I ride out alone because asking permission is for people who give a shit about protocol.
The northern checkpoint’s a half-day’s ride if you’re not actively trying to outrun your own thoughts. I make it in four hours, pushing my horse like we’re both running from the apocalypse.
Which, honestly, we might be.
The guards recognize me but don’t ask questions. Smart. I look like I’ve been dragged through hell by someone with commitment issues.
“Any unusual traffic through here?” I ask the captain. “Past few days?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Define unusual.”
“Valen’s men. With a prisoner.”
“We don’t typically monitor—”
“Cut the bullshit. Did you see them or not?”
A merchant overhears—scrawny guy with nervous eyes who looks like he trades in secrets as much as goods.
“Saw something three days back,” he says. “Valen’s colors. Maybe six men, traveling fast.”
My heart stops. “Prisoner?”
“Girl. Chained. Looked…” He glances around, lowers his voice. “Looked like she’d been through some shit.”
The bond flickers—weak, but there. Like she’s trying to reach me across impossible distance.
“Which direction?”
“East. Toward Valen’s stronghold.”
Of course. Straight back to the monster who thinks he owns her.
I throw the merchant a gold coin that’s probably worth more than his entire cart. “You didn’t see me.”
“See who?”
Smart man.
The ride back is forty miles of pure mental torture. Every hoofbeat pounds the same rhythm: Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. Like my horse’s gait is spelling out her name in the dirt.
I think about her hands. The way she traced patterns on my chest that first morning, like she was trying to memorize the geography of someone worth saving. The way she never flinched when I shifted, never ran when things got violent.
I think about her voice. How she called me back from the edge when the wolf took over. How she said my name like it meant something instead of just being a title attached to a political nightmare.
I think about her laugh. Rare, genuine, usually triggered by something sarcastic she’d just said. Like finding joy in the middle of a shitstorm was her personal rebellion against fate.
The bond pulses—once, twice, desperate and fading.
She’s alive. Probably chained to a wall somewhere, probably planning seventeen different ways to murder Valen with her bare hands. Probably wondering if I’m coming for her or if I’ve already moved on to my shiny new political bride.
I dig my heels into the horse’s flanks. We’re both exhausted, both running on fumes and stubbornness, but neither of us is stopping.
Because she’s out there. Waiting. Fighting. Probably telling Valen exactly what she thinks of his hospitality in terms that would make sailors blush.
The sun’s setting by the time I see the capital’s spires. Two more days until my wedding. Two more days until I become someone she wouldn’t recognize.
Unless.
Unless I stop playing by their rules and start playing by mine.
The bond flickers again—weak, but definitely there. Like she’s trying to tell me something across all that distance.
Hold on, I think, pouring everything I’ve got into that dying connection. Just hold on.
I’m coming.