Mist pressed low over the river, swallowing torchlight and muffling shouts.
Elara rowed without pause, her palms raw with splinters, her left arm burning
as if torn from its socket. Her breath came sharp and ragged, but she never
dared look back.
Just one more stroke. Then another.
The river narrowed between two looming boulders. The current quickened,
water breaking in jagged swells. The little boat bucked and pitched. She leaned
her weight left, fighting the roll. The paddle slipped half a span, but she
caught it again. Splinters bit deep; she clenched her jaw and kept rowing.
The boat shot through the churning gap. Behind her came the splinter of wood
on stone, a scream, a torch tumbling into the water—hiss, darkness. She didn't
stop to count how many still followed. What mattered was distance.
She veered toward the bank where roots hung low over black water. Mud sucked
at the hull. Elara leapt out, the chill biting up through her bones as she sank
to her ankles. She hauled the boat into brush and dragged branches over it. Her
gown, sodden and heavy, tangled her legs like chains. She grabbed a fistful of
fabric and ripped it to her knees. Gold-thread trim clung to her damp fingers.
"Move," she whispered. "Don't stop here."
She forced her way into the trees. Wet leaves brushed her cheek; moss-slick
roots caught her shoes; thin branches lashed her legs, leaving raw lines. Each
step she placed with care. She caught branches before they snapped back, kept
her breath low and measured.
Then came the baying of dogs.
She pressed flat to a tree trunk. Torches wavered through the mist, their
light jerking in uneven arcs. She clamped her hand over her mouth. Her heart
pounded so hard she thought the soldiers must hear it.
"Tracks this way!" one called.
The dogs snuffled closer. A spear-point pushed through the brush, a hand's
width from her calf. Elara didn't twitch. Didn't blink.
"Damn fog, no scent left," another grumbled. "Head left. Check the ridge."
Footsteps shifted. Torches dimmed to sparks, then vanished. Only after
several long breaths did Elara dare to inhale deeply. Her knees shook under her
weight.
She needed shelter. The slope beside her offered a shallow hollow veiled
with ferns. Inside, it was dry and just wide enough to curl. She slid in, spine
against cold stone.
Thirst gnawed her throat. From a crack above, droplets slid down. She cupped
her palms, waited, then sipped. The water was icy, sharp, but it loosened her
breath.
Hunger followed quick. She searched the brush outside and found dark-purple
berries. The gardener's lesson rang clear: if it bleeds white sap—never. She
split one with a nail. No sap. She tasted, waited for nausea. Nothing. She ate
two, no more.
Her hand went to the hidden pocket at her gown. The river-carved ring still
lay there. Cold metal steadied her. She curled her fingers around it.
If I lose this, I have nothing left.
Voices drifted again, faint through the fog. She stayed still, listening.
"By dawn, the trial begins," one man said. "The people may watch."
"Watch the stage," the other answered. "The verdict's decided."
"The princess?"
"Officially—dead."
The word pierced. Elara bowed her head, grip tightening on the ring.
I am still here. Write what you like in your city of lies. I am still here.
When their voices faded, the forest returned to the whisper of water and the
drone of insects. Elara bound her cut palm with a strip of cloth, hissing at
the sting.
She waited until silence deepened again. Then she crept from her hollow,
keeping the river's murmur on her right. Every step tested for firm ground,
avoiding brittle leaves and broken twigs.
Once her foot caught a root and she nearly pitched forward. She clutched a
trunk, breath ragged, then moved on. Never back. Always forward.
A rise gave her view of the canopy thinning. Mist stretched pale across the
trees. If it whitened, dawn was close. She sat, arms looped over her knees,
head against them. Sleep lapped at her, heavy as tide. She let her eyes close
for moments, then forced them open at the first cry of birds. Darkness
lingered, but no longer thick.
Dawn was near. Survive until dawn. Then plan.
Her plan was plain, made to bend if needed: water cleaner than stone-drip, a
dry hiding place for the day, a disguise of mud and torn cloth, no roads, no
words to strangers unless forced.
She touched her pocket again. The ring. Still there. "As long as you're with
me, I'm not done," she whispered.
Hunger coiled again. She ate one more berry, then stopped. Better to ache
than sicken.
Down the slope she found another hollow between tangled roots. She crouched
inside, knees tucked, ready to spring. She probed her calves; cuts healing but
sore. A bruise darkened her knee. Her ankle still held. She could walk.
Her thoughts bent toward her father—King Alden, paraded for a "public"
trial. She exhaled slowly. Return now, and she'd be seized. Hide, and perhaps
one day she might help. A cruel choice, but the only one left.
She stared at her hands. "Princess Elara is dead," she said softly. Not
repeating Roderic's lie, but making her own decision. "What remains is a
nameless girl of twenty. This ring reminds me who I was. The rest—I set aside."
The wind shifted, carrying sound downstream. Safe enough to move. She
shifted ten steps south, then crouched again. Never one trail, never one mark.
Birdsong swelled. Mist began to lift. The air brightened though no light yet
showed. Exhaustion trembled through her bones. She fought to stay awake.
Her mind rehearsed the day: gather leaves for bedding, sticks for cover, a
story for strangers—a farm girl lost, eyes down, words few. No name yet. Names
could wait.
She turned toward the city's unseen direction. Nothing but trees. Yet she
knew. "I will return," she said, steady as a vow. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But
I will return."
The river's murmur stayed to her right, unchanged since childhood. It kept
her steady. She touched her pocket. The ring pressed cool against her palm.
"All right," she breathed. "We endure the morning first."
She leaned against the roots, arms tight around her knees, waiting for the
first light to pierce the mist. She did not sleep. She only held her breath
steady, quieted her trembling, and repeated her plan until the pale glow of
dawn reached her hiding place.
Alone, filthy, exhausted—but still standing. For today, that was enough.