Lying face down, Daelith heard shouting.
Outside came the yells of the coachman and harsh, unfamiliar voices. Someone struck the carriage. Then — a heavy, muffled thud, as if a sack had been dropped.
She froze. Her pulse racing.
Slowly, barely daring to breathe, the princess pushed herself up and drew the curtain aside.
From the shadow of the thick trees stepped a half-orc, clutching a crude crossbow. His massive, unnaturally strong arms and towering height made him loom over ordinary men. Fangs protruding from his lower jaw gave his face a savage, almost bestial menace.
Her hands tightened on the fabric, heart hammering.
Bandits.
She snapped the curtain closed, huddling against the seatback. It was all right. The guards were with them — they would handle this.
But then came a rasping scrape across the roof — metal or claws, she couldn't tell. A scuffle, a muffled thud — and then, a shot?
Daelith peeked out again — and almost screamed. Right by the door lay a man she had never seen before, a bolt buried deep in his chest. A scream cut through the air, then another, filled with terror.
Ice ran through her veins, and her hands trembled.
She looked once more. The half-orc was charging straight at her.
She had no time to flinch.
Crash!
The carriage shuddered violently as a brutal jolt threw her off balance. The world tilted. The coach overturned. Daelith's head struck the wall, and everything spun into chaos.
The princess blinked, trying to distinguish sky from earth.
The carriage lay on its side, the door now looming above her like a hatch.
Outside, horses screamed. Feet pounded. Someone crashed to the ground.
Sir Mirul's voice reached her — weak, strained, edged with pain. Then a scream. Then silence.
Cold sweat prickled her skin.
Arrows whistled through the fading light.
She had to move. She had to know what was happening.
Clutching at the overturned seats, she scrambled upward, each step unsteady as a precarious ledge. She shoved the door open and risked a glance.
A fireball shot toward her.
With a sharp cry, Daelith ducked just in time. The spell flew past, striking its mark — anguished screams cut through the chaos.
A wizard among the thugs?!
She peeked out again. A strong, icy wind struck her face, sending long strands of hair flying.
A few paces away, a figure in a blue robe flung jagged ice blades at a stocky, red-haired dwarf. At the forest's edge, one of their number smoked, blackened and charred by a fiery blast.
Daelith rooted to the spot. The wizard's gaze landed on her, his eyebrows flicking up in surprise.
And in the same instant, he was knocked off his feet with a dull thud.
A goblin. Bat-like ears, small and nimble, wielding a club.
She gasped, afraid she had inadvertently distracted the mage.
Patches of scorched grass marred the ground, dark stains of blood soaking the earth.
The coachman lay motionless. Sir Mirul… dead.
The guards' and servants' carriages burned.
Knights struck by arrows crumpled to the ground.
An archer from her escort loosed arrows at a grey-clad woman wielding a massive shield. She moved with deliberate calm, as if certain of her victory.
Two swift arrows shot from the forest pierced the archer's chest one after the other.
Coughing blood, he sank to his knees… then collapsed into the grass.
The grey woman surged forward to shield the wizard.
Daelith's heart pounded.
But he had been attacking the bandits…
Then why had they killed the archer?
Who were they? Were they attacking as well?
Daelith finally managed to climb onto the overturned carriage and stood still, stunned.
Below, a figure dashed past. She noticed the slightly elongated, softly pointed ears — a half-elf. A lute swung behind his back.
The princess held her breath, watching as he hurled daggers at the nearest raider. One struck the shoulder, the other the abdomen.
Spotting Daelith, the half-elf waved his hand excitedly:
"Ah, a lady in distress! I am your valiant hero and I…"
A goblin flung a stone at him. The half-elf stumbled, losing his balance.
"One moment, my fair lady!"
Throwing a flash of light from his palm to blind the goblin, he seized the chance and lunged forward, brandishing a short sword.
Daelith could not move.
Her people were dead. The horses lay lifeless.
Her chest tightened, the air thick as syrup. Everything seemed suspended, frozen in place.
The carriage lurched violently, and Daelith fought to stay upright.
A massive hand clamped around her throat.
A sudden tug lifted her into the air.
She gasped, arms thrashing in panic.
The half-orc — the very same — hoisted her like a ragdoll.
Darkness edged her vision. She struggled for air.
He pulled her closer, face to face.
Summoning all her remaining strength, Daelith forced out her words with her Voice:
"Let… me… go!"
A fog of weakness clouded her mind, and her head spun.
The half-orc faltered, his grip loosening.
Daelith collapsed to her knees, sucking in desperate gulps of air, when a sharp impact struck.
An arrow slammed into the half-orc, striking him squarely between the eyes.
He let out a guttural grunt, staggered, and fell from the carriage into the grass.
Silence.
Daelith's head spun as she struggled to stand, but the clearing swam before her eyes. She wiped her face, feeling the sticky warmth on her fingers — blood. From her nose. The Voice had taken its toll, and her body was overcome by weakness. Her legs bent, and she began to topple forward.
But the expected impact never came.
In the next instant, strong hands caught her. The motion was so smooth it felt as if the wind itself had lifted her, not a person. Her feet touched the ground, yet she still felt the support.
She looked up. Long, tapered ears — an elf stood before her.
Snow-white hair framed sharp, sculpted features like a statue. A few strands fell across a furrowed brow. He was slightly taller than her, lithe and graceful, every movement precise, almost predatory.
Light leather armor hugged his body without restricting his fluid motions. A bow slung across his back seemed an extension of his silhouette.
But it was his eyes that held her gaze. She had never seen anything like them. Red. Ruby. They seemed to blaze from within — not with light, but with a smoldering tension.
Against her will, she could not look away.
He studied her. Daelith drew a quiet breath, ready to speak. But in that moment, he abruptly released her and stepped back.
"Kai, handle this," he called over his shoulder without giving her another glance. "Blood covers her face."
"The half-orc gave her a proper hit," the gray-clad woman approached, scrutinizing the princess from head to toe.
Daelith instinctively raised a hand to her face. She must look awful — disheveled, bloodied. Her head throbbed.
"Show some manners," a familiar voice interjected. "She just lost everything!"
Before her stood the half-elf — the same one with a lute slung across his back. Handsome, with warm brown eyes flecked with honeylight, studying the princess intently. He smiled broadly, sliding an arm around her waist and leaning closer.
"My condolences, my lady," he sang, radiating charm as ever. "But fear not, we shall make everything right… and, of course, you will want to thank your brave rescuers."
The warmth of his hand brushed her cheek.
Her headache began to fade. The haze before her eyes began to lift.
A healer? Incredible…
And with that thought, she lost consciousness.