The forest thickened as the carriage pressed on, the road narrowing until the branches overhead nearly touched, weaving a canopy of shadow. The steady rhythm of the wheels began to feel too loud, every crunch of gravel echoing in Maya's ears.
She tried to steady her breathing, but the unease only deepened.
Darcien had gone silent. Not the indifferent silence from before—but the alert kind. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his body subtly tense, as though every muscle was listening.
Maya noticed.
"You said nothing would happen," she said quietly.
He didn't look at her. "I said nothing will happen to you."
The distinction made her chest tighten.
Outside, the carriage slowed.
The driver's movements grew cautious, reins pulled just slightly tighter. Then—too suddenly—the horses snorted, stamping, refusing to move forward.
The carriage lurched and stopped.
Maya's heart leapt into her throat. "Darcien—"
"Stay where you are," he said sharply, already reaching for the door.
Before she could argue, the door swung open and he stepped out, boots hitting the ground with controlled ease. Through the small window, Maya saw him straighten, one hand resting near his sword, eyes scanning the trees.
The forest was unnaturally quiet.
Then a voice cut through the stillness.
"Road tax."
Maya flinched.
Figures emerged from between the trees—men in worn armor, faces half-covered, weapons loose in their hands. They spread out slowly, circling the carriage with practiced confidence.
Bandits.
Maya's breath came shallow. The queen.
Darcien's voice remained calm. "This road is under royal protection."
One of the men laughed. "Not today."
Steel scraped as swords were drawn.
Inside the carriage, Maya pressed her hands together, knuckles white. Her instincts screamed to move, to run, to do something—but she remembered his words.
Stay inside.
Outside, Darcien moved.
The first clash rang out sharp and loud, metal against metal. Maya squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, then forced herself to look through the window.
Darcien fought with frightening precision—every strike deliberate, every movement controlled. He didn't waste energy, didn't hesitate. Men fell back, some retreating, others scrambling forward in desperation.
But there were too many.
The carriage rocked as something struck its side. Maya gasped, gripping the seat as the sound of shouting and steel surrounded her.
She felt it then—a strange pull in her chest. The same feeling from her visions. The same pressure that had come with the hidden chamber, the running, the cloak.
Her breathing hitched.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "Not now."
Another blow hit the carriage.
"Princess"
Her name—sharp, urgent—cut through the chaos.
She looked up.
Darcien stood near the door now, blood staining the sleeve of his coat—not his own, she realized distantly. His eyes met hers, dark and intense.
"Do not move," he commanded.
But the pull inside her tightened, twisting, as if something old and buried had woken up.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Maya realized—with terrifying clarity—that staying still might not be an option anymore.