Chapter 12
The castle sleeps deeply in the hours before dawn, its corridors empty save for the occasional guard patrol making their rounds. Bellamy moves through the shadows like a ghost, his heart pounding with desperate urgency as he makes his way toward the stables.
He has to warn Ivah.
The conversation with Harwick plays on endless repeat in his mind—the accusations, the threats, the terrible choice he'd been forced to make.
But underneath his mentor's anger and fear, Bellamy had heard something else: genuine concern for discovery, real worry that their secret was already spreading beyond those few who'd witnessed it firsthand.
If Sergeant Morris saw him crossing the border, who else might have noticed? How many other eyes are watching, how many other tongues are wagging about the Prince of Mirn's mysterious journeys east?
Ivah needs to know. Needs to understand that they've been compromised, that they'll have to be even more careful going forward. Maybe they'll have to stop meeting entirely, at least until the scrutiny dies down.
The thought makes his chest ache, but it's better than the alternative—discovery leading to political catastrophe for both their kingdoms.
Tempest whickers softly as he approaches her stall, clearly confused by this midnight summons but willing to trust her rider's judgment. Bellamy saddles her quickly, his hands moving with the automatic precision of years of practice despite the tremor of urgency that runs through him.
He'll ride hard to the border, deliver his warning, and return before anyone notices his absence. A few hours at most. Just long enough to ensure that Ivah understands the new level of danger they're facing.
The night air is cold against his face as he guides Tempest through the castle gates, pulling his dark cloak close around his shoulders. No challenge comes from the drowsy guards—Prince Bellamy often rides out early for morning exercises, and they're used to his eccentric schedule.
The roads are empty, moonlight casting everything in silver and shadow as they make their way east through familiar countryside.
Bellamy pushes the pace harder than is wise for night travel, but urgency drives him forward.
Every moment of delay is a moment closer to dawn, to discovery, to questions he can't answer without revealing everything he's sworn to keep secret.
The familiar landscape rolls past in the moonlight—fields he's known since childhood, villages where he's stopped to speak with farmers and craftsmen, the gradual transition from Mirn's heartland to the borderlands where kingdoms meet and tensions simmer beneath the surface of peaceful coexistence.
He's thinking about how to phrase his warning to Ivah, how to explain Harwick's suspicions without revealing the extent of their discovery, when Tempest suddenly shies beneath him, her ears flicking forward in alarm.
Bellamy's hand goes instinctively to his sword hilt, his eyes scanning the roadside shadows for whatever has spooked his horse.
The moonlight creates a confusion of dark shapes and silver highlights, turning familiar bushes into potential threats and casting deceptive shadows that could hide anything.
Then he sees it—the glint of metal in the undergrowth, the subtle shift of movement that speaks of careful positioning rather than natural growth.
"Easy, girl," he murmurs to Tempest, even as his own pulse quickens with the recognition of danger. They're being watched. Hunted.
He starts to turn Tempest around, to flee back toward the safety of Mirn territory, but it's already too late.
Dark figures erupt from the roadside brush like shadows given violent form, their horses moving with the coordination of a planned ambush.
There are at least eight of them, maybe more, flowing out of concealment with military precision that speaks of professional soldiers rather than common bandits.
Bellamy's sword clears its sheath in one fluid motion, the steel singing in the night air as he raises it in defensive position. Tempest dances beneath him, her training as a war horse taking over as she prepares for battle.
"Stay back!" Bellamy shouts, his voice carrying the authority of royal command. "I am Prince Bellamy of Mirn, and any attack against my person is an act of war!"
Harsh laughter greets his declaration, cold and mocking in the darkness.
"That's exactly what makes you so valuable, princeling," one of them calls back, his accent marking him as a northerner. "Now be a good boy and come quietly, and maybe you'll keep all your pretty fingers."
The lead rider spurs his horse forward, a massive destrier that makes Tempest look delicate by comparison. Bellamy sees the man's intent and wheels his mount away, but the others are already closing in, surrounding him with the practiced efficiency of wolves bringing down prey.
A sword swings toward his head and Bellamy parries desperately, the clash of steel on steel ringing across the empty countryside.
But even as he blocks one attack, another comes from his blind side, and then another, until he's fighting on multiple fronts with the desperate fury of a man who knows he's outnumbered.
"Take him alive!" the leader barks as Bellamy's blade opens a shallow cut across one attacker's forearm. "King Kent wants him intact!"
Bellamy manages to land a solid blow to another rider's shoulder, sending the man reeling in his saddle, but the victory is short-lived. A weighted net comes flying out of the darkness, the heavy cords tangling around his sword arm and yanking him sideways.
Tempest screams as multiple riders grab her bridle, their combined weight overwhelming her attempts to break free. Bellamy feels the mare stumble beneath him, off-balanced by the net dragging at his weight, and knows he has seconds before they bring him down.
He throws himself from the saddle rather than be trapped beneath her if she falls, hitting the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. The impact sends shockwaves of pain through his shoulder and hip, but he rolls with the momentum, trying to get his feet under him.
Strong hands grab him before he can rise, hauling him upright with brutal efficiency.
Bellamy lashes out with his free hand, his fist connecting with someone's jaw in a satisfying crack of impact, but the victory costs him his balance.
More hands seize him, and suddenly he's surrounded by a press of bodies, all muscle and leather armor and the distinctive smell of men who've been living rough.
"Feisty little prince," someone grunts as Bellamy drives his elbow into a kidnapper's ribs. "This one's got some fight in him."
"Not for long," another voice growls, and Bellamy sees the pommel of a sword coming toward his head.
He jerks aside at the last moment, the metal glancing off his temple instead of landing squarely. Stars explode across his vision and his knees buckle, but somehow he stays conscious, adrenaline and desperation keeping him upright when training and strength fail.
"Careful!" the leader snaps. "Damage him and answer to me!"
They wrestle his sword away from him despite his attempts to maintain his grip, the blade clattering across the stone road with a sound like a funeral bell. Rough hands grab his arms, wrenching them behind his back with enough force to make his shoulders scream in protest.
"Get off me!" Bellamy snarls, throwing his weight backward to try and break their grip. He manages to knock one of them off balance, earning himself a moment of partial freedom that he uses to drive his knee toward another attacker's groin.
The man twists away with a curse, and suddenly a mailed fist is crashing into Bellamy's stomach, doubling him over with explosive pain. He retches, gasping for air, and in that moment of vulnerability they have him.
Rope burns against his wrists as they bind his arms behind his back with efficient brutality, the hemp cords tight enough to cut off circulation. He tries to wrench free, but the bonds only tighten further, sending needles of pain shooting up his arms.
"That's enough fighting, Your Highness," the leader says conversationally, grabbing a handful of Bellamy's hair to force his head up.
The man's face is weathered and scarred, with the kind of cold eyes that speak of violence as a profession rather than passion.
"You're coming with us whether you like it or not.
The only question is how much pain you want to endure along the way. "
"Go to hell," Bellamy spits, earning himself a backhanded slap that snaps his head sideways and fills his mouth with the taste of blood.
"Such language from a prince," the leader tuts mockingly. "King Kent will have to teach you some manners."
A hood goes over his head, plunging him into suffocating darkness that makes every sound seem amplified. The coarse fabric smells of sweat and fear—previous victims, perhaps, who didn't survive whatever ordeal awaits him.
"Search him," the leader orders, and rough hands begin patting him down with professional thoroughness.
They find his purse quickly, the coins jingling as someone pockets them with casual greed.
The small eating knife at his belt disappears next, followed by the decorative pins that hold his cloak in place.
But they miss the thin disc of dark metal that hangs beneath his shirt—Ivah's seal, pressed against his heart like a talisman.
"Clean as a virgin's conscience," one of the searchers reports. "Nothing but royal gold and pretty baubles."
"Good. Get him mounted."
They haul him upright, ignoring his attempts to resist, and suddenly he's being lifted bodily onto a horse. The saddle is hard and unfamiliar beneath him, and they secure him to it with additional ropes around his waist and ankles, ensuring he can't throw himself off or attempt escape.