Alinore
‘They’re ahead!’ she shouted over her shoulder, above the rush of wind and hoofbeats. ‘I see them!’
Prince Ottone, riding close behind, did not reply. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the vague forms moving through the trees ahead. He gave a nod and nudged his horse into a gallop, the gelding responding with a snort and a rush of motion.
Cressyda must be just beyond the next ridge. She would be saved.
The trees thinned and broke, revealing a slope of dry, scrub-covered land, the trail winding downwards along a ridge.
The royal party was clearly visible now: four mounted guards in uniform, and at the centre of the group, a tall man in jewelled finery riding a black stallion, his figure unmistakable even from a distance.
But beside him was a riderless horse.
Alinore’s elation died in her chest. The words she had been about to shout faded from her lips as she realized that the party were trotting down the slope. They were traveling away from the mountains.
Four guards, the King and a riderless horse.
Cressyda was not there.
‘No,’ Alinore gasped, all her hope turning to fear. ‘No, please.’
One of the guards spotted them and yanked his horse to a halt, the gelding skidding slightly on the rocky path. ‘It’s the Prince!’ he cried over his shoulder. ‘It’s Prince Ottone, Your Majesty.’
As they closed the distance, Alinore could see King Samsel clearly. Draped in dark regalia, his crown caught the twilight and jewels glittered across his chest. His face was lined with cold triumph, and he sat with the arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable.
Anger rose like a burning lump in Alinore’s throat.
King Samsel had always hated Cressyda with a slow, simmering resentment that had festered for winters.
From childhood, he had watched her draw admiration without effort, watched his mother’s rapt gaze follow her instead of him.
Where he was met with expectations and cold duty, Cressyda was lavished with attention, whether she wanted it or not.
And now, he had seized his chance for revenge.
He was not just trying to hurt Cressyda; he was trying to obliterate her.
He wanted her broken, ruined, forgotten.
Alinore’s hand moved to the pommel of her sword. Her fingers flexed.
‘Stop the Prince!’ yelled King Samsel. He pointed at his brother without even glancing at Alinore. ‘Don’t let him pass us!’
At once, the guards sprang into motion, kicking their horses forward and drawing their blades. The sound of steel rang through the air.
Prince Ottone barely had time to react. He hauled back on the reins, his gelding stumbling to a halt, hooves scattering loose stones.
‘Get back!’ Prince Ottone bellowed at them. ‘Stand down!’
But the guards did not listen.
‘You’re too late, brother,’ King Samsel sneered. ‘She’s already gone.’
Alinore flinched as King Samsel’s words echoed in her skull.
They were too late.
Cressyda was gone.
It struck with shocking, brutal force. A hollow, aching mass settled deep inside Alinore’s chest, wrapping around her heart, and she felt herself tip towards despair.
They had failed. She had failed. Everything stilled: the thudding of hooves, the shouting, the wind. It all faded into a horrible silence.
Then came guilt. It knotted in Alinore’s stomach and soured her mouth.
She had been so focused on her own journey to squireship, so determined to prove herself and chase a future she believed she needed, that she had ignored everything else.
Her arguments with Cressyda, once fuelled by pride and stubbornness, now seemed trivial and pointless.
Cressyda was her friend. Her best friend.
Her sister in everything but blood. She should never have let anything come between them, and she should not have left when she knew Cressyda’s position under King Samsel’s rule was vulnerable.
She had seen the danger. And still she had gone.
Tears pricked at Alinore’s eyes, but she blinked them away.
There was no use crying – it would not change the terrible truth of the situation.
Letting the tears fall would mean giving in, and Alinore would not surrender to grief.
If she allowed herself even a moment of weakness, she feared she might never climb back out of it.
She drew a deep breath and held it.
Beneath her sorrow, something else was stirring.
In the midst of her hopelessness came a burning thread of resolve.
No, she decided. She would not believe it. Just because King Samsel had left Cressyda in the mountains, it did not mean that she was gone – not yet. Alinore would not let this man win; he who had always been cruel. He who had always taunted and lied and got his own way.
She tore her hand from the pommel of her sword, shaking with the effort of resisting the pull of fury and revenge. Instead, she wheeled her horse to the left. Now was not the time for vengeance, no matter how much she wanted to hurt King Samsel. Cressyda needed her more.
Alinore’s gelding snorted and tossed his head in protest as she drove him up the rocky incline beside the trail. Stone grated under them, but Alinore did not hesitate. They climbed, her heart pounding, and swung around the edge of the party, rejoining the trodden path on the other side.
None of the guards stopped her.
King Samsel was so consumed with his brother that he barely seemed to notice the rider passing by. To him, she was just an attendant. A servant. A nobody.
Alinore gathered the reins tighter, heels squeezing the gelding’s flanks, pushing him into a swift canter as she rode on to the darkening path ahead.
Behind her, she could still hear chaos unravelling, Prince Ottone’s voice cutting through the air, the guards shouting and the horses stamping.
She did not look back, but she could picture it clearly: Prince Ottone, straight-backed and defiant, drawing every eye and every threat.
He was holding their attention and buying her time.
A flicker of gratitude sparked in her chest. Prince Ottone believed she could do it.
He trusted her to go on alone and find Cressyda; he was staking everything on giving her the chance to see it through.
And that was what she would do. She would find Cressyda.
Even if it meant going alone. Even if it meant facing whatever was waiting in the mountains.