She forced herself to sit up. Her ankle throbbed with a steady, sickening beat, but the panic was receding. She looked at the hematite in her hand—a piece of the cage that had held her. Now, it was her anchor.
Shadow stood twenty paces away, frozen in place by his training, but every line of his body screamed terror. His sides heaved, nostrils flared wide, and his ears flicked wildly, picking up sounds Gessa couldn’t fathom. He was a hair’s breadth from bolting.
Limping heavily, wincing as her twisted ankle took her weight, Gessa moved toward him. She kept her movements slow, the hand not clutching the iron held out, palm open and low.
“Easy now, Shadow,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “It’s alright. I’m sorry.”
He snorted, an explosive sound, and shied back a step. The raw magic still clung to her like volatile peppermint perfume, and he could smell it.
“Shhh, easy.” The hematite felt like the only solid thing in a world that had become terrifyingly fluid. She focused on the horse, on the memory of calmer days. The pain in her ankle served as a brutal, grounding counterpoint to the thrumming power still coursing beneath her skin.
Finally, she was close enough. Shadow flinched as her fingers brushed his neck, but he didn’t pull away. He trembled violently under her touch, his skin hot and damp. She stroked him gently, her own fear momentarily overshadowed by the need to calm the creature that was her only means of escape.
Time was slipping away.
She scanned the moonlit clearing. A cluster of rocks near the edge of the scrub looked high enough. Leading the skittish horse, each step a new trial for her injury, she moved toward it. Positioning him beside the flattest stone, she leaned heavily against his flank for a moment, gathering her strength.
“Efficiency, Gessa,”Polan’s memory whispered.“Pain is just a signal to be ignored.”
For once, she took his advice.
Gritting her teeth, she clutched a handful of mane and threw herself across the horse’s back. She landed awkwardly, stomach-down, a cry bitten back behind her lips. Shadow shifted but stayed steady. Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself upright and swung her good leg over.
Dizziness washed over her. She swayed, gripping the rough mane and the hematite to anchor herself. Her ankle throbbed with a relentless beat. But she was on. She was free of the manor.
She looked forward into the vast, unknown wilderness shimmering under the moon. Somewhere out there lay the Iron Spurs.
Fear still coiled in her belly, but beneath it lay a hard edge of determination. She brushed her hand against the worn leather of her satchel, feeling for the hard lump of the box hiddenbeneath her supplies. Polan had treated her as nothing more than a broodmare for his ambition, stealing her history to secure his own future.
“Iron Spurs,” Gessa whispered, the name a desperate prayer.
It wasn’t just about safety. It was about the truth hidden in her bag. Polan had spent five years hollowing her out, eroding her spirit until she was nothing but his vessel. But the locket proved there was something left. She had to reach them before he broke the last of her.
Gripping the iron, a talisman against the chaos inside and the tyrant behind, she urged Shadow forward into the dark.
2
THE PRICE OF THE ROAD
The first light of dawn stained the eastern sky a deep, mottled violet. She pulled her wool cloak tighter against the chill, but it did little to soften the brutal reality of the ride. Every muscle protested the effort.
Beneath the thick wool, the fine linen of her skirt had bunched up during the night, leaving the skin of her inner thighs raw from rubbing against Shadow’s sweaty flank. She winced, wishing desperately for trousers, but Polan’s wife owned only silks and delicate fabrics designed for parlor visits, not flight. She had grabbed the cloak from a peg by the door, but beneath it, she was woefully unprepared.
She fumbled for the piece of hematite, its cold weight a small comfort, and tucked it deep into the V of her dress. Nestled between her breasts, the stone pressed against her skin, a constant, hard reminder. Its grounding weight kept the magic coiled tight, preventing the chaos from spilling over.
She urged Shadow onward, pushing him harder than she would have dared before.
He was a reluctant accomplice. The terror of the previous night’s eruption stuck to him like static, making him shy at every rustle in the undergrowth. Even with the hematite damping the flow, the energy inside her buzzed against his flank. To a prey animal, the strange mixture of ozone and peppermint clinging to her skin must have reeked of danger.
When she reached out to soothe him, he flinched, his gait skittering into a nervous dance that sent fresh jolts of agony up her injured leg.
“Easy,” she whispered, the word slipping out instinctively. “I know. I know it’s me.”
At the sound of her voice, Shadow’s ears stopped their frantic swiveling and flicked backward, locking onto her tone. The tremors in his frame didn’t stop, but the wild, rolling panic in his eyes steadied. He needed a tether.
Gessa leaned forward, keeping her voice low and rhythmic, using the sound to bridge the gap the magic had torn between them.
“We have to make these three days count, Shadow,” she breathed, guiding him over a tangle of roots. “Distance and speed. That’s all we have.”
