“No way,” March said under his breath. He had just spotted a white horse in the forest. A hooded figure was riding it, galloping through the early morning blue hours. Only one person owned horses like this.

“That damn bitch,” he muttered. He raised his bow and shot the horse right in the head. It fell like a sack of wheat, burying the petite rider under its hefty body.

Without hesitation, he ran up to the horse and its rider.

He ripped the hood from her head, revealing a pale young woman’s face, struck with panic. Everyone in this kingdom knew this face. If not from the addresses, then from sketches or even the bards’ tales. The princess’s mark looked like faint ivy growing up her right cheek. Every child would recognize her.

“Huh,” he said, looking at the scared, curled-up body buried under the big horse’s weight, branches and thorns sticking in her robes and long hair.

“It really is you.”

Then he spat in Princess Valerie’s face.

---

Princess Valerie felt numb. The hunter had dragged her into a shed and chained her up like a dog. She lay on the floor, motionless.

Earlier, she had taken off her robes, revealing her white gown splattered with purple blood. This and her mark were the only proof that she was part of the same regal bloodline as her sister and her ancestors. Her wounds from the fall hurt, but it was nothing that wouldn’t heal. In contrast to her spirit.

She still prayed to Patron Eli. But she had given up all hope of a response. Never had she felt so alone.

It was cold. The shed was flimsy, and the wind rustled through the gaps in the wood.

But calling for help would just make her situation worse. Because she was now the most hated person in the kingdom.

She heard steps coming up to the shed. Not making a sound, she quickly closed her eyes again, pretending to be unconscious.

The door creaked. A wave of cold wind entered the hut. Valerie prayed that her shivering would not be too obvious, would not draw any attention to her. The smell of smoke and decay still lingered in the air.

Steps came nearer and nearer. Then they stopped, about an arm’s length away from Valerie. Or a finger’s. Valerie felt the sweat on her forehead. She forced herself to keep her breathing shallow and regular, like her life depended on it.

She heard the figure move. Her heart stopped.

And then the steps left again, making a squishing sound on the cold, muddy floor of the shed.

After the creaky door closed behind the visitor, Valerie did not dare to move. Not even open her eyelids. She counted to 600. Then she listened. The only sound was the wind whistling through the planks.

She opened her eyes slowly. She was alone again in the shed. Of course. There were not even footsteps in the mud in front of her.

Had it been just a dream?

No… the visitor had left something just in front of the shed’s door, where Valerie could barely reach it. The rattling of her chain startled her as she moved toward the shed’s entrance, trying to make out the items.

It was a pitcher of water and a bowl of steaming, murky soup.

Was this a peace offering?

~

If you want to read the first part, look at my previous post "All That’s Left Is Fire"! Thanks for reading!