“If they open the back,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear, “stay behind me. No matter what happens, no matter what you see or hear, stay behind me.”
I want to protest, to insist that I can fight too—haven’t I proven that already? But I know he’s right. In close quarters, against trained guards, I’d be more liability than asset. My fighting skills are born of desperation and survival instinct, not the years of training Cillian has undergone.
So I nod, swallowing my pride. “Okay.”
Footsteps crunch on gravel, circling the truck. My breath catches in my throat as they pause at the back doors. Cillian tenses beside me, his body coiling like a spring ready to release. I can practically feel the shift in him—from man to weapon, from companion to killer.
“What are you carrying?” a voice demands, muffled by the metal between us but clear enough to understand.
“Medical supplies,” our driver answers promptly. “For the new clinic in Westhollow.”
My blood runs cold at the mention of a clinic. One of the fertility clinics Logan told us about? The ones implementing the doctor’s research? The coincidence seems too great, but before I can process the implications, the guard speaks again.
“Let’s see your manifest.”
Papers rustle. Silence stretches, taut with tension. I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable order to open the back and inspect the cargo. For the violence that will follow.
But it doesn’t come.
“Everything looks in order,” the guard says finally. “You can proceed.”
Relief floods through me so intensely I nearly gasp aloud. Cillian’s hand tightens around mine in warning—we’re not clear yet. The truck’s engine rumbles back to life, and slowly, agonizingly, we begin to move again.
Neither of us relaxes until the sounds of the checkpoint fade into the distance. Only then does Cillian release my hand, the knife disappearing back into his boot with the same silent efficiency with which it appeared.
“That was too close,” I whisper, my voice shaky despite my best efforts to control it.
Cillian doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice carries an edge I’ve rarely heard from him. “The driver is taking a different route than he’s supposed to.”
The words confirm my earlier suspicion, and a chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold metal floor beneath us. “You think he’s betraying us?”
“I think,” Cillian says carefully, “that we need to be prepared for that possibility.”
The implication hangs between us, heavy with potential violence. If the smuggler has betrayed us—if he’s leading us not to the Queen Mother’s sanctuary but into a trap—then we’re already as good as captured. Or worse.
“What do we do?” I ask, hating the tremor in my voice but unable to suppress it entirely.
Cillian shifts closer, his arm pressing against mine in what I choose to interpret as reassurance. “We wait. We watch. And if necessary, we fight.”
Simple words. Practical words. The kind of straightforward assessment I’ve come to expect from him. But they don’t answer the question burning in my mind: why? Why would the smuggler betray us? For money? Out of loyalty to the king? Or is there something else at play, something we haven’t considered?
The truck continues its journey, each bump and turn increasing my anxiety rather than alleviating it. Are we heading toward safety, or straight into the hands of our enemies? Is the driver a reluctant ally or a willing betrayer? The uncertainty gnaws at me, worse than any concrete danger.
Time stretches, elastic and unreliable in the darkness of the cargo hold. It could be minutes or hours later when the truck finally begins to slow again. This time, the deceleration is gradual, controlled—not the sudden stop of a checkpoint, but the careful approach to a destination.
Cillian’s fingers clench on his knife. I tense beside him, preparing for whatever comes next. If it’s a trap, we won’t go down without a fight. I may not have Cillian’s training or strength, but I have rage and desperation—powerful weapons in their own right.
The truck stops completely. The engine cuts off, leaving us in silence broken only by our careful breathing. Footsteps approach the back of the truck, and I brace myself for the doors to swing open, for light to flood our hiding place, for the violence that will inevitably follow.
The lock clicks. The doors creak open. Daylight, harsh and blinding after hours in darkness, pours into the cargo hold.
I squint against the sudden brightness, trying to make out the figure silhouetted against the light. Tall, lean, dressed in nondescript clothing that could belong to anyone from a laborer to a merchant. Not the uniform of the king’s guard, at least. Small mercies.
“You can come out,” the figure says, his voice low and neutral. “We’ve arrived.”
Cillian doesn’t move, his body still positioned protectively in front of mine, the knife hidden but ready in his hand. “Arrived where, exactly?” he asks, his tone carrying a warning even as the question seems innocent enough.
The man steps back, giving us a clearer view of our surroundings. We’re in some kind of courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls covered in climbing vines. Not the summer palace—at least, not what I imagined a palace would look like.This place is smaller, more modest. A manor house, perhaps, or a country estate.
