The stable door groans on its hinges as I slip inside, the familiar scent of hay and horseflesh wrapping around me like an old friend's embrace. Shadowmere lifts her elegant head from her feed, nostrils flaring as she catches my unfamiliar scent. In my plain wool dress, I must smell of fear and desperation rather than the rose water and silk she's accustomed to.
"Easy, girl." I approach slowly, hands extended. "It's just me."
Her dark coat gleams like polished obsidian in the dim light filtering through the stable's high windows. Father gifted her to me on my sixteenth nameday, a northern-bred mare with the endurance to survive the harshest winters.Fitting, I think grimly,considering where we're heading.
The tack room yields a worn saddle and bridle, gear kept for the stable hands rather than noble riders. My fingers shake as I work the leather straps, muscle memory guiding me through the familiar motions. How many mornings have I saddled Shadowmere for sedate rides through the manor grounds? How many times have I dreamed of riding beyond those carefully maintained boundaries?
Today, we find out what lies past the horizon.
The mare stands patient as stone while I secure the girth, her training overriding any confusion about our unusual departure time. I lead her from the stall, soft hoofbeats muffled by the thick straw covering the stable floor.
Outside, the wind has picked up, carrying the sharp bite of approaching weather. The sky hangs heavy and grey, pregnant with snow that will fall before midday. Perfect cover for my escape, if I can stay ahead of the storm.
I swing myself into the saddle, grateful for the countless riding lessons that made mounting second nature. Shadowmere shifts beneath me, eager to run after days of confinement. Her breath steams in the cold air, matching the clouds that puff from my own lips.
Behind us, the manor sleeps on in peaceful ignorance. Soon the maids will discover my empty chamber. Father will rage. The wedding guests will whisper behind gloved hands. Lord Blackmoor will... I shudder, not wanting to imagine his reaction to being publicly humiliated.
Let them rage. I'll be long gone.
I touch my heels to Shadowmere's flanks, and we move forward into the pre-dawn darkness. Past the kitchen gardens, now buried under their winter blankets. Past the ornamental pond, its surface frozen solid as mirror glass. Past the stone gates that have marked the boundary of my world for twenty years.
The road stretches ahead, pale as bone in the moonlight. To the south lies the capital, where Lord Blackmoor maintains his primary estate. To the north, beyond the Reach, lies wilderness and the unknown settlements Aunt Ravelle described.
I choose north.
Shadowmere's hooves ring against the frozen ground as we pick up speed. First a trot, then a canter, then a full gallop that sends my heart soaring. The wind whips my hastily braided hair, and tears stream from my eyes, though whether from cold or exhilaration I cannot say.
This is what freedom feels like.
Miles pass beneath us. The road narrows from a proper thoroughfare to a trader's track, then to little more than a footpath marked by occasional stone cairns. The mountains rise around us like sleeping giants, their peaks lost in the gathering clouds.
My thighs burn from the unaccustomed exertion. Court riding, with its emphasis on perfect posture and graceful movement, never prepared me for hours in the saddle at speed. But I grit my teeth and endure the discomfort. Pain is temporary. Marriage to Lord Blackmoor would be permanent.
The first snowflakes begin to fall as we climb higher into the foothills. Fat, lazy flakes that drift down like goose feathers, beautiful and deceptively gentle. Within minutes, they multiply, dancing thick as summer gnats on the strengthening wind.
Shadowmere's breathing grows labored, white plumes streaming from her nostrils. I should rest her, find shelter, wait for the storm to pass. But behind us, pursuit cannot be far away. By now, the entire manor will know of my disappearance. Father's men will be saddling their fastest horses, preparing to drag me back in chains if necessary.
Just a little further. We can rest at the trader's way-station.
But the way-station, when we finally reach it, stands empty and abandoned. Its roof has partially collapsed under the previous snows, and ice glazes the broken windows like blind eyes. No shelter here for woman or beast.
The storm intensifies with frightening speed. What began as gentle snowfall transforms into a howling blizzard that tears at my wool cloak and drives ice crystals into my naked skin like tiny daggers. Visibility drops to mere yards. The path, already faint, disappears entirely beneath the accumulating snow.
Shadowmere stumbles, her hooves slipping on hidden ice. I lean forward in the saddle, trying to shield both of us from the wind's fury. My hands, already numb despite my gloves, can barely maintain their grip on the reins.
We have to find shelter. We have to?—
The mare's hoof catches in a snow-hidden crevice, and she goes down hard. I have a moment's warning, enough to kick free of the stirrups before she rolls sideways down the slope. My shoulder strikes something solid, rock or ice, and fire explodes through my arm. The world spins, white and grey and black, as I tumble after my horse.
Down, down, down.
The ravine is deeper than it appeared from above. I hit bottom with a bone-jarring impact that drives the air from my lungs and sets my head ringing like a bell. Snow fills my mouth, my nose, my eyes. For terrifying seconds, I cannot tell which way is up.
Breathe. Don't panic. Breathe.
I push myself upright on shaking arms, spitting out snow and blood. My lip is split, probably from where my teeth cut it during the fall. More concerning is the sharp pain in my left shoulder and the way my arm hangs wrong.
Dislocated, I realize with sick certainty. I've seen it before, during hunting accidents and riding mishaps. The arm needs to be reset, soon, before the muscles tighten too much to allow proper healing.
