Small birds sang in the canopy overhead, their chirps oddly happy though Rhosyn couldn't see why. The land steadily crept colder; the north had all but gone silent and Thane Worrow had disappeared in the time she was away. What only made matters worse was that Edrien had travelled to the furthermost edge of the southern kingdom, to Hartwell, and there was nothing else to distract her wandering mind.
The pebble was smooth in her hand, her fingers polishing its surface in an action that had become second nature. The only thing that seemed capable of comforting her was the small blue weight pressed into her palm, and she knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't let it go. The memory of the stony beach was already a hazy dream—frayed at the edges, broken into fragments she couldn't quite catch. All she had left of it was the feeling, and it haunted her.
The forest only made it worse by being so damned cheerful. Sunlight streaked through the leaves, catching in that magical way the sun did before melting into dusk. Birds danced and sang as if spring had announced winter's death, and somehow it was still warm despite the threat of frost clinging to the shadows. The woods of Ravelocke should have felt like hers. Today they felt like they were mocking her.
She and Caerwyn walked in silence along the leaf-strewn path—though with them, silence could be a thousand words. His boots made a steady, measured crunch beside her, his gauntleted hand never straying far from his sword-hilt. He had been distant since they returned from Saint Michael's church, jaw set, gaze fixed ahead on some middle distance that did not include her. Rhosyn couldn't tell if it was because of what she'd asked him on the stony beach, or because of the man with the sword she could no longer properly remember. Maybe he was angry with her. Maybe he was angry with himself.
The pebble should have been safe in the little jewellery box her mother had given her as a girl. Today—for some reason—she had slipped it into her pocket before leaving her room. She wasn't sure why. Maybe she didn't want to forget, not completely, even if the memory was now corrupted: a fog rolling in, smothering the words until she could no longer hear him. She was sure his lips had been thin and his eyes the colour of… something she could not name, sure his voice had been warm, almost welcoming. But she couldn't truly remember her 'Mr Hardly Wrong.' He was a phantom now, a shadow made of missing and wanting.
Realising how hard she was trying to remember, she shoved the thought down and closed her fist around the stone until the edges bit her skin.
Ahead of them, a thrush burst out of the undergrowth in a frantic whirr of wings, arrowing up into the branches. Another bird fell abruptly silent. The cheerful chatter of the canopy thinned, then died, like a song cut mid-note.
Caerwyn's hand shot out in front of her, palm open in a familiar command to halt.
"Stay," he said quietly, the first word he'd offered her in some time. His head tilted, listening to a silence that suddenly felt much too deep.
Rhosyn's fingers tightened—and the pebble slipped. It skidded against her skin and tumbled from her grasp.
Her heart seemed to fall with it.
She had never been so clumsy. Of all the times to lose hold of the one thing that still soothed her, it had to be now. Rhosyn dropped into a crouch to reclaim it, a small sound of annoyance escaping her as she brushed aside leaves in search of the glint of blue.
The thud that followed drove into the tree trunk beside her head.
Bark spat in her hair. For a heartbeat she didn't understand what she was seeing—only the quiver of wood, the hurt groan of the tree. Then her gaze locked onto the feathered shaft jutting from the bark at eye height.
An arrow.
The world snapped into terrible clarity.
Her head rang with a single, overwhelming command: Run.
Caerwyn shouted something—her name, a curse, an order—but the drumming of her heartbeat surged up like a battle-song, drowning his words. Rhosyn snatched up the pebble with a clawing hand and was already moving, legs driving, cloak snapping behind her.
Never remain predictable.
She veered sharply off the path, cutting sideways between the trees instead of following the easy line ahead. Suddenly, she hauled herself short behind a trunk, pivoting and ducking back the way she'd come, weaving for deeper cover. Another thud slammed into the ground somewhere behind her, close enough that she felt the impact through her boots, but she was already gone, sliding into the shadowed crook between two oaks.
Rough bark pressed into her back. Each breath scraped in her throat, loud as shouting. She forced herself to count them—one, two, three—instead of bolting again blindly.
Caerwyn was gone from her side, a shadow loose in the forest. He moved like he always had in danger: soundless, fast, a hunter set on the thing that dared to threaten her.
Before long he would have the bastard—
A cry rang out, strange and jagged. It could have been an animal, by the rawness of it. It could have been a man. The sound tore itself apart on the air and died.
Then the forest went eerily, utterly still.
A single snap echoed through the trees: a twig breaking under weight, or a careless footstep, or the settling of some unseen branch. It bounced off trunks, turned itself around, leaving no clean direction to follow.
Rhosyn pressed flat against the tree, fingers white around the pebble, listening to the hush swallow her.
Pain nipped at her calf. At first it was only a nag, a distant complaint softened by the panic beating through her veins. Adrenaline flooded her, turning every breath into a guzzled drag that barely kept pace with her heart. She was too loud. Even her pulse sounded like it could give her away.
The slow trickle of warmth down the back of her leg registered as an afterthought. Blood. The arrow had not missed completely, then.
A crunch of dry leaves sounded to her right.
Rhosyn didn't move. She didn't dare. She couldn't tell if it was Caerwyn or something else, and the not knowing pinned her more surely than any hand.
The hand, when it came, was sudden—a lurching grab that closed hard around her wrist.
She was yanked away from the tree. A cloaked figure materialised from the shadows, hauling her after him as he twisted her arm up behind her for leverage. Every step he took dragged her somewhere she could not see, somewhere that felt like walking toward her own grave.
She did not surrender.
Every step he tugged, she fought back—digging in her heels, twisting, turning her shoulder to break his line of pull. Her calf screamed. He cursed.
"Com'n, ye bitch," he grunted, voice rough in her ear. His accent was thick, harsh, sounding neutral somehow, though there was an accent hidden within. He yanked her hard enough that her boots slipped on the leaf mold and she fell to one knee.
He was panicking. She could feel it in the jerk of his grip, the rush in his movements. He was rushing because he knew her knight was coming.
Rhosyn's free hand scrabbled instinctively across her body, seeking the familiar shape at her belt. Her fingers found the dagger's hilt and pulled it free in an awkward, dragging sweep. She slashed sideways, more desperation than grace—but the blade caught, nipping his torso through the cloak.
He jerked back with a hiss, letting go of her as he leapt out of reach. Surprise flashed in his eyes, quick and sharp, chased at once by fear.
"Lady Rhosyn!" Caerwyn's shout cut through the trees, booted feet a clamour, crushing sticks and leaves in his wake.
The cloaked man's gaze darted over her shoulder at the sound. In that instant she saw his face properly—the bleached shock of it, as if all colour had been torn away. Then he turned and bolted, crashing through the undergrowth in the opposite direction, fleeing the oncoming knight.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Rhosyn whirled with a snarl of motion, dagger already slicing up in reflex. Caerwyn caught her wrist easily mid-strike, fingers firm but careful as he twisted just enough to take the weapon from her grip.
"It's me," he said—unnecessary, because she had already recognised him, and yet somehow she needed to hear it.
She sagged, the fight going out of her at once. Rhosyn went into his arms without thinking, her forehead finding the solid line of his shoulder. For a moment, he simply held her. She could feel the coiled anger in him, the way his body wanted to turn and follow the path the assassin had taken, to hunt him down and finish it. But his arms did not loosen.
He held her until the worst of the shaking eased and the forest around them seemed to drain of colour. The sun was already beginning its slow slide behind the tree line, but she felt as if the light had left far more abruptly than that. Darkness had already claimed the edges of her vision.
"Come, My Lady," Caerwyn said at last, his voice gentler than the fury rippling beneath it. "Let's get you home."