The manor gates groaned as they opened, iron and oak splitting the silence of dawn. The sound echoed across the courtyard, rolling outward like a war horn that declared the end of one life and the beginning of another.
The Duskbane estate, shrouded in early mist, stood behind them—its tall walls catching the pale light of morning, its towers like solemn guardians watching their departure.
Horses snorted, hooves striking sparks against cobblestones as the carriages shifted into position. The noble carriage stood out, lacquered in black and trimmed in silver, the Duskbane crest—a crescent moon split by a thorn—etched deep into its doors.
Behind it rolled a plainer carriage, built sturdy but simple, meant for attendants and guards.
Elara paused on the steps of the manor before climbing in. Her eyes lingered on the figures of her parents and siblings standing at the entrance. Their faces were taut with emotions too complex to name: pride cloaked in sorrow, fear hidden under rigid smiles. None of them spoke, but she could feel their eyes pressing into her back as if trying to anchor her to the stones of the home she was leaving.
Her hair stirred in the wind, white strands glinting like silver threads, restless as though it, too, sensed the blood-soaked road waiting ahead.
"Come," Lysandra murmured, a firm hand on her lower back.
Elara let herself be guided into the noble carriage. Its interior smelled faintly of cedar and leather, a private chamber on wheels. She sank into the cushioned seat opposite Lysandra, the two of them facing each other as the door shut, sealing them from the morning chill.
The first jolt of movement carried a finality. The horses strained, wheels creaked, and with a steady rhythm, they left the manor grounds. The sound of the gates closing behind them felt like a heartbeat silenced.
Inside, the space was hushed but not still. Lysandra sat with her usual composure, legs crossed, her posture that of a warrior even in repose. Loose strands of her dark hair caught the dim light through the window, softening her otherwise sharp features. She looked at Elara with a gaze that was both assessing and protective, as though she measured the strength of the road ahead by the steadiness of the woman before her.
Elara leaned back, fingers brushing the hem of her gown. Beneath its flowing silk, a weapon of her world rested hidden against her thigh—the silent pistol. Just knowing it was there gave her a kind of calm, though the weight of it also reminded her of the danger they carried with them.
The road beneath the wheels was uneven, each bump jolting her slightly forward. The rhythm of travel, however, became almost meditative: wheels turning, hooves striking, leather harnesses creaking.
Her mind drifted to the three gods whose power now lived in her veins. The mark of death, etched deep into her eyes; the whisper of life that pulsed with her heartbeat; the echo of music that hummed against her skull, a faint and eternal chord.
She wondered what other powers lay dormant, waiting for her to push herself far enough to awaken them.
The thought both thrilled and unsettled her. Power had its own hunger—she had already seen that in the way her hair drank blood.
Her hair moved now without her bidding, brushing lazily against the carriage wall like a living veil. It was restless, always restless.
Behind them, the second carriage carried her three maids. Liora sat closest to the window, her sharp eyes scanning the landscape like a hawk. Brenna slouched with her arms folded, though her tension betrayed itself in the tapping of her boot against the floor. Aveline sat between them, hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze lowered but her ears open to every sound.
"They're too quiet up ahead," Brenna muttered.
Liora didn't look at her. "The road is narrow. They'll strike where there's cover."
"Assassins?" Aveline whispered.
"Assassins," Liora confirmed. "The queen won't let her leave without blood."
The three fell into silence, each gripping the truth of that statement. Yet none of them doubted where their loyalty lay. They had already seen too much to turn back now.
The carriages rolled onto the forest road, where trees arched high overhead, their leaves weaving a canopy that turned morning light into dim, shifting patterns. Birds scattered at the sound of wheels, their wings flashing pale as ghosts in the gloom.
The road itself was treacherous—roots broke through the soil, stones shifted beneath the horses' hooves, and the narrow path forced them into single file. Guards rode ahead and behind, their armor muted under cloaks, their eyes wary.
The forest seemed to breathe around them. Every rustle in the leaves felt too loud, every shadow too deep. The deeper they went, the more the silence pressed against them like a warning.
Inside the noble carriage, Elara leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
"This forest is watching," she said softly.
Lysandra's lips curved faintly. "Then let it see what walks within it."
Elara's hair slid across her lap, curling over her wrists like a cat demanding attention. It had been restless since dawn, twitching toward every sound outside the carriage. She let it coil around her fingers, the texture soft and silken, but alive—like holding a pulse that wasn't her own.
"You're hungry," she whispered to it.
The hair tightened slightly, as if in answer.
The rhythm of the road began to fray. Guards muttered in low tones; horses tossed their heads, uneasy. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed—loud, sharp, and then silence followed.
Elara sat straighter, her senses sharpened by instinct. Lysandra noticed the shift and adjusted, one hand moving subtly to the hilt of the blade hidden at her hip.
"They're here," Elara said.
No sooner had the words left her lips than the first arrow hissed through the canopy, splitting the air with its whistle.