occasional snap of branches underfoot. They were preparing to move.
Lysandra shifted slightly, testing the strength of her body. Her muscles protested, her shoulder screaming with every movement, but she forced herself to sit up straighter. Her hands were bound tightly in front of her with coarse rope, the rough fibers biting into her skin. She glanced around subtly, taking in her surroundings.
The camp was small and hastily arranged. Her captors moved about with efficiency, their faces still obscured by hoods. The leader stood at the edge of the clearing, speaking in low tones to a handful of men. The healer was nearby, packing his satchel with vials and herbs. The others sharpened blades, checked supplies, and kept watch for any sign of pursuit.
Lysandra's mind raced as she considered her options. Escape wasn't impossible, but it wouldn't be easy—not in her weakened state, and not with this many guards. Her gaze flicked to the trees surrounding the clearing. If she could just—
"Don't even think about it," a gruff voice interrupted her thoughts.
She looked up to see one of the guards standing over her, his sword resting lazily against his shoulder. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his expression hidden behind the mask he wore, but the warning in his tone was clear. "You're not going anywhere, Bastard."
Lysandra's lip curled in defiance. "You could at least use my name," she said dryly. "Or is creativity not part of your job description?"
The guard chuckled, shaking his head as her back hands her across the face. "Still got some fight in you, I see. Good. Makes this more interesting."
Lysandra spits out the out from her mouth.Before she could retort, the leader's voice cut through the camp. "Enough. Bring her."
The guard reached down, grabbing Lysandra by her bound wrists and hauling her to her feet. She hissed in pain as her shoulder protested the sudden movement.
The leader approached, their sharp gaze locking onto hers. "You're walking from here," they said, their tone clipped. "No more riding or resting. The lord wants you delivered, and I don't intend to waste any more time."
Lysandra met their gaze with unyielding defiance, even as her legs trembled beneath her. "You're making a mistake," she said, her voice low but firm.
The leader smirked faintly, though it didn't reach their eyes. "We'll see."
The group began to move, Lysandra forced to keep pace despite the fire in her shoulder and the exhaustion weighing down her limbs. The morning mist clung to the trees as they pressed deeper into the forest, and Lysandra's sharp mind churned with plans.