The chirping of night insects invaded the serene atmosphere of the dark woods.
A lady was seen stepping out of a wobbly door of a thatched house, looking tattered.
Her breath was a bit ragged.
She let out a small sigh; she was making her way out of the place she once called home.
Micah paused in her tracks, then turned to look at the house one more time. Her hair was unkempt and tangled, her lips chapped.
No more did she bother to cry; she had poured out her guts in this house for some days.
Ragaleon's men had come to find her; she knew they would but was thankful to her neighbor, Mrs. Griffon.
The only woman that was able to recognize her amidst her ordeal. She hid away in Mrs. Griffon's house when the knights showed up in the village.
Now she understood she was not safe anywhere in Decreash; she had to go.
In her hand was a small bag containing coins, the coins she had brought along the night that she had escaped from the castle.
Gathering her shawl tightly around her shoulders, she stepped out into the cold.
Her bare feet sank into the moist soil as she hurried toward the narrow path behind the huts, where the forest loomed like a wall of shadow. Each step felt heavier than the last, yet she pressed on.
Leaves rustled. A lantern flickered somewhere up the hill. Fear gripped her, but she didn't stop; she couldn't.
The path she took went deeper into the woods, where the trees grew thick and old, their gnarled roots twisting across the ground like coiled serpents.
The night air was colder here, the silence broken only by the low croak of frogs and the faint rustle of unseen creatures.
She clutched her shawl tighter as she walked, her eyes darting around every few steps. The moonlight guided her through the narrow trail until, at last, the trees parted—and there it was.
The Black Waters.
It wasn't truly black, not in the way the stories said.
By moonlight, it shimmered dark silver, calm and almost beautiful. But beneath that calm surface, the water ran deep and dangerous, its bottom lost to time and silt.
Long ago there was war, and due to that war a lot of people lost their lives on this very riverbank.
That was where the name "Black Water" came to stay.
Micah stood at the seashore, her breath misting in the air, the ripples of the water reflecting her pale face.
The soft lap of the water against the rocks filled her ears like a whisper—one that told her there was no turning back now.
She hesitated only once, looking toward the horizon where a faint torch flickered in the distance.
The river stretched before her like a ribbon of dark glass, still and silent beneath the moon.
A faint creak broke the quiet—the sound of wood brushing against water. Then she saw it.
A small boat drifted near the shore, its shape half-hidden by the mist curling low over the surface.
A single lamp hung at its bow, its flame swaying gently.
The man seated inside was cloaked in shadow. Only his eyes caught the light, steady and watchful.
"You came," he said quietly, his voice low, roughened by the cold night air.
She nodded, stepping closer. The hem of her dress brushed the damp sand as she approached the edge.
For a moment, she halted, glancing back toward the forest. Through the trees, she thought she saw the faint glimmer of torches moving—searching.
"Hurry," he urged.
"We must leave before the eastern star disappears."
Without another word, she climbed into the boat. The wood rocked beneath her weight, and the little lamp flickered.
The man pushed off with his oar; the oar was what he used to paddle. Soon the boat began to slip away.
The lamp's glow caught in the waters they drifted farther into the current. It was the only light in a world swallowed by darkness.
Around them, the night grew thick and soundless, except for the rhythmic splash of the oar and the quiet beating of her heart.
She leaned over the side of the boat, her fingers trailing in the water.
The water was cold, yet strangely soothing. Ripples followed her touch; she could see a view of the cloud and the stars above as she stared deep into the water.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. Only the rhythmic splash of the oar filled the silence.
"Where will you go?"
The man paddling the boat broke the silence.
Micah lifted her gaze from the ripples in the water, her reflection vanishing with the motion. Her eyes met his—dark, questioning, and half-hidden beneath the brim of his hood.
"I don't know," she said softly, her voice trembling as the night wind brushed her face.
"I just… want to go far away from here."
The man's brows arched, his oar slowing as he regarded her more closely.
"You ordered a boat," he said, a trace of disbelief in his tone, "paid me in gold… to sail you to nowhere?"
She lowered her eyes, clutching her shawl closer to her chest.
"I just want to be free, to go to a place that is better than where I came from," she murmured, before sighing.
"I have heard good words about a place called Samaria, war-free, with great walls surrounding the borderlines of the castle."
She said after a thought.
"Have you also heard they have no regard for strangers?"
The man cuts in roughly, his tone a bit harsh.
The atmosphere had fallen into a serenity again, the oar's rhythm almost hypnotic.
Then she froze.
A faint sound rose above the whisper of the current, low at first, almost uncertain. Voices.
She straightened, her hand slipping from the edge of the boat.
"Do you hear that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man paused midstroke. "Hear what?"
Micah sat up fully, her eyes darting across the dark stretch of water behind them.
For a moment there was nothing—only the gentle waves of the water. Then she heard it again.
Deep voices, muffled but drawing closer. The heavy splash of oars cutting through the river.
She squinted her eyes, peering into the night fog.
The mist rolled thick and low over the sea. For a moment, she saw nothing—just darkness and water.
Then she saw them.
Shapes—shadows, many of them—emerging slowly through the haze.
The sound of oars paddling in the water grew louder and steadier until it thundered in her ears.
The faint gleam of metal flashed in the lamplight—armor, helmets, swords.
Her breath caught.
"Men…" she whispered. "Royal knights!
Another boat was gliding through the fog, larger and sleeker than the rest. At first, it was only a shadow among shadows—but as it drew nearer, the mist parted, revealing a figure standing tall at its bow.
The torchlight caught his face.
Her heart stopped.
Ragaleon!
He was there his cloak whipping softly in the wind, his gaze fixed coldly on the small boat ahead.
Even from afar, she could feel the weight of his eyes upon her, unrelenting, commanding.
"No…" she breathed, her hands trembling.
"He's here."
The man paddling the boat she was in glanced over his shoulder, the oar in his hand stilling mid-stroke. At first, he thought that she was mistaken—until he saw the lights himself.
Dozens of them.
Torches flickering over the water, reflecting off the knights' polished armor. And at their center, the grand boat, unmistakable even through the fog.
The king.
For a moment, the man just stared, caught between disbelief and something close to amusement. Then he turned back to her, his face pale beneath the lamplight.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice sharp now, edged with fear.
She blinked, startled.
"What?"
He pointed a trembling finger toward the line of boats closing in.
"What did you do? Why are the royal guards after you?"
The boat rocked gently beneath them, the sound of the oncoming fleet swelling through the fog.
"What are you doing?!" she cried, her voice sharp with panic. The man had stopped rowing the boat, his oar poised uselessly midair.
He turned to her again, eyes blazing with confusion and fear.
"Who are you?" he demanded, louder this time.
"Why…why….is the king.."
Words failed him; the fear of gazing at the fleet of knights coming from behind overshadowed his thoughts.
Micah shook her head, her breath coming fast.
"I did not pay you to ask me questions!" she snapped, her voice breaking as the words tore out of her.
The torches behind became brighter.
The knights were close enough now that she could hear the clatter of armor and the low murmur of commands.
Her heart throbbed.
"Give me that!" she shouted, lunging forward.
The sailor flinched as she shoved him aside, her fingers closing around the oar.
The boat tipped dangerously to one side, the lamp swinging wildly.
"Are you mad?!" he barked, trying to steady the boat.
But she didn't listen.
Her hair fell loose around her face as she drove the oar into the water with trembling hands, forcing the boat forward.
"Sit down!" he yelled, grabbing the edge to keep balance.
"I won't go back there!" She cried, her voice raw, almost pleading.
"What are you talking about?"
He asked, trying to rise to his feet, but he was now quivering.
"You won't understand; nobody does!
Micah screams breathlessly; rowing a boat wasn't easy.
But it was too late.
The river erupted with noises.
The fleet of boats, led by the king himself, had caught up to them.
Before she could push the oar again, a shadow loomed beside them.
A larger boat drew near.
Then, with a heavy thud, a knight leapt across the narrow gap and landed in her boat. The small boat rocked violently, water sloshing over the sides.
"Stay back!"
She gasped, stumbling as the knight's weight made the boat tremble.
"Queen Micah I am bound by duty to take you along with me."
He said, lurching forward.
Micah lost her mind.
"Duty my foot"
She said, then swiftly lifting the oar from the water, she used it to hit the knight, who was already losing balance due to the rocky boat.
Splash!!
The knight fell from the boat into the water.
The world seemed to stop.
She froze, every breath trapped in her chest.
"Help him, save him."
Came the screams of the other knights.
The sailor who had ferried Micah stared at her, his mouth parting in disbelief.
"Queen…?" he echoed.
Then, as the realization sank in, he let out a strained laugh, half awe, half horror.
"Of course…" he muttered. "Of course. You're the missing queen!