Freedom was colder than Ciro had imagined.
The Blackwood Forest was not the romantic woodland of bard's songs. It was a tangle of rotting roots, thorny underbrush, and ancient trees that blocked out the starlight. The air smelled of wet earth and decay.
"Ciro..." Elara's voice was a chattering whisper.
She had stopped walking. She was leaning against a moss-covered trunk, her arms wrapped tightly around her shivering frame. The midnight blue dress—once worth more than a peasant's lifetime earnings—was now a heavy, sodden cage dragging her down. Mud coated the silver embroidery, turning the constellations into dirt.
Ciro stopped and turned back. He wasn't shivering. His body had entered a state of hyper-focus, shutting down unnecessary sensations to preserve energy.
"We cannot stop," Ciro said, his voice flat. "If we stop, the cold takes us."
"I... I can't," Elara gasped. Her legs gave out, and she slid down the tree trunk to the muddy ground. "It's too heavy."
Ciro looked at the dress. It was made of velvet and layers of silk petticoats. Beautiful for a ballroom, lethal for a swamp.
He knelt before her. "Forgive me."
He didn't wait for permission. He drew his remaining dagger—the one he hadn't lost in the river. With a sharp shhhk sound, he sliced through the heavy velvet skirt just above her knees.
Elara flinched but didn't protest.
Ciro tore the wet fabric away, discarding the heavy train into the bushes. He then took off his own black outer tunic. It was wet, but it was wool, and wool held heat better than silk. He wrung it out with savage strength until his knuckles popped, then draped it over her shoulders.
"Up," Ciro commanded, pulling her to her feet. "Move your limbs. Generate heat."
They walked for another hour in silence. The only sounds were their squelching boots and the wind howling through the canopy.
Ciro's mind was a map. He calculated their position. They were heading East, towards the weeping cliffs. But they were slow. Too slow.
Aroo-oo-oo.
The sound drifted through the trees from miles behind them. It wasn't a wolf. It was deeper, throatier.
Elara froze. "Wolves?"
"No," Ciro stopped, tilting his head to listen. "Bloodhounds."
He looked at the ground. They had left a trail of mud, broken twigs, and scent that even a blind dog could follow.
" The King has released the kennel," Ciro muttered. "They will be on us by dawn."
"We can't outrun dogs, Ciro," Elara said, fear cutting through her exhaustion.
"We don't need to outrun them," Ciro scanned the area. He spotted a patch of wild garlic and pungent river weeds growing near a stagnant pond. "We need to vanish."
He walked over to the pond. The water was black and smelled of sulfur and rot. He scooped up a handful of the thick, foul-smelling sludge.
He walked back to Elara.
"This is going to be unpleasant," Ciro warned.
Elara looked at the sludge, then at his eyes. She understood immediately. Without a word, she closed her eyes and lifted her face.
Ciro smeared the stinking mud over her neck, her arms, and the exposed skin of her legs. He covered her scent with the smell of the swamp. He did the same to himself, coating his hair and clothes until they looked like creatures born from the bog.
"The Princess of Morvath," Ciro whispered, looking at her. She looked unrecognizable. A mud-covered wraith in rags.
Elara opened her eyes. They were hard. "The Princess died in the river, Ciro. She drowned."
She grabbed a handful of mud herself and rubbed it onto her own cheeks, masking her pale skin.
"Let the dogs come," she said, her voice steady despite the cold.
Ciro stared at her. A flicker of admiration ignited in his chest. She was adapting faster than he expected. The porcelain doll had steel in her spine after all.
"Come," Ciro said, turning East. "We need high ground before the sun rises."
As they moved deeper into the dark, the baying of the hounds grew slightly louder. The hunt had begun.