The carriage jolts over another rut in the road, and pain shoots through my still-healing body. Two servants sit across from me—women I don't recognize, not my usual ladies-in-waiting.
Cecily's doing, no doubt. Everything is Cecily's doing now.
I brace myself against the wooden seat, hands folded in my lap, trying to maintain some shred of dignity even now. Even as they cart me away to exile disguised as mercy.
The countryside rolls past the window—fields giving way to forest, civilization thinning. We're heading toward the edges of the kingdom, toward the remote royal estate where I'll be "treated" for my madness. Where I'll be locked away and forgotten.
"How much longer?" one of the servants asks the other. Her voice is low, barely reaching a whisper, but in the confined space, I hear every word.
"Another hour to the dangerous pass, then two more beyond that." The second woman shifts on her seat, answering as quietly, clearly not aware that I’m hearing them. "We'll stop soon to rest the horses."
"Good. The sooner this is done, the better. I'll be glad to collect our payment and get back to proper society…"
And what is that supposed to mean?
My eyes remain fixed on the window, but every nerve in my body suddenly focuses on their whispered conversation.
The carriage begins to slow. Through the window, I see a clearing where a stream cuts across the road.
"We'll stop here to rest the horses," the driver calls.
The carriage lurches to a halt. One of the servants leans toward me with a practiced smile. "Lady Rosetta, you should remain inside where it's comfortable. We'll just be a moment. The fresh air might disturb you in your fragile condition."
"Yes," the other adds. "Please, stay seated and rest. We'll fetch you some water."
They exit together, closing the door behind them with unusual care. Their footsteps crunch away across the clearing.
I should obey, should sit quietly like the mad, broken thing they think I am. But something about their tone, the way they exchanged glances, the emphasis on me staying inside...
I wait until their voices fade slightly, then carefully open the door and step down from the carriage. My body protests every movement, still healing from childbirth, but I force myself to move quietly around the side of the carriage, staying in the shadows.
Their voices drift back to me, clearer now.
"The Countess was generous," the first servant says. "Fifty gold pieces each is nothing to sneeze at."
"She can afford to be generous now that she's Crown Princess." The older woman laughs darkly. "And she'll be even more generous once we've completed our task. Another fifty each when it's done."
Task. The word sends ice down my spine.
"The treacherous stretch near Devil's Ridge should do nicely," the younger one continues. "So many accidents happen there. Carriages overturn, people get thrown. Terribly tragic, but these things happen, especially with someone in such a fragile state."
"Or we could simply add something to her food tonight. A tincture, perhaps. With all her grief and losses, now the King's death—well, it would be natural for her heart to simply give out. A mercy, really, considering the poor mad lady's condition."
They're discussing my murder. They're standing mere feet away, discussing how they plan to kill me, with the same casual tone they might use to plan a menu.
Terror cuts through the numbness that's been wrapped around me like a shroud. My heart slams against my ribs. I press myself against the carriage, trying to stay hidden, trying to breathe silently despite the panic flooding through me.
Cecily paid them to kill me. Of course she did. Why let me live in exile when I could die in a convenient accident? No more risk of me speaking the truth, no more inconvenient first wife. Just a tragic end to a tragic story.
"Which method do you prefer?" the younger servant asks.
"The accident, I think. It's cleaner, more believable. We can say she tried to escape in her delusion, fell from the carriage, broke her neck. Who would question it?"
They both laugh, and the sound makes my blood run cold.
I don't wait to hear more. The moment their laughter fades, I move. I don't think, don't plan. I simply run.
"Hey! Stop her!"
Branches whip at my face. My skirts catch on brambles. Pain explodes through my core with every step—my body screaming that it's too soon, that I'm ripping open wounds that barely closed.
I don't stop. "Lady Rosetta! Come back!"
They're going to kill me. They can dress it up in pretty words, call it mercy, make it look like an accident—but they're going to kill me. So I run.
The forest thickens around me. Trees press closer together. I have no idea where I'm going. I just run away from the voices, away from death. My lungs burn. Each breath feels like swallowing fire. The pain in my core has become constant, agonizing.
The voices fade behind me, but I keep running until my legs simply refuse to carry me anymore.
Then I walk, stumble. One foot in front of the other, supporting myself against tree trunks when the dizziness gets too bad. Hours pass. The sun moves across the sky. My throat is so dry it hurts to swallow.
When I find a stream, I fall to my knees and drink like an animal.
I'm lost, completely lost. I don't know these woods, don't know where I am or how to find civilization.
My body decides for me, my legs simply stop working. I'm climbing a gentle slope when the ground suddenly gives way beneath my feet. The world tilts as I'm falling, tumbling down a ravine, my body slamming into rocks and roots. Something cracks—a rib, maybe, or another bone.
Pain explodes everywhere at once when I hit the bottom hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. For a moment, I can only lie there, feeling warm blood trickling from somewhere. Feeling every bruise and cut and broken thing inside me.
Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision and I try to fight it, but my body has nothing left.
Time becomes strange. Minutes or hours pass—I can't tell. The shadows lengthen, the air grows cooler. I think about my sons. Wonder if they're crying for me right now. Wonder if they somehow know their mother is dying in a forest right now, alone.
The medallion presses against my chest and whatever truth it holds, I'll die without knowing.
Then I hear it. Barking.
Dogs, close and getting closer. Multiple voices baying, excited.
Wet noses press against my face, sniffing, nudging. Something rough and warm licks my cheeks. I force my eyes open just enough to see three enormous hunting hounds surrounding me.
"Back!" a voice commands, deep and authoritative. "Saxon, Bran, Luna—back."
The dogs obey immediately, moving away but staying close.
A tall silhouette approaches through the trees. A man, moving with easy grace. As he gets closer, I make out dark hair, broad shoulders and practical hunting clothes that mark him as nobility.
He kneels beside me, but his face doesn't come into focus.
"Gods…" he breathes, taking in my condition. "What happened to you?"
I try to speak, but only a rasp comes out. His hands move carefully, checking for injuries with practiced efficiency, before warm fingers find my pulse at my neck.
"How long have you been out here?"
I can't answer. Can barely keep my eyes open.
"Can you tell me your name?" When I don’t answer he shifts, and I feel strong arms sliding beneath me, lifting me with surprising gentleness. "Stay with me. I'm going to get you to safety. You're going to be all right."
I'm cradled against a solid and broad and warm chest, and the warmth of another human body after so much cold and pain makes something inside me crack.
I want to tell him everything.
About my sons, about Leander, about Cecily, about the murder plot… but the words won't come.
The dogs pace beside us as he carries me through the forest. I feel each step, feel the rhythm of his breathing, feel the solid strength of arms that hold me. My hand clutches weakly at his shirt, and I feel the medallion shift beneath my dress.
King Wilius's gift. My last connection to the truth.
"That's it," his voice comes from somewhere above me, distant now, fading. "Keep holding on. We're almost there, stay with me."
But I can't. The darkness that's been hovering finally rushes in, swallowing everything—the pain, the fear, the grief, the faint spark of hope.
Darkness swallows me whole.
________________