Problems that can arise will eventually happen.

  It was a philosophy I had long since accepted—one of the few truths reliable enough to carve into stone. But no matter how rigorously I tried to plan, no matter how many layers of foresight I wrapped around each step, some things simply couldn't be accounted for.

  One of those things was the elven ambush.

  Without warning, the left carriage door shuddered violently. A sharp crack split the air as an arrow pierced clean through, embedding itself into the wood not more than a hand’s breadth from my chest. A sliver of daylight bled through the gap left in its wake, illuminating a narrow stripe across my lap.

  I didn’t flinch.

  My fingers, laced neatly together in my lap, remained perfectly still. I sat like a statue of composure, breathing slowly through my nose. It was not bravery—just acceptance. Panic was a luxury I had already burned out of myself.

  Another arrow struck the roof a second later with a dull thunk, sending a mild vibration through the ceiling above but failing to penetrate.

  Next to me, Tom reacted very differently.

  He jolted awake, heart hammering visibly through his shirt. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breath came in short, frantic bursts. The man looked like he’d just been tossed out of a nightmare and straight into another one.

  I gave him a side glance—a quiet disappointment creeping behind my eyes. But I said nothing. He wasn’t a soldier. And frankly, neither was I during the day.

  There was nothing either of us could do.

  So I closed my eyes and listened.

  Outside, the chaos grew louder. Hooves pounded earth. Steel clanged against steel. The unmistakable twang of elven bowstrings sang through the trees, followed by short, brutal screams. Somewhere to the right, a horse cried out before crashing to the ground. Bark exploded from trees as missed shots found wooden targets. A war waged on all sides of us.

  “Do you think they’ll be able to fight them off?” Tom’s voice was shaky, reaching for optimism he didn’t believe in.

  I opened one eye, just a sliver. “Do you think our numbers mean anything to elves on their home soil?”

  The question answered itself.

  We hadn’t bothered with stealth. We had charged openly through half-claimed territory, trampling through pathways old and sacred. The forest around us was tall, its canopy vast, but the trees here were still young compared to those of the true elven dominion—the place we were heading toward.

  Tom let out a quiet exhale. “True.”

  Only one hope kept us moving: speed. If we outran the word of our intrusion—if we reached our objective before elven forces could rally in full—we might just slip past the noose tightening around us.

  The carriage jostled violently as it passed over a thick root system, the kind designed to trip armies and slow wagons. Each time we bounced, my spine protested, and my seat bruised a little more. These roads weren’t built for us.

  Three knocks sounded on the door, sharp and deliberate. I didn’t open my eyes. I already knew who it was.

  Markus burst through, timing his entrance with the precision of a veteran rider. He vaulted from horseback and into the moving carriage in a fluid, practiced motion. As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, blotting out the pale sunlight, I opened my eyes.

  Sweet blood was already soaking through his left shoulder.

  His face was taut with pain as he ripped off his chainmail and tossed it to the floor with a clang. Beneath it, his tunic was shredded, and jutting from the torn fabric was the broken shaft of an arrow—black-fletched, unmistakably elven.

  “Shit,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  I observed him with a calm detachment, noting the depth and angle of the wound more than his discomfort. “How many casualties?” I asked plainly, the question surgical in its delivery.

  “Six dead,” he growled, fingers trembling as he tried to grip the arrow’s shaft. “Three badly wounded. We need to stop. Now.”

  He gave a grunt and tugged hard on the arrow. It didn’t budge. His scream was raw and animalistic, echoing in the confined space. Then, with a growl of fury, he shoved the shaft through—driving it out the back of his shoulder in a spurt of blood. He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw more red.

  “Unfortunate,” I murmured.

  Without ceremony, I reached beneath my coat and tore the lower half of my dress in a single motion. The fabric ripped easily, leaving the hem scandalously short, but modesty was a casualty I could afford. Markus’s life, on the other hand, was harder to replace.

  I handed him the strip of cloth, and he snatched it with a grim nod. He worked quickly, wrapping the wound front and back, using the cloth to compress both entry and exit points. Blood still soaked through, but at least it wasn’t flowing as freely.

  “I said we need a break,” he snapped again, voice ragged, sweat mixing with dirt on his brow.

  “And I heard you,” I replied, eyes narrowing as I leaned back in my seat. “But what I haven’t heard yet is whether we have the luxury.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  Outside, the dying cries of the skirmish were fading—but not gone. The elves would regroup. They always did. And next time, they wouldn’t miss.

  Markus slumped back against the carriage wall, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He was wounded, yes. But not broken. Not yet.

  Neither were we. But once morale dropped too much, we would be. As such, I chose to humour Marku′s request.

  “Get the wounded inside. You’ll take care of them, Markus. Tom, go sit next to the coachman—we need every inch of space.”

  There was a long pause.

  None of them moved right away. Markus’s mouth tightened. Tom looked at me like I’d suggested he throw himself into a pit. But in the end, both obeyed, though their movements carried the sluggish reluctance of men dragged by duty, not belief.

  We slowed only for a moment, just long enough to lift the wounded into the carriage. Then the coachman whipped the reins again, and the world outside blurred into motion once more.

  The stench of iron and blood quickly overpowered the sweeter smells I’d grown oddly accustomed to—like old paper, leather, smoke. Now, the carriage reeked of wet fabric, open wounds, and death close at hand. I had to admit, I caught myself drooling more than once.

  One soldier had an arrow protruding clean through his abdomen, his belly swollen and bleeding. Another wheezed each time he inhaled, his punctured lung sucking air in with a wet rattle. The third had been struck in the thigh, groaning as Markus began working on him immediately.

  Two of them were dead already. They just didn’t know it yet.

  Markus did. And so, he didn’t waste a second on false hope. His hands moved with quiet urgency, focused only on the one man who could still walk.

  “Miss,” Arthur gasped from beside Markus, still pressing cloth to his own wounded shoulder. “We need to turn around. We’re down to fifty knights, barely. We’ve ridden since dawn. Even warhorses collapse eventually—”

  He paused as he tied the lower arm of my dress tightly around his wound wound. A flash of shame flickered through his eyes as he realized what he was doing. But I didn’t care. The cloth was replaceable.

  The mission wasn’t.

  “You will not stop until nightfall,” I replied coldly, my gaze fixed on the man with the arrow in his gut. His complexion turned ghostly pale, whether from fear or approaching death, I couldn’t say.

  Possibly both.

  “That’s insane!” shouted the soldier with the thigh wound, his voice ragged but rising in pitch. “We can’t—we won’t make it!”

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  I turned to him slowly.

  “Did I ask,” I said, voice like a blade drawn in silence, “if you could?”

  He faltered, eyes wide, as beside him the man with the gut wound gave a final, pitiful gurgle. His eyes rolled back. His lips parted in a silent sigh. He stopped breathing altogether, slumping into death with nothing but a whisper.

  That was one.

  I barely had time to blink before the wheezing soldier choked violently, clutching at his chest. The air rattled in his throat once—twice—and then he stilled too.

  That was two.

  “Is this…” Markus began, his voice low, strained, “a suicide mission?”

  The question lingered in the air, heavy and accusing.

  I looked at him, expression unreadable, and pointed to myself.

  “Would I be here,” I asked quietly, “if it were?”

  Realization dawned in his eyes, and he averted his gaze, lips pressing into a tight line. He didn’t speak again.

  “Can he ride?” I asked, nodding toward the last survivor.

  Markus glanced at the man, who winced even as he shifted his weight. “In pain.”

  “That’s enough. Halt the carriage. Discard the corpses.”

  Markus didn’t argue. He gave a clipped nod and opened the door again. I leaned forward slightly. “Tom should stay outside for the next stretch. A little sun might remind him he’s still human.”

  The carriage rocked as we came to a stop. Outside, I heard Tom mutter something under his breath but climb up beside the coachman regardless. The surviving soldier gritted his teeth and remounted with Markus’s help, letting out a pitiful yelp as he swung his leg over the saddle.

  The bodies were hidden quickly. They didn’t deserve better. No prayers were said.

  Soon, the unit moved again, the sound of hooves and creaking wheels drowning out the silence that remained in the carriage.

  “They call you the Ice Princess,” Markus said after a while. He’d remained inside, perhaps to rest, perhaps to understand.

  “Hmm?” I tilted my head slightly, not looking at him.

  “Some of the soldiers. Others call you colder things.”

  I smiled faintly, the corners of my lips twitching without warmth. “Do you disagree?”

  Markus leaned back against the wooden wall, clutching his shoulder with a faint grimace. “I’m not sure. You don’t scream. You don’t panic. You don’t care.”

  He said it without malice—just an observation.

  I shrugged gently. “Why scream when silence makes others listen more?”

  He didn’t answer that either.

  “You demand everyone to die,” Markus said, voice sharp and accusing, “while you sit inside this box, untouched, lifting not a single finger—and without giving a damn about their lives.”

  He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

  His words struck with more weight because of how calmly he delivered them—like a verdict already passed.

  “I know it’s hard for you to fight right now,” he added, hand brushing against his still-bandaged wound, “but it’s still fitting, don’t you think?”

  Then he turned and left, not sparing me a glance, not giving me a chance to respond. Not that I intended to.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  Truthfully, I didn’t care whether they lived or died—not as individuals, not as names or people. Their sacrifices were tragic only insofar as they affected the success of this mission. That was what mattered: the goal, the result. If they fell along the way, then so be it. Their deaths only frustrated me because they weakened our chances, lowered our strength, made failure more likely.

  That was all.

  And yet, the anger inside me was very real.

  I kicked the arrow still lodged in the wooden carriage door. It snapped with a sharp crack, shards falling to the floor like broken bone. A sliver of sunlight pierced the new gap, streaming through with quiet mockery. Without hesitation, I ripped the other sleeve off my dress and stuffed the cloth into the hole until the light was snuffed out again.

  The world resumed its colorless drag.

  Time crawled by. The air inside the carriage grew stale, soaked in sweat and tension, as we pressed deeper into elven lands. The forest outside thickened but felt emptier. The attacks grew less frequent—not because we were safe, but because we had slipped too far from the front lines for the elves to know exactly where we were. They hadn’t expected us to make it this deep. Not this fast.

  Still, they tried.

  Four more times they struck. Silent arrows, sudden skirmishes, cries in the distance. But each time, we broke through with grim resolve and iron discipline—though not without cost. Always, not without cost.

  Eventually, the trees thinned, the road widened, and we finally halted.

  I stepped out of the carriage, placing my foot on solid ground once more, and surveyed the remnants of what had once been a hundred-strong escort.

  Forty-two knights stood before me.

  Their armor was scratched and smeared with blood, some their own, some not. They breathed like dying animals, chests heaving, hands trembling against reins or hilts. Even the horses sagged under their own weight, nostrils flaring with exhaustion.

  They had done the impossible.

  They should have been dead.

  And perhaps, somewhere in their hearts, they expected praise—deserved it, even.

  I stared at them for a moment longer.

  “Good work,” I said simply.

  The words landed like a foreign tongue. Disbelief flashed in their eyes—blank stares, slack jaws, a few blinking in stunned confusion. Some dropped to their knees from sheer fatigue, as if only now allowed to fall.

  Even Markus turned toward me with his hand half-drawn on the hilt of his sword. He didn’t move beyond that. Didn’t speak at first. But his posture was tense, uncertain. Maybe even afraid.

  “And what now?” he asked eventually. His voice wasn’t mocking, not quite. But it carried suspicion, hesitation. He knew something was coming. He just didn’t know what.

  He wasn’t alone.

  None of them knew what we were really here for. Tom and I had kept the truth sealed between us, locked behind mutual understanding and necessity.

  Because if they did know—if they understood what we were about to do—it wouldn’t be suspicion I saw in their eyes.

  It would be rebellion.

  So I said nothing.

  I simply looked ahead, toward the looming veil of deeper forest beyond the path.

  We had arrived.

  But this was only the edge of the storm.

  “You will follow Tom’s orders. Understood?”

  The knights didn’t reply immediately. The silence that followed was thick—almost defiant.

  “Miss,” one of them finally spoke, voice strained with fatigue and frustration, “it’s already hard enough to follow your orders. But now you expect us to take commands from him? A good-for-nothing stargazer?”

  There it was: the resistance I had been waiting for. Expected, even. Still, disappointing.

  I turned my head slightly. “Markus?”

  He didn’t look surprised to be singled out. Of course not—he was the only one with enough authority left to sway the rest.

  He hesitated, jaw clenched, blood still drying on the bandages I had given him.

  “Is this the only way?” he asked at last.

  Technically, no.

  Realistically, yes.

  “Oh no,” I said with a casual shrug. “You can do whatever you want. But if you want to survive, I suggest you listen to him.”

  Markus’s expression tightened. I could see the battle playing out behind his eyes. But in the end, survival always wins.

  “What are our orders?” he asked, finally relenting.

  Tom sat quietly near the coachman, his gaze tilted skyward, as though he were waiting for the stars to whisper their secrets. The knights shifted uncomfortably, muttering beneath their breath. But they said nothing more.

  “Find high ground,” Tom said, his voice eerily calm. “As fast as you can. Defend it until death, and pray to the gods.”

  A beat passed. Then a low, collective groan rippled through the soldiers. Not outrage—just grim acceptance. The kind men give when they’ve been handed their fate and know there’s nothing they can do but bear it.

  I turned to Tom. “Which way?”

  He didn’t speak. Just studied the stars above—cool and still, as if the battle below didn’t concern them in the slightest. After a moment, he pointed into the darkness.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I ran.

  The sword was heavy in my hand, but I didn’t feel its weight. I sprinted through the trees, moonlight slicing through the canopy in pale streaks. Roots twisted underfoot, branches clawed at my shoulders, but I kept going.

  I ran as if death nipped at my heels—because it was.

  Behind me, the unit was already fading. They weren’t meant to follow me now. Their purpose was already fulfilled. They had brought me far enough during the day, shielded me with their blood, their armor, their lives. That was all I had needed from them.