The moment Elric shouted, "We run anyway," he kicked open the gate.
The rusted hinges groaned, and the storm greeted them with open arms.
They sprinted into the wilds beyond the wall, boots slipping in the soaked grass, hearts drumming louder than the thunder. The forest loomed just ahead—dark, tangled, and thick with mist.
Behind them, the guards poured from the barracks like hornets from a struck hive.
"Don't stop!" Elric yelled, breathless. He tightened his grip on Anne's hand as they crashed through the first line of trees.
Branches lashed at their faces. Mud clung to their clothes. The sky above roared in anger.
But they kept running.
Each step pulled them deeper into the thickets, into freedom.
Until—
Anne slipped.
A hidden root caught her foot, and she stumbled forward, her hand yanking free of Elric's. He turned sharply, shouting her name, but a dense patch of brambles separated them.
"Elric!" she called, scrambling up, eyes darting through the darkness.
No answer. Just the crash of hooves and distant yells.
"Elric!"
She pushed through the brush, clawing at vines, soaked to the bone. Lightning struck again—and for a brief second, she saw his silhouette through the trees, searching for her.
Then torches flared behind her.
"Stop! By order of the crown!"
Anne spun, heart seizing.
Three guards emerged from the mist, swords drawn, panting, soaked and grim. The one in front—the captain—lowered his blade to her neck.
"Lady Anne of House Windmere," he said, catching his breath. "You are to return to the castle. Immediately."
Anne's chest heaved. Her mind raced. Her hands balled into fists.
"Elric!" she screamed into the trees, one last time.
But only the storm answered.
Anne struggled, twisting against the iron grip of the guards.
"Let me go!" she screamed, feet skidding in the wet earth as they yanked her backward. "He's out there! He's alone!"
The captain didn't flinch. "You endangered the treaty, the duchy, and your father's name. That stable rat will be dealt with. Your duty lies in the castle."
"My duty is to myself!" she snapped, fighting like a cornered animal. "I won't go back! I won't marry him!"
But the guards didn't hear her—or they didn't care.
Rain pelted her face as they dragged her from the trees, her boots leaving smeared trenches in the mud. She twisted around again, eyes scanning the forest behind her.
"Elric!" she cried once more, desperation cracking her voice. "Don't leave me—please!"
Nothing. Just thunder, and the cruel silence of the woods.
She kicked, elbowed, clawed—anything to slow them—but the guards were trained. Unyielding. The captain nodded to the others, and one stepped forward with a thick leather strap.
"No!" she yelled, realizing what it was for.
They bound her wrists.
"No—please, please, I just need to find him—!"
But it was too late. They were already marching her back toward the castle, back through the shattered gate that still hung open in the storm. Back through the courtyard where whispers of failure would soon become scandal.
Her dress was torn, her face streaked with mud and tears. The veil she'd once refused to wear now felt like it had never truly left her—it was always there, invisible and heavy as iron.
And yet, as the castle doors came into view, Anne made herself one promise beneath the crashing thunder:
They may have dragged her back... but they had not broken her.
Not yet.
The castle doors slammed shut behind her with a thundering finality.
Anne's soaked boots left a muddy trail across the marble floor as the guards marched her through the grand foyer, past stunned servants and whispering nobles who had not yet taken their seats for the ceremony. Her wrists still bound, her hair matted to her face, she felt like a criminal being paraded through her own home.
They led her up the eastern stair and into the Duke's chamber.
And there they were.
Duke Alaric of Windmere, broad-shouldered in his ceremonial blue cloak, turned at the sound of the door, eyes stormier than the sky outside. His salt-streaked beard barely masked the lines of fury in his face.
Lady Maerlyn, regal and cold as a statue in mourning, stood near the fire. Her lips pressed tight, her jeweled hands trembling at her sides—not from sadness, but rage.
The guards shoved Anne forward, and she stumbled into the room.
"You may leave us," the Duke said darkly.
The door shut.
The silence burned.
Then—Alaric's voice, low and seething: "Do you understand what you've done?"
Anne raised her chin, defiant even as water dripped from her sleeves. "Yes."
Maerlyn stepped forward. "You humiliated us before the crown, Anne! You—our only child—have risked everything we've built! The peace, the treaty, the House!"
"You risked me," Anne snapped. "You never once asked what I wanted."
Her mother's eyes flared. "You wanted what, Anne? A life in the forest with a stable boy? Like some peasant girl in a bard's tale?"
Anne didn't answer.
Alaric's voice dropped lower. "You speak of 'want' as if your blood does not bind you to this house. As if your life is your own to throw away."
"It is mine," she whispered.
A long pause.
Then—crack.
The back of the Duke's hand struck her cheek. The force turned her head and made her stagger backward. For a heartbeat, the world went still.
Anne looked up slowly, her lip bleeding, eyes wide—not with fear, but disbelief.
Alaric's own hand trembled, stunned by what he'd done. He had never raised a hand to her in all her years.
But it was too late.
The damage was done—worse than the bruise would ever show.
Maerlyn didn't move. She simply looked away.
Anne stood there in silence, breathing hard, and then said softly, "You'll still marry me off, won't you? Smile at the crowd like nothing happened. Sew my wounds shut with gold and call it duty."
Alaric's voice was hoarse now. "You belong to this house, Anne. That is not something you can run from."
Anne wiped the blood from her lip. "Watch me."