The night was calm—too calm. The moon wore a halo, a ghostly ring cast by its own light reflecting off the scattered clouds. Trees passed like rows of silent sentinels, their dark green leaves trembling slightly in the wind, like young boys pretending to be palace guards but unable to hide their nervous fidgeting.
I pulled aside the velvet curtain on my window. The quiet awkwardness inside the carriage had become suffocating. Even the unsettling darkness outside felt more breathable.
The ride was steady. Smooth. Deceitfully uneventful.
Rose sat across from me, dressed in a fitted midnight gown. Her wolf-cut hair had been tamed into deliberate elegance, and she wore a scent—citrus-like, faint, sharp—but I couldn't place the fruit. It smelled clean. Dangerous. A contradiction, like everything else about her.
The Count sat beside her, his posture a monument to composure. Not stiff, not lazy—just… set. Like stone that had forgotten it was once water. Papers rested on his lap, and he read them by moonlight as though nothing outside this carriage could possibly alter his focus.
Beside me, Regina lounged with her book. One leg crossed over the other, golden hair gleaming faintly under lanternlight. She read as though words bent themselves into place to please her. Every so often her lips curved—not into a smile, but into something that carried the memory of one.
The stillness shattered.
A sharp whinny from the horses. A jolt. The carriage lurched to a stop. I stumbled, crashing into Rose's side. She didn't flinch—alert and eerily calm, like a blade pulled half out of its sheath.
Her eyes met the Count's. A silent exchange.
You want a bite of this or shall I handle it?
The Count glanced at Regina, who looked up lazily from her book as though considering whether the disturbance was even worth acknowledging. She gave a faint wave of her fingers.
Permission granted.
Rose was already halfway out the door before her dress had fully settled. From the slit running up her left thigh, she drew a wicked-looking dirk—gleaming steel hidden in silk.
Then came the sounds.
Screams. Wet and sharp. Like fabric being torn underwater. A cut-off gasp, gurgling. Then silence.
The horses pawed the ground nervously. My skin prickled with gooseflesh. The night had swallowed the noise too quickly, as if it had been waiting for it. As if silence itself had grown teeth.
I sat frozen, ears ringing with echoes, heart pounding in my throat. My hand twitched toward the System's summon trigger—Paige's name on my tongue like a prayer. A phantom ache coiled in my chest, like missing a limb that should be there. If she was here, she would've been a wall between me and the dark.
And then… Regina's hand landed gently on mine.
She didn't look at me at first. Just kept flipping pages, as if the book were far more important than the wet tearing sounds outside. Then she turned her head ever so slightly, met my gaze, and that was all it took.
Something in her look steadied me. Not warmth—it was never warmth. It was certainty. Arrogant, disturbing certainty. Like a storm calmly assuring you it had already chosen who to drown.
The System chimed softly, words curling in my mind like smoke:
Yeah… you should listen to her. Don't be rash.
(For once, the system's voice carried no mockery. Just agreement.)
The wait stretched, though time had lost shape. Seconds stretched into something brittle.
When Rose finally returned, her gown carried dark smudges of blood—stains blooming across silk like careless brushstrokes. Her dirk was clean already, wiped with the precision of someone who never let mess linger. She looked annoyed, like someone who'd been forced to take out the trash during a dinner party.
She sighed and flopped into her seat.
The Count, who had been reading a document—gods know where he'd pulled it from—looked up and asked without much interest:
"Bandits?"
Rose rolled her eyes. "That's what they called themselves. Rookies. Couldn't scare a tavern cat. More like crooks who wandered a little too far past our borders."
Her gaze flicked to me. Then to Regina, who hadn't even looked up from her book.
"Well then," the Count muttered, folding the document neatly. "This is Crown land. Patrols will handle the… rest."
He handed Rose a napkin as though she'd spilled wine instead of blood.
Outside, the road was clean. Too clean. I saw no bodies, no weapons, no aftermath. But I didn't need to. The sounds had painted enough. The blood that still clung faintly to the wheel. The copper tang that lingered in the air. My eyes had been spared, but my imagination was not.
The carriage lurched forward again.
Regina hummed softly, turning another page, her free hand still loosely covering mine. That quiet gesture felt heavier than a scream.
The road stretched ahead, smooth and black as spilled ink.
The capital awaited.
And for the first time since I'd woken in this world, I wondered if I was the only one in this carriage who hadn't killed someone before breakfast.