Chinera closed her eyes to shut out the horrors surrounding her and clung to the rippled shoulder of her rescuer, holding on for dear life. "You sure are strong," she blurted out. The words escaped before she could stop them, and as soon as they did, regret flooded her face. Did she really say that? Apparently so, for her rescuer smiled at the comment and continued to carry both her and Lord Carson toward the door.
A sudden charge from the left aimed to take him by surprise, but he was ever watchful, sensing the impending move two steps ahead. As soon as the attacker came within range, he reeled back and launched a devastating kick to the man's chest, sending him flying backward into a cluster of other combatants. Seeing this, Chinera allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk. He really was strong. She felt him effortlessly adjust her as he sent another flurry of kicks—one to a man's groin, another to a man's face. "Damn scoundrels," he growled, finally reaching the door.
Once outside, the first thing Chinera noticed was the absence of horses. They were gone—along with the carriage. All of it had vanished. "Where are the horses?" she gasped, struggling to calm herself. The young man's expression remained serious and calm, not a bead of sweat on his brow. He looked as if he were merely exercising, not even finished with his warm-up. Without breaking stride, he said confidently, "The two of you may ride with me." Trying to hide the flush in her cheeks, Chinera simply smiled. With a loud whistle, the young man summoned help.
Suddenly, the thunder of hooves echoed from the distance. Out of the shadows emerged a magnificent black stallion, twice the size of any of her father's missing steeds. He placed Chinera and Carson on the mighty horse's back—no saddle, no bridle—then mounted behind them, wrapping his arms around Chinera. She had never been this close to a man before; her father would have been scandalized if he could see her now. But she didn't care. The horse took off at a full gallop without any prompting, as if it knew exactly where to go. A jolt of anxiety ran through Chinera as she thought of Lord Nevelle, left behind fighting for their safety. Should they go back for him?
"Hold on, wait, we can't leave our escort," she protested.
"Fear not," the young man replied. "That man swings his axe like a true swordsman. I doubt those ruffians will best him."
Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the heart of Clyne, the faintest light shimmered on a moonless night. The source was a red emerald, set atop a knobbed staff, held aloft by a cloaked, hooded figure standing atop a jagged mountain peak. With eyes tightly shut in intense meditation, the figure chanted incantations in a forgotten language, unleashing echoes of power into the night. With each word, fierce gusts of wind whipped around him, lifting his tattered cloak in a tempest of shadows. Brilliant flashes of lightning illuminated the pitch-black sky. Energy seemed drawn to the emerald-tipped staff, compelled by some unseen force. The figure steadied himself, feet planted firmly, preparing to harness the wild power surging through him—ready to unleash something monumental. Not far away, wide, fearful eyes watched from beneath a leaf—a tiny creature with delicate wings, paralyzed by fear of discovery.
Back at the riverbank—
How had she gotten herself into this predicament? Chinera wondered. The night had started out normally enough. Why had all her father's guards fallen so quickly? More importantly, how had this stranger known exactly where to take them? With these questions swirling in her mind, she felt the horse stop before she could ask any of them. The mysterious stranger gently lifted her from the horse, and she stumbled to the bank, her legs still unwilling to cooperate. She couldn't help but think, My, he is strong, as she knelt to drink. The water was intoxicating, and she drank eagerly, throwing aside years of etiquette and pretense. If only her tutors could see her now, lapping water from a river like a dog. Once her thirst was quenched, she regained her senses and focused on Lord Carson. She found her voice and asked, "Is he…?" her words trailing off with unspoken dread.
Timytheous said nothing at first. He gently lowered Lord Carson and began to examine his limp body. The silence grew heavy, and just as it threatened to become unbearable, Timytheous finally spoke, his tone reassuring. "He'll survive. None of the blood on his clothes belongs to him; I believe most of it is food or wine." With that, he stood up, attempting to be as polite as his instructors had taught him. Looking toward the trees, he prepared to venture into the dark forest surrounding the riverbank.
"What? Wait…," Chinera stammered, torn between her instinct to follow and her fear of leaving Carson unattended. A stirring anticipation filled the air as she stared at Timytheous's back. He glanced over his shoulder as he addressed her. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, pausing mid-step to focus on her words.
"I'm sorry, sir," she stammered. "I didn't mean to make any assumptions about your kindness—what you're doing to help us." She struggled to gather her thoughts, her mind racing from the recent chaos she had witnessed.
Fighting through her panic, she managed to compose herself enough to speak. "First of all, my name is Chinera Wilhelm of House Wilhelm. My riding companion and I were heading to Kabaull, with our escorts, to check on my great-uncle and see how his house is faring. My companion, Lord Carson of House Jahonason, is the spry young man you have graciously carried out of the tavern." As she mentioned his name, a swirl of concern gripped her—she had no idea how grave his wounds might be. It became painfully clear that her host had not fully revealed what he knew. Perhaps it was to spare her feelings, but she had no patience for formalities. She was worried about her best friend.
After a brief pause, filled only by the sounds of crickets and bullfrogs, she asked, "Is he going to be alright? I know you said he would live, but what exactly is his ailment?"
Timytheous inhaled deeply, recalling the many lessons instilled by his teachers. He had been cautioned against revealing too much—knowledge was power, and too much familiarity could tip the balance. Still, he had stepped into this young woman's life by thwarting the nefarious plans of the imposter soldiers; now, he felt a need to uncover the deeper secrets behind their actions. Perhaps, he pondered, his mentors weren't mistaken about men being inherently selfish or scandalous.
Bringing his thoughts back to Chinera's question, he stated, "Your companion suffers from a rare poison, likely administered by a small dart, though I cannot seem to locate the entry wound. This isn't ordinary; every instance I know of requires the poison to be ingested or introduced directly into the bloodstream." His face was grim, hinting at the urgency of their path ahead. "Nonetheless, I must venture into the forest to gather the requisite herbs to craft an antidote. It's the only way he might have a chance to survive."
"But I thought you said he would live?" Chinera asked.
"He will, because I will not allow him to die."
"Yes, those sound like good words, stranger, but how do you know you will prevail?" she replied.
"Because I do not waste words. If I say I will do something, I do it." With those words, he turned his gaze back toward the looming trees. There was no moon tonight. Where was the moon? Chinera felt a rush of resolve mixed with anxiety.
"But wait—didn't you say you weren't sure what was poisoning him?" she called, but found herself speaking only to the bullfrogs. Timytheous had already vanished into the forest's depths, leaving her with a growing sense of foreboding.