Draven's sword bit into another bandit, the blade slicing through leather and flesh, sending the man crumpling to the riverbank. Blood stained the grass, but the fire in Draven's chest didn't fade. He was furious, and he didn't know why. Rya, a girl he'd only just met, lay wounded, her blood on his hands, and it drove him to cut down foe after foe. Why did her pain spark such rage? He swung again, felling a bandit with a grunt, but the anger clung to him, heavy and unyielding.
"On your right, my lord!" Harion's shout broke through Draven's haze. A bandit charged, his crude sword raised. Draven snapped his blade up, blocking the strike with a clang, then drove his sword into the man's side. The bandit fell, gasping, as Draven stepped over him, his dark eyes scanning for the next threat.
The bandits swarmed, a ragged bunch with dull blades and patched armor, but they were no match for Zalem's soldiers. Harion's men fought with sharp precision, their swords flashing, shields slamming into foes. One bandit lunged at a soldier, only to take a blade to the chest. Another swung a club, but a Zalem spear caught him in the leg, dropping him to the mud. The bandits' numbers shrank fast, their shouts turning to cries as they fell. Yet Draven's rage grew, a knot tightening in his gut, even as the last bandit fled into the woods.
He sheathed his sword, wiping sweat from his brow, and turned to the healer kneeling by Rya's side. "How's the princess?" Draven asked, forcing his voice to stay steady, though his heart pounded with an emotion he couldn't name.
The healer, an older man with steady hands, looked up, his face grim. "Not good, Your Majesty. The arrow's out, no further harm done, but it was poisoned. We don't have what we need to treat it here."
Draven's fists clenched, his calm mask slipping. "How long does she have?"
"Two days, at best," the healer said, his voice quiet, eyes fixed on the bloodied bandages at his feet.
"Then we ride now," Draven said, his tone sharp, leaving no room for debate. He turned to Harion, who nodded.
"Mount up! We move for Zalem!" Harion called, his voice carrying over the still waters. Soldiers rushed to their horses, tightening straps and splashing river water to clean their blades. The air buzzed with urgency, hooves stomping, armor clinking as the men prepared to ride.
Draven climbed onto his horse, his movements swift but heavy with thought. Harion lifted Rya, her dark hair damp with sweat. The bandage on her shoulder was red, her eyes were shut and her breaths faint. Harion passed her to Draven, who held her close with one arm, her warmth pressing against his chest. He gripped the reins with his other hand, spurring the horse forward. Harion rode beside him, the soldiers following, their hooves churning the earth as they headed for Zalem, racing against time.
Rya's mind, clouded by pain and fever, drifted to the night before her exile. She lay on her bed in Runevale's tower, the silk sheets soft under her, her heart heavy from her defiance. She'd told Nyxelene she wouldn't leave, her first rebellion against her mother's cold command. The open window let in a chilly breeze, stirring the curtains, their wolf-crest patterns flickering in the candlelight. The cool air eased her racing thoughts, her mind tangled with Nyxelene's cruel words—a mistake, unwanted.
A loud croak jolted her. She turned to the window, spotting a fat toad on the sill, its slimy skin shining, its eyes like dark beads. Rya frowned, her stomach twisting. How had a toad climbed so high? She slid off the bed, her nightgown brushing her legs, and hurried to close the window, her bare feet silent on the stone floor.
Just as her hand touched the latch, Michael's face appeared, his blonde ponytail swinging, his sapphire eyes glinting with mischief. Rya gasped, her heart jumping, and slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a yelp, wary of the guards outside. Michael leaped inside, landing lightly, the toad cradled in his hands like a prize. "Gotcha!" he whispered, grinning.
"Get that thing out, Michael, or I'll toss you both!" Rya said, stepping back, her arms crossed, eyeing the toad with disgust.
Michael's face fell, his eyes wide with mock sorrow. "What? Throw out Kiki?" he said, holding the toad closer, his voice trembling for effect. "She's my pal!"
"You named it?" Rya asked, shaking her head, baffled by Michael's love for creepy creatures. She sank back onto the bed, the mattress creaking.
"I found Kiki on my way here," Michael said, his tone earnest. "She was lost, all alone, no one to help her. So I brought her." He pouted, fishing for sympathy, his grin barely hidden.
Rya sighed. "Just get rid of it. How do you even know it's a girl?"
Michael's eyes lit up. "Easy! Kiki's seven months pregnant. Can't you see the glow?" He held the toad out, its legs dangling, as if presenting a gem.
Rya rolled her eyes, flopping back on the bed. "Toads don't stay pregnant that long, Michael. You're absurd."
His jaw dropped, feigning shock. "Kiki, you lied to me? A guy this whole time? For shame!" With a quick flick, he tossed the toad out the window, not looking back as it vanished into the night. "Better?" he asked, flopping beside her, his grin wide, the bed bouncing under his weight. Rya couldn't help a small laugh, his silly antics pulling her from the shadow of Nyxelene's words, if only for a moment.
She lay on her bed, the silk sheets soft beneath her, her dark hair splayed across the pillow. Michael sprawled beside her, his blonde ponytail loose, his eyes distant.
Michael propped himself on an elbow, his grin fading as he studied her tear-streaked face. "It's been ages since I saw you like this, Rya. Who's the fool that made you cry?" His voice was light, but his eyes held a quiet fire, ready to leap into action.
Rya's lips curved into a weak smile, but she stayed silent, her fingers twisting the edge of the sheet. The memory of Nyxelene's raven-black hair, her cold embrace, lingered like a bruise. She didn't want to burden Michael, not when his visits were her only escape from the tower's walls.
"Come on, don't hide it," Michael pressed, his tone soft but insistent. "Believe it or not, I'm the strongest in Runevale now. Point me at the idiot who put you in this mood, and I'll handle them." He puffed out his chest, his playful bravado coaxing another faint smile from her.
Rya's smile grew, a spark of her usual spirit returning. She wiped her eyes, her voice teasing but heavy. "Well, can you kill my mother, then?"
Michael shot upright, the bed creaking under his sudden movement. His eyes widened, a mix of shock and curiosity flashing across his face. Nyxelene was no ordinary foe—her Šërēĺįťh magic, her iron grip on Runevale, made her untouchable. He'd seen Rya upset after her mother's coldness before, but she always brightened when he climbed through her window, his stories and antics chasing away her gloom. Tonight, though, her eyes stayed shadowed, her sadness unshaken even by his presence. "What happened, Rya?" he asked, his voice low, all traces of play gone. "Tell me."
Rya sighed, her breath shaky, and sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. She told him everything—Nyxelene's order to leave by sunrise, her confession of Rya as a mistake, the chilling embrace that felt like a trap. Her voice broke as she spoke of her mother's claim that she'd never hated her, only to call her a shame, a burden she wished unborn. Michael listened, his fists clenching, his jaw tight, his usual grin replaced by a dark, simmering anger.
When she finished, silence hung heavy, the candlelight flickering on the stone walls. Michael's expression was grim, his eyes distant, as if weighing a dangerous plan. Rya tilted her head, forcing a playful tone to break the tension. "What's got you thinking so hard? Just kill my mother, and it's all fixed. You're the strongest, aren't you?"
Michael's gaze snapped back to her, his lips twitching but not quite smiling. "The ranking of Runevale's strongest doesn't include Nyxelene," he said, his voice serious, almost reverent. "No matter how skilled anyone gets, they're always second to her. It's been that way since she took the throne. Her power—Šërēĺįťh, her will—it's unmatched."
Rya leaned back, her teasing smile returning, though her eyes were still wet. "So, you're saying you're a useless warrior who can't even beat one woman? Some strong man you are," she said, poking his arm, her voice light but sharp, trying to pull him from his grim mood.
Michael chuckled, the sound soft but genuine, and nudged her back. "Careful, princess. I'm strong enough to toss you out with Kiki next time." He flopped back onto the bed, his arm brushing hers, and for a moment, the tower felt less like a cage.
The candlelight in Rya's tower room flickered, casting soft shadows on the stone walls. The breeze from the open window stirred the wolf-crest curtains, their embroidered threads glinting faintly. Rya sat on her bed, her knees pulled to her chest, her dark hair falling over her face. Michael lay beside her, his blonde ponytail loose, his sapphire eyes fixed on her, searching for a way to break her gloom.
After a quiet moment, Michael sat up, his voice gentle but firm. "You don't have to stay so sad, Rya. I'll leave Runevale with you. There are many dangers outside the protective walls of Runevale, but you have nothing to worry about. Yours truly will be right there with you, keeping you safe whenever trouble comes."
Rya's forest-green eyes flicked to him, her brow furrowing. A faint smile touched her lips, but it faded fast, replaced by a spark of annoyance. "You were so quiet, I thought you had something important to say. Leave with me? What about your parents? You've climbed so high, Michael—strongest in Runevale, a title of honor only the greatest warriors earn. Your authority is second only to my mother's, and you'd throw it all away?" Her voice sharpened, her hands gripping the sheets, frustration mixing with her pain.
Michael's eyes flashed, his usual grin gone. "Your life's in danger, and you're worried about titles and achievements? Who's saying useless things now? You think I'd sit back, clinging to some status, while Lady Nyxelene punishes you for just being her daughter?" For the first time, the prankster raised his voice. He leaned closer, his hand resting on the bed, his gaze locked on hers.
Rya's chest tightened, her breath catching. She looked away, staring at the flickering candle, its flame dancing like her wavering heart. "I'm grateful for you, Michael," she said, her voice soft but steady. "You've been my friend, my light in this cage of loneliness. Your stories, your silly pranks—you brought comfort I never thought I'd have and I've never been able to give you anything in return. That's why I can't let you ruin your life for me. I'll stay here, face Nyxelene's wrath, and die if that's what she wants." Her words were firm, her eyes shining with defiance, though tears threatened to spill again.
Michael's jaw dropped, his hands clenching into fists. "What? Rya, don't be foolish. Are you hearing yourself?" His voice cracked, a mix of anger and desperation.