The forest was quiet again, but not in the same way it had been that morning. It was the silence after a scream, the stillness that clung to places where death had come too quickly.
Elara stood at the center of it all, breathing hard. Her hair was still restless, writhing around her in lazy coils, strands slick with what they had taken. She felt it inside her—a fullness, a strength thrumming in her veins, her limbs light, her mind sharp.
It frightened her. It exhilarated her.
Lysandra stepped up beside her, sword dripping red. She looked at the bones without flinching, then back at Elara. "This is what they wanted to see," she said simply. "Now they will learn why they should have stayed in their shadows."
Elara met her gaze, the hunger still humming beneath her skin. "It doesn't stop," she whispered. "It never feels enough."
"Power is never gentle," Lysandra replied. "Even gods demand blood."
The bones lay scattered, some in small heaps, some sprawled where the bodies had fallen. They glimmered ghostly white against the damp soil, clean as if they had been lying there for years. The smell of blood still clung to the air, faintly sweet and metallic, though none of it had stained Elara.
The guards—those who survived—stood in a wary circle. They would not meet her eyes. Their faces were pale, their grips tight on their weapons, though no enemy remained.
"Shall we… gather them?" one asked, gesturing to the bones. His voice cracked with unease.
"No." Elara's voice cut through the air. "Let them lie here. Let the forest remember them."
The man swallowed and bowed his head. "As you command, my lady."
Her hair swayed behind her as though in agreement, each strand shifting lazily, satisfied after its feast.
By the time the sun began to sink, they had chosen a clearing off the road. Guards lit fires, horses were tethered, and the two carriages stood side by side, their wheels splattered with dried blood. The mood was subdued. Few spoke above a murmur.
Elara sat near the main fire, Lysandra at her side, her three maids seated across from her. The flames painted their faces in orange and gold, flickering light catching the edges of their eyes.
For a long while, only the sound of crackling wood filled the circle. Finally, Elara broke the silence.
"You followed me today into blood. I want to hear why."
Her words were calm, but her hair stirred faintly in the firelight, a silent reminder of what they had witnessed.
The maids exchanged glances. Then Brenna leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees.
"Because I want to live, mistress," she said simply. "And you—whatever you are—are the best chance I'll ever have of surviving this cursed world. You're power, and power doesn't bow. So I'll stand behind it."
Elara's eyes lingered on her, searching for deceit. There was none—only sharp honesty.
Aveline spoke next, her voice quieter but no less steady. "I came to serve. Today I saw death come for you, and I saw you end it. That doesn't frighten me—it reassures me. I'll stay, because if I'm with you, I will never be powerless again."
Elara's hair twitched faintly at her words, almost as if it approved.
Liora waited until the fire snapped loudly, then finally spoke. "I don't follow you because of fear or duty. I follow because you are inevitable. The gods don't choose lightly, and they've touched you. Anyone can see it. The queen will fail. The court will crumble. And you will stand on their ruins. Better to walk at your side than be crushed beneath your feet."
Silence followed her declaration. Even the fire seemed to be quiet.
Elara let the words hang in the air, her gaze steady on each of them in turn. Then she nodded.
"Good. You've spoken your truths. Remember them."
Later, when the guards had pulled back and the forest noises crept in again, the mood around the fire shifted. Brenna teased Aveline for the way she flinched when one of the assassins' arrows struck too close. Aveline retorted sharply, cheeks pink, which only made Brenna grin wider.
Liora remained as she always was—watchful, quiet, speaking only when needed. But there was a flicker in her eyes, something like approval, when Elara caught her gaze.
Lysandra sat close, her hand brushing against Elara's once, briefly, grounding her. When Elara leaned back, her head found Lysandra's shoulder without thought, and neither of them moved away.
For a brief time, the clearing felt less like a battlefield aftermath and more like a camp of comrades.
Near midnight, scouts returned from the road. Their faces were tense, their horses lathered with sweat.
"My lady," one said, bowing low. "Tracks. Many of them. Armored men—likely more of the queen's assassins. They move ahead of us, setting positions."
Elara's jaw tightened. Her hair stirred faintly, restless as if it understood.
"They will not stop," Lysandra said quietly, her eyes on Elara. "Not until one of you is ash in the ground."
"Then let them come," Elara answered. Her voice was soft, but the firelight caught the glint in her eyes. "The road is already stained. I will carve it until no one dares stand in it."
By dawn, the camp was stirring again. Fires were stamped out, carriages loaded, horses saddled. Mist hung low across the forest, pale and curling like breath.
Elara stood at the edge of the clearing, looking back once at the road behind them. Bones still gleamed faintly in the trees, a warning no one would forget.
She lifted herself into the noble carriage, Lysandra already waiting inside. The maids mounted their own, their laughter faint in the morning air as they argued about whose cooking would be worst if left in charge of meals.
As the wheels began to turn, Elara rested her hand on the window frame. Her hair slid down around her shoulders, curling lazily, alive in the pale light.
She whispered, barely audible even to herself:
"The road ahead is mine. Let them come."
The hair stirred restlessly, as though it already tasted the blood that awaited.
The carriages rolled forward.