The group moved steadily through the dense forest, the morning mist clinging to the underbrush like a shroud. Lysandra stumbled over uneven roots and rocks, her bound hands making it nearly impossible to steady herself. The sharp ache in her shoulder grew worse with each step, and her legs felt heavier with every passing moment. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, refusing to let her captors see just how much she was struggling.
Her sharp eyes scanned the area as they walked, taking in every detail—the way the guards kept their formation loose but watchful, the weapons they carried, the subtle markers of direction carved into tree trunks. She filed it all away, her mind racing even as her body protested the grueling pace.
The rope binding her hands was coarse and tightly knotted, the fibers digging into her skin with every movement. She flexed her fingers slightly, testing the limits of her restraints, but the ropes held firm. Her captors had clearly done this before.
Her eyes darted downward, searching the forest floor as they walked. Stones, sharp twigs, anything she could use to fray the rope or cut herself free—there had to be something. She spotted a jagged rock protruding from the dirt and slowed her pace, hoping to angle herself toward it.
"Keep up, Bastard," they said, their voice low and mocking. "The boss doesn't have time to drag you along."
Lysandra straightened, her glare cutting through her exhaustion. "You'll regret that," she muttered under her breath, her tone venomous.
Her eyes flicked once more to the terrain, searching desperately for anything that could give her an edge. Suddenly, movement caught her attention—a shadow darting between the trees. Her heart quickened as she tried to focus, but before she could fully process what she was seeing.
A pair of blazing fireballs streaked through the mist, hitting the group with explosive force. The first struck near the rear of the convoy, sending one of her captors flying and scattering the others. The second hit closer, the heat searing the air around her and leaving a smoking crater in the dirt.
Lysandra hit the ground hard, the impact jarring her already-aching body. Shouts erupted around her as the remaining captors scrambled for cover, their blades drawn and their movements frantic. Another fireball lit up the clearing, casting long shadows across the forest floor.
Through the haze and confusion, Lysandra saw figures emerging from the tree line. Clad in red cloaks and moving with swift precision, they attacked her captors with brutal efficiency. Blades clashed, spells crackled in the air, and the forest filled with the sounds of battle.
One of the cloaked attackers broke through the fray and rushed toward her. Lysandra tensed, her bound hands useless as she tried to scramble backward, but the figure knelt in front of her. A dagger flashed in their hand, and within seconds, the ropes around her wrists fell away.
They grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet as another fireball whooshed past, striking a tree and sending splinters flying.
Lysandra's instincts screamed at her to demand answers, but the stranger cut her off before she could speak. "Keep faith with Eldren," they said firmly, their eyes burning with intensity. "Now go. Run!"
The words jolted her into motion. Without a second thought, Lysandra bolted into the trees, her legs carrying her away from the chaos as fast as they could manage. Her shoulder throbbed with every step, and the uneven terrain threatened to trip her, but she didn't stop. The sound of battle faded behind her, replaced by the pounding of her heart and the rustling of branches as she pushed through the forest.
When Lysandra felt she was far enough away from the chaos, she finally slowed, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps. Her body ached, her shoulder throbbed, and her legs felt like they might give out at any moment, but she forced herself to keep moving, even if only at a slow, cautious pace.
She leaned against a tree, one hand clutching her injured shoulder as she scanned her surroundings. The forest was dense and unfamiliar, the mist from earlier still clinging stubbornly to the ground. The canopy above was so thick that it blocked out much of the sunlight, leaving her disoriented and unsure of the time. Everything looked the same—tall, shadowy trees and uneven terrain stretching endlessly in every direction.
Lysandra pressed her back against the rough bark of the tree, closing her eyes briefly as she tried to get her bearings. She focused on the sounds around her: the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant chirping of birds, and, thankfully, no sounds of pursuit.
Think, she told herself, clenching her fists. Where am I? Where would the convoy be now?
She opened her eyes and looked down at the ground. Her sharp gaze searched for any signs—broken branches, trampled underbrush, anything that could give her a sense of direction. But the forest floor was a confusing mix of her own footprints and the natural disarray of the wild.
Taking a steadying breath, she crouched low and studied her surroundings more closely. The road, she thought. The convoy was following the main road. If I can find it, I can figure out where they might be.
She straightened and began moving cautiously, adjusting her course to what she hoped was the direction of the road. Every step was careful and deliberate, her ears straining for any sounds of movement. Her captors had been organized, and there was no guarantee the fight had wiped them all out. For all she knew, some of them might still be searching for her.
As she walked, she couldn't stop her thoughts from racing. The cryptic words from the red cloaked figure echoed in her mind: "Keep faith with Eldren." The phrase made her skin crawl, but it also piqued her curiosity. Who were they? And why did they seem to think she had any connection to Eldren beyond her cursed bloodline?
The sound of a crow cawing overhead startled her, and she instinctively reached for her dagger—only to remember she didn't have one. Her weapon had been left behind during her capture, along with most of her supplies. The realization made her curse under her breath. She had no food, no water, and no idea how far away the convoy might be.
Still, she pressed on. She had to find the road. Once she did, she could figure out how far the convoy had traveled and whether they'd noticed her absence. A faint pang of worry flared in her chest at the thought of Alaric. Had he survived the ambush? Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand.
Lysandra stumbled through the dense underbrush, her heart lifting slightly as the terrain began to even out. Ahead, the faint outline of the road came into view, cutting a winding path through the forest like a lifeline. She pushed forward, her body aching and her shoulder screaming with every movement, but she didn't stop until her boots touched the packed dirt of the road.
She paused, leaning heavily against a tree trunk, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The road stretched out in both directions, disappearing into the misty forest. For a brief moment, she allowed herself a flicker of relief—she had found the road. Now, all she needed to do was figure out which direction the convoy had gone.
Her moment of calm was short-lived. The sound of rustling nearby snapped her out of her thoughts, and she instinctively stepped back, her hand going to her empty belt where her dagger should have been. She cursed under her breath, scanning the forest edge with narrowed eyes.
A figure emerged from the shadows, walking confidently toward her. For a moment, her body tensed, ready to flee or fight, but then she recognized him.
"Alaric?" she breathed, her voice a mixture of shock and confusion.
It was him, though he looked nothing like the prince she was used to seeing. Gone was the shining armor and polished appearance of royalty. Instead, he was dressed in dark, practical leathers, more like a mercenary than a prince. His sword hung at his side; his cloak slightly tattered from the forest's rough terrain. His face was smudged with dirt, and his usually composed expression was tight with worry.
"You're a hard woman to find," he said, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of relief. His sharp eyes scanned her, lingering on her injured shoulder and her pale, exhausted face. "Are you hurt?"
Lysandra stared at him, her mind racing to catch up. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her tone sharper than she intended. "You're supposed to be with the convoy."
"I was," he replied, taking a cautious step closer. "When I didn't see you after the ambush, I knew something was wrong."
She crossed her arms, though the motion made her wince. "So, you just decided to wander alone, dressed like a sell-sword, hoping to find me?"
"Not exactly," he said, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. "I had help. One of the Shadow Blades noticed the tracks where you were taken. Figured it be safe to search for you myself if I was...less royal.'
Her gaze softened for a moment before she quickly masked it with a scowl. "I didn't need rescuing. I was doing just fine."
"Really?" he asked, arching a brow as his eyes flicked to her shoulder. "Because you look like you've been through hell."
Lysandra opened her mouth to retort but stopped herself. Instead, she exhaled sharply, leaning more heavily against the tree. "Fine," she muttered. "I've had better days."
"Let me see your shoulder," Alaric said, his voice steady but filled with concern as he knelt down in front of her.
Before he could reach for her bandages, Lysandra moved instinctively, wrapping her good arm around him in an uncharacteristic embrace. The motion startled him, and for a moment, Alaric froze, unsure of how to respond. Her grip was firm despite her exhaustion, her head resting lightly against his shoulder.
"I thought… I wasn't sure if you'd made it." she murmured, her voice low and strained. The relief in her tone was palpable, breaking through the tough exterior she usually wore like armor.
Alaric softened, his surprise fading as he slowly wrapped his arms around her, careful not to jostle her injured shoulder. "It's going to take more than an ambush to get rid of me."
She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her fingers gripping the back of his cloak briefly before she pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his. "I was worried," she admitted grudgingly, as if the words were foreign on her tongue. "Don't let it go to your head."
Alaric chuckled softly, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said, though his expression betrayed how much her words meant to him.
His hand moved gently to her shoulder, his expression turning serious again as he examined the hastily wrapped bandages. "Now, let me take care of this," he said, his tone soft but firm. "You're not going to make it far if this wound gets worse."
Lysandra nodded reluctantly, the brief moment of vulnerability passing as she shifted to let him work. "Just don't make it worse."
He shook his head, smirking faintly as he reached for the small pouch at his belt. "You're lucky I found you," he said, his voice teasing but gentle. "Who else would put up with your stubbornness?"
"Not many," she replied dryly, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
As Alaric carefully unwrapped the old bandages, his movements deliberate and practiced, Lysandra sat still, her gaze flicking between him and the surrounding forest. The brief hug had said what she couldn't put into words—relief, gratitude, and a strange sense of comfort she didn't entirely understand.
As Alaric finished adjusting her bandages, he stood abruptly, and before Lysandra could react, he leaned down and scooped her up into his arms.
"Hey!" she protested, her voice sharp with indignation as she instinctively gripped his shoulder to steady herself. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Carrying you," he replied matter-of-factly, his tone calm but leaving no room for argument. He shifted her weight slightly, cradling her securely as he began walking down the road.
"I can walk!" she snapped, glaring up at him. "Put me down."
He glanced at her, unbothered by her protests. "You can barely stand without wobbling like a newborn foal. Besides, you'd just slow me down. This is faster."
"I'll slow you down?" she repeated, her voice rising. "Do I look like I need to be carried around like some damsel in distress?"
Alaric smirked faintly; his eyes focused ahead. "You look like you're about two steps away from collapsing. So yes, carrying you is the better option."
Lysandra let out an exasperated huff, crossing her good arm over her chest. "This is... So embarrassing."
"And yet here you are, being carried anyway," Alaric retorted, a teasing edge in his voice. "Maybe consider this payback."
She opened her mouth to argue but stopped herself, realizing that her energy was better spent holding on than fighting him. She let out a resigned sigh, though her glare didn't waver. "If you drop me, I swear I'll make you regret it."
Alaric chuckled softly, his arms tightening around her to ensure she was secure. "You'd regret it more than I would. Just relax. I've got you."
She grumbled under her breath but didn't argue further, leaning her head back against his chest. As much as she hated to admit it, the steady rhythm of his steps and the warmth of his embrace were oddly comforting. For now, she allowed herself the rare luxury of letting someone else bear the weight—just this once.