He snorted but said nothing, jerking his thumb toward the carriage door. Inside, two other passengers were already settled—a merchant's wife in a stiff bonnet who didn't look up from her embroidery, and a lean, sharp-eyed man in a travel-stained cloak who watched Nysa and Cara for a beat too long before turning away.
"Coin up front," he said, holding out a calloused palm. "Half now, half when we reach Elyria. And no whining 'bout the roads. Ain't my fault if the wheels get stuck in muck."
Nysa pressed the coins into his hand, her stomach tightening. This was really happening.
As she climbed in, the carriage groaned under her weight, the scent of old hay and damp wood thick in the air. The merchant's wife sniffed, shifting her skirts away as if Nysa might soil them. The cloaked man smirked, tapping his fingers against his knee in a rhythm that set her teeth on edge.
The Coachman swung himself onto the driver's bench with a grunt. "Hold tight," he called over his shoulder. "First stretch's rough."
---
The ride to Elyria was long, the winding roads lined with wild thickets, whispering woods, and sleepy hillocks that seemed to roll endlessly. Cara didn't speak unless necessary. At one point, she tried to ask Nysa if they could talk, but Nysa had simply looked out the window and said she was tired.
Tired of the silence. Tired of pretending nothing happened. Tired of how Cara still hadn't once apologized.
The worst part? Cara acted like Nysa should be the one to apologize. As though exposing her betrayal had somehow been unfair. Nysa was disgusted by the thought.
The carriage bumped over a rocky path, jostling them both. Nysa barely reacted. Cara groaned and rubbed her elbow, then muttered, "You could at least say something."
Nysa raised her brows and turned to her with a dry stare. "Why? So you can blame me for speaking too?"
"I never blamed you," Cara muttered, eyes low. "I just think… things got blown out of proportion."
Nysa let out a short, bitter laugh. "You think I blew things out of proportion?"
Cara shrugged, but her silence was as loud as a confession.
Unbelievable, Nysa thought. This girl—who had stolen from her, laughed with Kaeli behind her back, and handed her a sabotaged dress—genuinely believed Nysa owed her an apology.
That was when Nysa decided she'd go through this journey in complete silence. No more explanations. No more arguments.
–
As night fell, the coachman reined in the horses, bringing the carriage to a halt outside a modest roadside inn near the border. The building was simple but clean, its warm light spilling from the windows into the gathering dark.
With a creak of hinges, the carriage door swung open, and everyone stepped out, stiff and weary from the long journey. The merchant's wife stretched her limbs while Cara glanced around, taking in the quiet surroundings. Nearby, the coachman led the horses toward the stable, giving them a pat before seeing to their care for the night.
The innkeeper appeared in the doorway, offering a nod of welcome. Inside, a room with two beds was available for Nysa and Cara to stay in.
As Nysa lay under the wool blanket, she stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
She kept thinking about the palace. About the blood. The maid's scream. The prince's voice. "Give me your blood."
What had she witnessed that night?
A sorcerer? Some kind of… monster?
She didn't know. And the not-knowing made it worse.
She'd almost gone to the guards—which would have been dumb. Almost told Madame Selene. But fear had held her back. Who would believe her? She was just a commoner girl from Windale. And he was the prince.
No one would believe her.
She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memory. But the sound echoed again—the soft thud of a body hitting the floor, and the strange calm in his voice as he asked for her blood.
Nysa shivered and turned away from the candlelight flickering on the wall.
Cara was already asleep. Or at least pretending to be.
---
The second day's travel was rougher. The roads narrowed into jagged mountain passes, the carriage jolting over rocks that sent Nysa's teeth clacking together. The horses' labored breathing mixed with the creak of strained axles. Outside, slate-colored clouds smothered the sun, leaching the world of color.
The Coachman cursed under his breath, yanking the reins as the wheels caught in a rut. "That's it," he barked, twisting in his seat to glare at his passengers through the small front window. "We're stopping. Unless you lot fancy tumbling off a cliffside."
The carriage lurched to a halt beside a crumbling stone arch—the skeletal remains of an old border checkpoint. Wind howled through its gaps, but the overhang was enough to keep the rain off. The merchant's wife clambered out first, muttering about "uncivilized routes," while the cloaked man vanished into the gloom to scout ahead.
Nysa stayed put, flexing her stiff fingers. Across from her, Cara stared at her own hands, her usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.
Then, so quiet it was almost lost to the wind:
"I didn't want to hurt you."
Nysa went very still.
Cara's throat worked. "I just… didn't know how to deal with it. The way you changed."
A laugh scraped out of Nysa before she could stop it. "I didn't change," she said. "You just stopped looking."
Silence. Not the suffocating kind from the carriage, but something thinner. Fragile.
Somewhere beyond the arch, the Coachman shouted at the horses. The merchant's wife sighed dramatically.
And something between them shifted. Not healed. But laid bare.
And that, Nysa thought, was a start.
---
By the time the carriage finally pulled through the tall gates of Elyria, the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. The kingdom was smaller than theirs but known for its exquisite markets and craftsmen. Even now, under the moonlight, Nysa could see fine brickwork, carefully cobbled roads, and torch-lit alleyways stretching into the distance.
.
.