Morning did not bring warmth; it only brought grey light and the gnawing pain of an empty stomach.
They had survived the night huddled under the fallen oak, sharing body heat until the sun pierced through the dense canopy of the Blackwood. Elara woke up stiff, her joints aching, the mud on her skin cracking with every movement.
But the cold was no longer the primary enemy. Now, it was the hunger.
It cramped her belly, a sharp, twisting knot that made her nauseous. She watched Ciro as he moved around their small camp. He was checking the perimeter, his movements silent and predatory.
"We need to move," Ciro said, crouching beside her. He looked at her pale face. "But first, we need fuel."
"I... I can walk," Elara lied, trying to stand. Her knees buckled immediately.
Ciro caught her. "You are running on fumes, Elara. We cannot outrun hounds if you faint from hypoglycemia."
He sat her back down. "Stay here. Do not make a sound. Do not move unless I call you."
He vanished into the underbrush.
Elara sat alone in the silence. Her stomach growled loudly, a humiliating sound in the quiet forest. She thought of the banquet tables at the palace—roasted pheasant, honeyed cakes, warm bread. She had left it all for mud and starvation.
Twenty minutes later, Ciro returned.
He was holding something by its ears. A hare. It was large, grey, and limp.
Elara stared at the dead animal. Its eyes were glassy. A small trickle of blood stained its fur where Ciro had snapped its neck.
"Breakfast," Ciro said, dropping the hare at her feet.
Elara recoiled, pulling her legs back. "It... it's a rabbit."
"It is protein," Ciro corrected. He knelt and drew his dagger. "Watch closely. You will need to learn this."
He turned the hare onto its back. With surgical precision, he made an incision from the groin to the throat.
Elara gagged. She covered her mouth, turning her head away. "I can't. Please, Ciro. I can't watch."
"Look at it, Elara," Ciro's voice was sharp. Not cruel, but commanding. "Look."
She forced herself to turn back. Ciro was peeling the skin away from the muscle. The sound—wet and tearing—made her want to vomit.
"In the castle, meat comes on a silver platter with sauce," Ciro said, his hands bloody. "Here, meat comes with fur and guts. You wanted to be free? This is the price of freedom. You have to take life to sustain your own."
He finished skinning the animal and quickly gutted it, burying the entrails to hide the scent. He was left with a carcass of red raw meat.
"We cannot light a fire," Ciro said, wiping his blade on the grass. "Smoke is a beacon. The canopy is too thin here to hide it."
Elara stared at the raw, bloody meat in his hand. Horror dawned on her face. "You... you expect me to eat it raw?"
"I expect you to survive," Ciro said. He sliced off a thin strip of the loin—the cleanest meat. He offered it to her. "It is fresh. It will give you strength."
Elara looked at the strip of flesh. Tears pricked her eyes. This was the bottom. She was a Princess of Morvath, and now she was expected to eat raw roadkill like a savage.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Then you die," Ciro said simply. "And Kaelen wins."
The name snapped something inside her. Kaelen.
If she died here, Kaelen would laugh. He would toast to her stupidity. He would marry someone else and forget she ever existed.
Anger, hot and fierce, flared in her chest, overpowering the disgust.
Elara reached out. Her hand trembled, but she took the slippery, cold meat from Ciro.
She closed her eyes, imagined it was sashim—a delicacy from the far East she had read about—and put it in her mouth.
The texture was wrong. The taste was metallic and gamey. Her throat convulsed, trying to reject it.
Swallow, she told herself. Swallow it or die.
She forced it down. It slid into her empty stomach like a stone.
She opened her eyes. Ciro was watching her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes soft.
"Good," he said quietly. He cut another piece for himself and ate it without flinching. "Another piece."
Elara ate three strips. Each one was a battle, but she won.
When they were done, Ciro cleaned his hands with dirt. He looked at her, seeing the blood on her lips—not from a wound, but from their meal.
"You are not a porcelain doll anymore, Elara," Ciro murmured, standing up and offering her a hand.
Elara took it. Her grip was stronger than before. The food, however repulsive, was working.
"No," she whispered, wiping her mouth with the back of her muddy hand. "I am a wolf."
Ciro smirked—a rare, genuine expression. "Then let's run, little wolf. The pack is getting closer."
He pointed to the valley below. The birds were taking flight in the distance. The hounds had found their scent trail from the river.
They turned East and ran, fueled by raw meat and defiance.