She wrenched against the guards' grip until her muscles screamed and the ropes carved deep into her wrists. Blood slicked her skin, but she didn't care. She kicked. Slammed her heel into a shin. Twisted like a serpent in chains.
They cursed and tightened their hold—strong, unyielding—but one grip slipped.
Just a fraction. Just enough.
'Now.'
Sylvera drove her elbow back with bone-snapping force, felt it connect with a crunch. A grunt split the air. She tore her arms forward, ripping free in a spray of dirt and blood.
A heartbeat. A breath. A chance.
She ran.
The forest swallowed her whole. Bare feet tore through mud and moss, slapping against roots as branches whipped her face raw. But she didn't stop. Couldn't. A single command roared louder than fear in her skull:
'Run. Move. Don't stop.'
Shouts detonated behind her.
Steel clashed. Hooves struck earth.
The monster was chasing.
But Sylvera ran anyway. Not like prey. Like a blade honed for blood.
Magic flared, jagged and furious, spilling blue sparks from her fingertips as she clawed the air. Power surged once—wild and reckless—and a tree exploded in a storm of splinters behind her.
'Good. Let him see what I can do. Let him bleed for this.'
The forest reeled past in a blur of silver and shadow. Her skirts ripped, her skin stung with cuts, blood slicked her thighs. None of it mattered. Somewhere, children still slept. Somewhere, a mother still believed her child was safe.
And somewhere inside Sylvera, something woke.
Not the soft, healing magic she once knew. Not the tender power that mended broken bones and calmed crying babes.
This was different.
Born of betrayal. Forged in terror.
A spark not of wonder—but of wrath.
But she couldn't make it far.
The Blackthorn Woods were cruel. Roots hooked her ankles, moss slicked the ground, and shadows gaped like open jaws. Her legs trembled as she stumbled against a fallen log, catching herself with bloodied fingers.
'Keep moving. Gods, MOVE—'
The night went still.
No laughter now. No taunts. Just a sound soft as breath—a single step pressing into damp earth. Then another. Slow. Certain.
The weight of a storm closing in.
Sylvera turned.
Lorian stood ten paces away.
Moonlight kissed his face, carving a sculpture of cold divinity and blood. His torn tunic clung to his chest, streaked with crimson that wasn't his. His eyes gleamed silver, feral and endless, and for the first time since the chase began—he wasn't smiling.
Not rage. Not triumph.
Something worse.
Regret.
"I didn't want it to be this way," he said softly, voice deep and velvet-dark, as though apology could bleach the blood from his hands. "If only you hadn't seen."
She backed away, one trembling step, then another, until a root snagged her heel and she crashed to the ground. Her palms skidded over mud and stone, pain lancing through her spine.
And still, he came. Quiet. Unhurried. As if time itself bent to his will.
He knelt beside her, slow and deliberate, like a lover instead of a predator crouching over his prey. His fingers brushed a leaf from her cheek with reverence that made her stomach roil.
"You're still mine, Sylvera," he whispered, and the hush of his voice struck like a knife. "Even now. Especially now."
Her head shook violently. Tears streaked her dirt-stained face, carving lines of fury and despair. The gag muffled her snarl to a broken, desperate sound.
But Lorian only smiled—soft, wistful, and infinitely cruel.
"You cast a spell on me, remember?" His thumb traced the edge of her jaw with obscene tenderness. "A love potion. Did you really think I wouldn't taste it the moment it touched my tongue?"
Her breath shattered.
"And now," he breathed, leaning closer, his words coiling like smoke against her ear, "I've bound you with something stronger."
He pressed a blood-slicked hand over her heart, slow, deliberate, as though claiming the beat beneath. His voice dipped to a whisper.
"You broke me open, Sylvera," he said, and his eyes burned with devotion twisted into hunger. "Let me return the favour."
Lorian's hand lingered over her heart, palm slick with blood, as though he could feel the rhythm binding her to him. His gaze—silver fire, cold and endless—searched her face like a man memorising scripture.
Then, without a word, he slid his arms beneath her. One hooked under her knees, the other curling against her back. She rose in his grip as though she weighed nothing at all.
Sylvera writhed, twisting like a wild thing caught in a steel trap. Her nails raked his shoulder, leaving angry, burning trails of red across his skin. For a moment—just a moment—satisfaction flared through her.
He didn't flinch. Didn't snarl. He smiled.
"Good," he murmured, tightening his hold until her ribs ached against the iron wall of his chest. "Hurt me, little witch. It makes me want you more."
Her strength bled away, drop by drop, into the cold night. Terror, exhaustion, blood loss—every ounce draining until her head fell against him. Her cheek pressed into the torn fabric of his tunic, damp with old gore and sweat. Beneath that, his heartbeat thudded—slow, steady, like a drum in a death march.
'Not a king carrying his bride across a threshold,' her mind whispered. 'A monster dragging his prize into the dark.'
The forest broke open into torchlight.
And there it stood.
The black carriage.
Not gold-trimmed like the royal coaches of festival parades. No, this thing belonged to nightmares. Its surface gleamed like polished obsidian, swallowing the firelight whole. No windows. No breath of air. Iron bars slashed across the door like ribs of some colossal beast's cage.
He walked straight to it. Unhurried. Certain.
A guard stepped forward, swinging the door wide. Hinges groaned like an unholy hymn.
The stench struck her first—hot and metallic, a wall of blood-thick air. Then came the sweetness. Cloying. Rot-sweet, curling through her throat until bile clawed its way up. Flesh—but not fresh. Preserved, warped by magic or something fouler.
Sylvera bucked hard in his arms, a muffled scream tearing against the gag, fury burning brighter than fear.
Lorian only chuckled low in his throat, a sound like velvet ripped down the grain of steel. "Did you think I'd come hunting without a cage, little witch?"
His voice dripped amusement and ruin as he lowered her inside, slow as sin.
The ropes ripped her skin raw as she kicked. Her body fought until agony screamed through every nerve. It didn't matter. She'd fight anyway.
The door slammed shut behind them with a sound like a coffin sealing.
Darkness fell.
Not the velvet dark of night.
A devouring dark.
A living thing.
And then—his voice.
Low. Intimate. Drenched in a devotion that made her blood run cold.
"Don't look so frightened." His fingers traced her cheek like he was memorising bone and skin, tender as prayer, obscene as blasphemy. "You're special. The others broke so quickly." His breath ghosted her ear. "But you…" His smile curved sharp enough to cut.
"…you I'll keep."
Sylvera turned her face away, gag muffling the snarl vibrating in her throat.
Her wrists burned where the ropes chewed into them, hot blood slicking her hands—but still, she pulled. Again. And again. Until stars swam behind her eyes.
Because surrender meant death.
And she wasn't ready to die.
Not before making him bleed.