Her mind raced through possible maneuvers she might use to escape when he reached her if the Shadows didn’t get to him fast enough. The feeling in her arms was faintly coming back. If she had been able to grip her hunting knife, she could wait until the damned fool leaned over her, then plunge it through his shoulder. Or she could kick him off balance and swipe her blade across his throat before he could catch himself. If only her muscles didn’t feel like jelly...and if she only still had her knife. But there was certainly more than one of them. She didn't standa chance like this. Not unless the Shadows intervened. She was surprised they hadn’t already.
Was it a Blackwynd soldier? An Inquisitor of the Order? She didn't hear armor. But only someone of high rank would be addressed in the manner she'd heard.Sire.Surely the king himself had no business here. And if he did—well, she would relish the opportunity to end him and his reign right here. That is, if she wasn’t too weak and delirious to move.
Desperate, and curious to see if she could stall long enough to get them talking more, she closed her eyes and played the part to survive—for now.
"She's unconscious." The man's voice lowered, and she could feel him kneeling beside her. Blood rushed through Caramyn at his nearness, her heart pounding wildly at the threat so close. She risked a peek out of desperation. His positioning was obviously strategic, crouched at her side from a safe enough distance. He was no ordinary damned fool.
"It's a miracle she's even alive out here. No place for a lady," the cobblestone voice replied from the back of his horse on the other side of the forest. "No place for anyone with a sense of self preservation, actually."
The kneeling man beside her said nothing, but Caramyn could feel his eyes searching her. She wanted to vault up and over, leaving her dagger buried in him, and disappear between the trees. She felt some parts of her body returning to her now with each pump of her racing heart. But her legs still refused to cooperate. And she still felt feverishly ill. Where were the Shadows?
The man spoke again, startling her as his smooth voice became sharp. "But the perfect place for a fugitive."
She felt a breeze of wind graze her skin as he reached for her. Her eyes flew open, and she found just enough strength to strike out and block his hand with hers.
Drawn crossbows clicked in the same fraction of a second she had moved. The mounted guard would surely fire if she so much as flinched from here. The man smirked at her as though she was as pathetic as a child caught in a prank. But it faded quickly into a face void of emotion. A handsome face that wore the strength of battle beneath the refinement of royalty. By instinct, she turned her head when his silvery eyes met her gaze, looking away.
He had the eyes of a Lightborn. At least one of them. The right eye was a soft grey. Human. And the other—metallic silver. A steel singer.
He pulled his arm from her feeble grasp and stilled her hand with his. Each motion was like swimming through molasses in a dream. Her chest tightened as she held her breath. She would not show fear.
She refused to look at him, but she felt his gaze on her. At least the Shadowblood marking was covered by her sleeves, but she couldn’t hide her face. "Look at me." He spoke gently as he turned her head with a finger under her chin. His stare met hers, and she waited for his reaction to her potent violet eyes. But none ever came.
The nobleman addressed the riders but continued looking at her. "Put the crossbows down. She's not armed." Then she understood why Nocthar had flown away with her dagger—to keep this bastard from taking it. "She is no threat here."
His words stung. If only he knew. Were she not under this spell, she would have already taken out all five of them from the treetops. They lowered their weapons as the tension in their bows eased out like a sigh. One of the horses snorted and stomped.
“Just because she’s not armed doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous. Caution’s saved me more than kindness ever has. Look at those eyes. Those aren’t ordinary Lightborn eyes. Whoknows what strange magic conjured her up.” Cobblestone raised a thick reddish eyebrow at her. Even from afar, Caramyn could tell he was the oldest of the group, and the venom in his voice made her feel like she was a poisonous insect beneath his lifted boot.
“Magic or not, Wyran, she’s half-conscious on the border of the Shadow Woods. Something’s wrong.” The handsome man beside her said, strangely fixated on her hands. He looked at her again. “Can you speak?”
Caramyn’s stomach turned. She couldn’t find the coordination to form a sentence. Her tongue felt heavy. So she just blinked, silently begging the Shadows to help her. As her vision steadied, she inspected the broad-shouldered stranger looming over her. He reeked of royal blood, undeniably by the Blackwynd Crest he wore. He was far too young to be King Daemar, but he was certainly nobility. His midnight hair brushed a bit down over his eyebrows, turning in subtle waves just barely framing his prominent cheekbones, where the faintest scar curved upwards if she looked closely enough. He peered down through those steely grey eyes that emphasized the contrast of his black overcoat and cloak draped over his tall, broad form. “I can’t tell if she’s sick or drunk. She can’t even answer me.”
“Such a wasted journey.” Wyran groaned. “A damn shame we came all this way for nothing.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t wasted. Not now.” The princely man lifted her hand, his face swiftly hardening from pity to concern as he eyed the signet ring on her finger. Then he slipped it off with ease before tucking it away into his pocket. The sound of wailing Shadows groaned in the distance, approaching, and a twinge of relief hit Caramyn. But the prince stood to his feet, clearly aware of his looming fate if he lingered. "We can’t stay here. But we’re bringing her with us. I must know who she is, and why she has my mother’s ring.”
Caramyn’s breath hitched in her chest. If the ring was Vaerwynd, and it really was his mother’s, then that would mean he was the son of the dethroned Lightborn queen. A magic queen. And yet on the clasp of his cloak he wore the crest of the Blackwynd throne—the throne that sought to eradicate magic like a plague. He bore claim to two conflicting identities. One that should have died with the Lightborn Court, and one that would have been its executioner.
But as long as he had anything to do with the Blackwynd Court, Caramyn was determined not to let him ever step foot in the Shadow Woods again. And she’d do whatever she had to do—play along with whatever game he was about to drag her into—if it meant keeping him as far away as possible from the refuge of her Woods.
Trust no one…Guard it with your life.
3
A Forgotten Name
Caramyn
Calloused hands pulled Caramyn to her feet, careful, but firm. She stumbled as her knees buckled, but the nobleman steadied her. Caramyn recoiled at his touch, and couldn’t help but shoot him a scathing look, but his scent of leather, cedar, and crisp night air revived her senses.
The moment the man removed the ring, she could feel her the flesh of her lips again, and some sensation and warmth crept back into her body. She couldn't decide if she should try to speak or continue to let them think her mute, as she thought through every plan of escape possible. She could try to break free laterwhen her strength fully returned...but only if she could get them to let their guard down.
She sighed to herself, trying to remember to breathe. Maybe the Shadows had a different plan. Maybe they wanted to have a little fun with this one, like they did with Number Seventy-Three, the only trespasser who’d ever tried to capture her and almost lived to accomplish his mission. Almost. It’d almost become a game, how the Shadows disoriented him as he tracked her in the Woods, and Caramyn was able to use that to her advantage to win.
But then the man dragged her across the forest’s edge, just as the Shadows hissed on the other side. They were too late. But she would find her way out of this, with or without them. She had to. When she regained her strength, somewhere along the way, she'd figure it out. She had survived this long. She would survive again.
“Shall I offer my horse, Prince Asterious?” One of the other soldiers chimed up.
