Chapter 23: Shadows in the Pines
The forest closed in like a cathedral of black trunks and white snow, the wind threading through the branches with a sound like whispered prayers. Elias's gelding snorted clouds into the air, its breath steaming in the bitter cold. Every hoofbeat seemed too loud, a drum calling hunters to their trail.
For an hour, neither of them spoke. Isabella rode slightly ahead, her shoulders squared, her hood pulled low. He watched the way she scanned the treeline, the way her hand never strayed far from the dagger at her thigh.
She was hiding something—more than just her allegiance.
"Where are we going?" he asked at last.
"North," she replied without turning.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting until we're clear of the Regent's reach."
"You think her reach ends?" Elias asked. "I've seen her send assassins a hundred miles for less than this."
Her head tilted, just enough to acknowledge the truth in his words. "Then we'd better ride faster."
By midday, the cold had sharpened into something cruel, and the light had gone brittle. They stopped by a half-frozen stream, letting the horses drink while Elias paced the bank, trying to shake the stiffness from his legs.
He turned to find Isabella watching him—not openly, but in the way one watches a wolf to see if it will come closer or turn away.
"What?" he asked.
"You're quieter than I expected," she said.
"I was nearly executed an hour ago. Forgive me if I'm not in a conversational mood."
"Execution is cleaner than what they'd have done in the dungeons," she said, crouching to fill her canteen. "Be grateful we're still breathing."
The underbrush rustled, faint but wrong. Both of them froze.
Isabella straightened slowly, her hand slipping to her sword. Elias drew his own, eyes sweeping the trees.
From the shadows stepped three men—no livery, no heraldry, but their bearing spoke of soldiers. Their cloaks were dark, their faces half-hidden by scarves.
One of them smiled. "Sir Elias Harrow. The Regent sends her regards."
The fight was fast and vicious.
Elias met the first man head-on, steel ringing in the frozen air. The second tried to circle behind him, but Isabella was there, her dagger flashing as she slashed across his arm, forcing him back.
The third raised a crossbow—too far for Elias to reach in time—until Isabella kicked snow into his face, the bolt loosing wild into the trees.
A heartbeat later, Elias's blade punched through the first man's guard, and the soldier crumpled into the snow. The others fled, vanishing into the forest's shadows as if they'd never been there.
Elias stood over the body, chest heaving. "Scouts," he muttered. "There'll be more."
"Then we keep moving." Isabella's tone was flat, but he caught the quickened pace of her breath. She wiped her dagger clean on the snow before mounting up again.
They rode harder now, every gust of wind a possible footstep, every creak of branches an arrow drawn.
By the time the sun dipped low, the forest gave way to rocky hills, where the snow lay in patches between thorn and stone. In the distance, Elias saw the dark shape of an abandoned watchtower.
"We'll shelter there," Isabella said.
Elias hesitated. "It'll be the first place they look."
"And the last place they'll expect us to stay the night," she countered.
The tower was little more than a shell, its roof half-collapsed, its walls pitted with age. But inside, the stone still held enough shelter to block the wind.
They built a small fire in the lee of a wall, the flames licking faintly at the cold air. Isabella sat across from him, her face in shadow, her hands steady as she sharpened her dagger.
"You fight like someone who's had to earn every meal," Elias said.
She glanced up. "And you fight like someone who's never gone hungry."
"That's not true."
Her gaze held his for a moment longer than was comfortable. "Maybe not now."
The silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of the whetstone. Finally, Elias asked, "If the Regent wants me dead, why didn't she order it before?"
"Because before, you weren't close enough to be dangerous," Isabella said without hesitation. "Now you are."
"And you? Where do you fit into that?"
Her expression didn't change. "I'm the one keeping you alive long enough to find out."
The firelight painted her face in gold and shadow, the flicker softening the hard lines of suspicion. Elias found himself watching the curve of her mouth when she spoke, the way her hair caught the light.
Danger, he reminded himself, was rarely so obvious.
But before he could speak, a sound drifted down from above—the creak of old wood under weight.
Elias's hand went to his sword at the same moment Isabella was on her feet. They moved without words, slipping up the narrow stairs that spiraled the tower's interior.
At the top, they found the source.
A man lay slumped against the wall, his clothes torn, his skin pale with cold. His eyes fluttered open at their approach, and his lips cracked into a weak smile.
"You have to… stop them," he whispered. "They're coming… for the northern pass."
"Who?" Elias demanded.
But the man's head lolled forward, and his breath stilled.
Isabella knelt, rifling quickly through the man's coat. She pulled out a strip of parchment, sealed with black wax. Breaking it, she scanned the contents, her brow furrowing.
"Well?" Elias asked.
She looked up slowly. "If this is true, the Regent isn't the only one hunting you. The southern rebels are moving north. And they have… other prey in mind."
"What prey?"
Her eyes met his. "The Princess."
They both knew what that meant—the Regent's last living rival for the throne, kept hidden for years in some secret place. If the rebels found her, the kingdom's fragile balance would shatter.
"Where is she?" Elias asked.
Isabella hesitated. "Somewhere only I can take you."
The air between them tightened.
"You knew where she was all along."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"I didn't trust you."
Elias's grip on his sword hilt eased—not from calm, but from the weight of choice pressing in.
If Isabella was telling the truth, following her might save the kingdom. If she wasn't, it could end with his own head on a spike.
And somewhere in the space between, he felt the first stirrings of something far more dangerous than betrayal.