The first arrow tore through the air, striking a guard square in the throat. He crumpled soundlessly from his horse, blood spilling onto the dirt before the forest could echo with alarm. Then another arrow came, and another—sharp whistles breaking the quiet like sudden screams.
The convoy erupted into chaos. Horses reared, guards shouted, wheels ground against stones as the carriages lurched.
"Protect the mistress!" one soldier bellowed, though his command ended in a strangled cry as a dagger found his ribs.
From the shadows of the trees, they came. Black-clad figures, faces masked, movements swift and coordinated. Their blades glistened with the oily sheen of poison. They struck from both sides, arrows raining down, knives flashing in the dim light.
The noble carriage jolted violently, forcing Elara and Lysandra to steady themselves against the walls.
"They've come," Elara said, her voice calm despite the chaos outside. Her hair quivered against her shoulders, shivering like a predator scenting prey.
Lysandra's blade was already unsheathed, its steel gleaming faintly in the dim light filtering through the curtained window. She stood, her expression unyielding. "Stay behind me."
But Elara shook her head. "No. This is mine."
Outside, the cries of guards filled the forest. Horses shrieked, arrows thudded into wood, steel clashed against steel. The air reeked of iron and sweat and the raw pulse of fear.
The carriage door swung open with a creak. A masked assassin lunged at the opening, dagger raised—only to be caught mid-motion by a strand of white hair that shot outward like lightning.
The strand wrapped his arm, tightened, and then more followed, coiling around his body in an instant. His muffled scream turned into a gurgle as the hair pierced his skin, drawing blood into itself. His body convulsed once, twice, before collapsing into nothing more than a skeleton clattering to the dirt.
Elara stepped down from the carriage, her gown pooling around her ankles, her eyes glowing black and white with the sigils of death and life. Her hair spread out behind her in a vast halo, alive, moving with purpose.
The assassins hesitated. Even the bravest among them faltered, their steps halting as they beheld what had become of their comrade.
"Do you still wish to stand against me?" Elara asked, her voice carrying like music across the trees—low, resonant, and terrible.
One of them snarled in defiance, charging with twin blades. Elara's hair met him mid-stride, wrapping around his torso and legs, dragging him off his feet. His screams echoed through the forest as the strands pierced deeper, drinking greedily, until his bones gleamed clean beneath the morning light.
The others broke their hesitation with fury. A dozen charged at once, arrows loosed, blades raised, a tide of death meant to overwhelm her.
Elara's hair answered.
It fanned outward like a storm, catching arrows mid-flight, snapping shafts like brittle twigs. It lashed at the assassins, binding arms and throats, dragging them into the air. Blood sprayed in arcs across the leaves as the strands feasted, draining life with a hunger that shook even the guards who fought at her side.
One assassin managed to slip past the storm, his blade cutting toward her throat—but Lysandra intercepted, her sword flashing, severing his wrist before driving steel through his chest.
"You'll not touch her," Lysandra said, her voice cold as winter.
The battle lasted minutes, though it felt eternal. When the last assassin fell, his scream cut short by Elara's hair, the forest was silent again—except for the drip of blood from leaves and the ragged breaths of survivors.
Bones lay scattered across the dirt, pale and gleaming. Some were whole skeletons, their positions twisted in terror. Others were fragments, half-drained bodies slumped against trees. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood, though not a drop stained Elara's gown.
Her hair coiled back toward her, streaked with crimson that quickly sank into white strands until no trace remained. It swayed lazily, satiated for now, as though it had merely fed at a banquet.
Elara stood in the center of the carnage, chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Her eyes glowed faintly, her lips parted. For a moment, she felt almost light—strength thrumming through her veins, her body alive with an intoxicating fire.
And then the weight of what she had done settled in. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lowered her hands.
From the maids' carriage, Liora, Brenna, and Aveline stepped out slowly. Their faces were pale, but their eyes burned with something other than fear.
Brenna whistled low, her lips curling into a grin. "By the gods… mistress, you're terrifying."
Aveline clutched her skirts, her voice quiet but steady. "They wanted your death. Instead, you gave them bones."
Liora simply nodded once. "Efficient. Unstoppable. The queen will choke on her own arrogance when she hears of this."
Not one of them stepped back. Not one turned away.
Elara swallowed, her hair twitching faintly at their nearness. "You… you aren't afraid of me?"
Brenna snorted. "Afraid? We just watched you turn assassins into skeletons. I'd say we chose the right mistress to serve."
Aveline's gaze softened. "Fear fades when there is choice. You chose to kill them. Not us."
Liora crossed her arms. "Besides. If your hair wanted us dead, we would already be bones."
Elara's breath hitched, torn between relief and a lingering unease.
Lysandra approached, sword still slick with blood. She stopped in front of Elara, tilting her chin up with the barest touch of her finger.
"You see now," she murmured. "Power is never gentle. It takes. It devours. Even gods demand blood."
Elara's lips parted. "It frightens me. And yet… it feels…"
"Alive," Lysandra finished for her. "It feels like it was meant to be yours."
The warrior's eyes were calm, unwavering. "Don't fear what you are, Elara. Fear only the day you refuse to wield it."
Elara exhaled, her body trembling once before steadying. Her hair curled loosely around Lysandra's wrist, not binding, only resting there like a sigh.
For the first time since the battle began, Elara let herself smile—cold, sharp, and certain.