The mountains loomed like black teeth on the horizon. The carriages creaked as they wound their way along the narrow road that cut through the cliffs. Above, sharp peaks clawed at the sky, their jagged edges catching the morning light. The air was thin, carrying the smell of pine and damp stone.
Inside the first carriage, Elara sat with Lysandra. The seats were cushioned in pale velvet, but the air between them was taut. Neither spoke much; the rhythm of the wheels and the steady clop of hooves filled the silence.
Elara's hair shifted against the seat, restless, sliding across the polished wood as though it were alive with its own will. She pressed it down with her hand, but it only curled tighter, as if sensing something she could not yet see.
"They're watching us," she murmured.
Lysandra leaned back, one arm stretched casually along the window frame, though her eyes were sharp. "Of course they are. The queen will not let us go so easily. Every road ahead of us will carry eyes, blades, and whispers."
Elara's gaze drifted to the window. The cliffs pressed closer, shadows darkening the path. Even the guards' voices were quieter now, their laughter dulled, hands too close to sword hilts.
Behind them, the second carriage carried her three maids. She could faintly hear Brenna's bold voice rising now and then, probably arguing with Aveline, while Liora's quieter tones tried to mediate. The normality of it almost calmed her. Almost.
Her hair twitched again, brushing her cheek like an anxious pet.
The road narrowed into a pass where cliffs rose steeply on both sides. Loose stones skittered down the slopes, clinking against rock, startling the horses. The guards muttered to each other, nervous eyes darting upward.
"Too quiet," one whispered.
Elara pushed the curtain aside to see. The road ahead was blocked—two great pines had fallen across it, their trunks thick and slick with sap. Their roots were oddly clean, too neat to be the work of wind or storm.
Lysandra's lips curled in a thin smile. "Clumsy work. They wanted to look natural, but no tree falls so perfectly across a road."
Elara tapped her nails lightly on the window frame. Her hair writhed faintly, rising in the air like pale snakes tasting the wind.
The guards rode forward, calling back, "We'll move them aside!"
"No," Elara said sharply, pushing the door open. Her boots touched the dirt, the cool air brushing her face. She looked up at the cliffs.
At first, there was nothing—just jagged stone, dark trees clinging to the ridges. Then, faint glimmers caught her eyes. A curve of metal. The gleam of arrowheads.
"They're above," she whispered.
Lysandra stepped down beside her, calm as if she had expected this. She rested her hand on her sword, her dark eyes scanning the ridges. "Good. Let them come."
The first arrow flew silently, whistling down toward her chest.
Elara's hair snapped upward like a whip, catching it midair. The shaft splintered in two, falling harmlessly at her feet.
Then the rain began.
Dozens of arrows streaked down from the cliffs, darkening the air. Guards shouted, horses reared, the road erupted in chaos. Blades glinted above as assassins poured from the trees, sliding down ropes, boots striking stone, war cries echoing.
"Protect the lady!" a guard bellowed, raising his shield. Arrows thudded into the wood, rattling his arm. He gritted his teeth, holding fast as others scrambled around Elara.
The assassins came fast, their faces hidden behind black masks, their blades gleaming green with poison. They screamed insults as they rushed.
"Witch!"
"False heir!"
"Monster of the gods!"
Elara stood still in the storm of chaos. Her hair rippled outward, hundreds of strands rising, twisting, hungry. Her pulse thundered in her ears—not fear, but something hotter, darker.
Lysandra's sword slid free with a hiss. The steel caught the light, and with a calm grin, she stepped forward to meet the first assassin head-on.
The pass had become a killing ground, and blood was about to decide who owned it.
The arrows rained like iron hail.
They clattered off shields, dug into the earth, sliced through the air with deadly whispers. One horse screamed as a shaft buried itself in its flank, the beast toppling sideways and crushing its rider.
Guards cursed and scrambled. Steel rang as blades were drawn. A few arrows struck flesh—men staggered, choking, their armor no match for poisoned tips.
And through it all, Elara stood unmoving.
Her hair rose in a slow, dreadful arc, white strands gleaming like pale fire against the dark cliffs. They unfurled behind her, stretching outward like the wings of some terrible angel.
The assassins leapt from the cliffs, ropes swinging them down, boots crunching on stone. Their black masks hid their faces, but their eyes shone with fanatic light.
"Kill her!" one screamed."For the queen!" another howled.
Dozens rushed down the road, blades flashing green with venom.
Elara's lips curved—not into a smile, not into fear. Something colder. Something that made the nearest guard shiver, though she stood on his side.
Her hair struck.
A strand coiled around the wrist of an assassin mid-leap. The man cried out, his blade falling from his hand. He hit the dirt hard, thrashing, clawing at the pale rope binding him.
Then more strands followed. They wrapped around his arms, his chest, his throat.
"Get it off!" he screamed, voice strangled.
The hair tightened. A sickening crack echoed as his ribs broke inward. His scream cut off into a gurgle.
Then the feeding began.
The strands darkened, pulsing faintly as they drew the life from him. His body shriveled before their eyes, skin sinking against bone, eyes rolling back. In seconds, he was nothing but a rattling skeleton, his bones falling apart in the dirt, gleaming white as if they'd lain there a century.
The hair quivered. Fed. Stronger.
Gasps and curses broke from the watching assassins.
"She's a demon!""Stay back—"
Too late.
The road became a slaughterhouse.
Elara's hair shot outward, dozens of strands moving with terrible precision. One wrapped around a man's ankle, dragging him screaming across the dirt before snapping his spine with a flick. Another speared straight through a woman's chest, bursting from her back in a spray of red before pulling her into the feeding coil.
Everywhere the hair moved, death followed.
Guards who moments ago feared her now stood behind her, shields raised not to protect her but to protect themselves from stray arrows, their faces pale as they realized she needed no protection.
Arrows rained still, but the hair caught them, splintering shafts midair, snapping iron tips with casual strength.
Bodies fell. Bones clattered. Blood soaked the dirt in dark rivers.
The assassins broke ranks, but desperation only made the slaughter quicker.
Through it all, Lysandra moved like a storm contained in flesh. Her sword sang as it cut, each strike a perfect, practiced arc. Where Elara's hair consumed, Lysandra destroyed.
One assassin tried to dart past the hair's reach. Lysandra was there, her blade shearing through his mask and skull in a single swing. She kicked him aside, pivoted, and drove her sword through the chest of another who had thought her distracted.
She laughed once, low and dangerous, the sound lost amid the chaos.
"Stay with me, Elara," she called, her voice steady even as blood sprayed across her cheek. "Don't drown in it. Control it."
Elara's hair writhed at the sound, as though acknowledging Lysandra's voice.
The assassins faltered. Their cries, once full of fury, turned to fear.
"Fall back!" one shouted, stumbling over bones that had once been his comrade."She's not human—she's—"
His words ended in a shriek as Elara's hair wrapped around his face and yanked him into the dark mass.
The forest rang with screams, with the crunch of bones breaking, the wet rip of flesh being drained, the clatter of skeletons collapsing to the earth.
And beneath it all, Elara heard something else: music.
Faint. Distant. Almost imagined. The gods that bound her—death, life, music—singing in the slaughter. Her pulse throbbed in time with it, her body trembling as though every life taken was wine poured into her veins.
It frightened her. It thrilled her. It consumed her.
By the time the last assassin fell, the pass was a graveyard.
Dozens of skeletons lay sprawled across the road, bones bleached white against the dark earth. Not a drop of blood clung to them. The smell of rot was absent; there was only the sharp tang of iron and the faint sweetness of drained life.
Her hair curled slowly back toward her body, heavy with what it had taken, swaying like a predator sated but never tamed.
The guards stood silent. The maids, peering from their carriage, stared wide-eyed—not in horror, but in a strange, fierce awe.
Elara breathed in, then out, her chest rising slowly. Her eyes burned with black and white light. She looked at the bones littering the pass and whispered:
"Let the queen send more."