The horses thundered along the narrow country road, their hooves a frantic, desperate drumbeat against the hard-packed earth. Eric stood in the driver's box, the leather reins cutting into his raw hands, the wind whipping tears from his eyes. Every muscle in his body was coiled with a terrifying urgency. The face of Delia being in danger burned into his mind.
"Please be alright, Delia," he said to himself, the words an anxious prayer carried away by the wind. "Just hold on. I'm coming."
Up ahead, through a break in the trees, he saw it. A dark carriage, moving steadily towards him. A chilling sense of recognition washed over him. He knew that carriage. It was one of his own, from the Carson stables. His heart hammered against his ribs. He looked around, his eyes taking in the familiar, dreaded landmarks—the gnarled oak with its crooked branch, the sharp, blind curve just ahead. This was the place. This was where it happened.
