Chapter 14
Garion POV
I watch helplessly as the bandits drag Cora away, her silent words echoing in my mind—find me. I will. I swear it. I will tear this forest apart if I must. I will kill them all.
The moment they vanish into the trees, Mika and I surge forward, my men close behind. But they are like smoke, like wind, gone without a trace, leaving only silence and shadows.
Rage floods me, hot and consuming. I draw my sword and slam it against the nearest tree, again and again, each strike a futile attempt to unleash the storm inside me. Bark splinters, steel rings, but it does nothing to ease the fire burning in my chest.
“I should have told her to stay right next to me!” I roar, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and furious.
Mika steps closer, his voice steady, grounding. “We will find her, Garrion. They couldn’t have gone far.”
I turn on him, my breath ragged, but his gaze does not falter. He continues, calm and calculating. “The next town lies in your territory, less than two hours by horse. There is no way they will risk going there. They’ll keep to the forest, to the shadows.”
His logic steadies me, if only slightly. I sheath my sword with a sharp motion, the promise of blood still burning in my veins.
We begin to search, pushing deeper into the forest. The light fades, shadows stretch long, and the air grows colder. But I will not stop. Not until I find her. Not until she is back in my arms.
Every step is a vow. Every breath is a promise. I will find Cora. And when I do, the men who dared touch her will beg for mercy they will never receive.
Cora POV
I wake to a splitting headache, my ears still ringing from the blow.
The world is pitch black, shadows pressing in from every side.
My legs are bound to a tree, my wrists tied tight.
A few candles flicker in the dirt, their weak light casting jagged shapes across the clearing.
No fire, of course. These men are clever enough to know a blaze would betray their position.
I scan the camp. Several of them lie sprawled in sleep, their snores heavy, careless. They must have thought I’d be unconscious for hours. But my head is used to taking hits. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve driven my skull into Bastion’s face during our sparring matches. Pain is nothing new.
I run my hands down my thighs, searching, and relief floods me, I feel the familiar weight of my daggers. They didn’t even check me. Their mistake. They underestimated me, and that will cost them.
I inch toward one of the candles, pressing the rope against the flame. The heat bites into my skin, blistering, searing. I grit my teeth, swallowing the pain. Scars are a small price for freedom. Slowly, the fibers weaken, fray, and finally snap. My wrist is free.
I slip my hand to my dagger, the hilt cool and steady against my palm. Carefully, I begin slicing through the rope binding my legs. Each cut is deliberate, slow, silent. I’m almost through when the sound of movement freezes me.
One of the men stirs, rising from his bedroll. My heart pounds as I tuck my hands beneath my cloak, forcing my body to stillness. I close my eyes, feigning unconsciousness.
His boots crunch against the dirt as he approaches. Then, a sharp tap of his foot against my side. Testing. Probing.
I fight to keep my breathing even, my body limp, praying he doesn’t notice the faint scent of burnt rope or the dagger hidden beneath my cloak.
“She is still out cold. Such delicate creatures, ladies of the court,” one of the bandits mutters, his voice thick with disdain.
“She can’t go anywhere. Go back to sleep,” the other replies, dismissive. Their laughter fades as they settle back down, the sound of their snores soon filling the clearing.
I remain perfectly still, every muscle tense, until I am certain they are asleep. Then, slowly, I resume cutting at the rope with my dagger, each fiber snapping like a whispered promise of freedom.
I glance upward. The night sky is clear, the stars sharp against the velvet dark. My eyes find the North Star, steady and unwavering. It points the way to Garrion’s lands. I cling to it, whispering a silent prayer that he will find me, that he is already searching.
When the rope finally gives, I rise quietly, careful not to make a sound. My movements are deliberate, each step measured. I slip behind the tree, then begin to inch northward, baby steps carrying me farther from the camp.
Once I feel I’ve put enough distance between myself and the bandits, I break into a sprint. My legs pump, my lungs burn, but I force myself onward. I will not become their prize. I will not be broken.
The forest blurs around me, shadows stretching long as the night wanes. It feels as though I’ve been running for hours when the first pale light of dawn begins to break across the horizon.
I stumble, my foot catching on a jagged rock. I crash forward, twisting my ankle. Agony shoots through me, sharp and merciless. I bite back a cry, clutching at the earth.
But I refuse to stop. I drag myself upright, hobbling forward. Every step is torture, but I push on. And when my body threatens to give out, I make a vow: if I cannot walk, I will crawl. If I cannot crawl, I will claw my way through the dirt.
I will not be theirs. I will find Garrion, or he will find me.
I limp as quickly as my injured ankle will allow, each step a jolt of pain. Then, faintly, I hear it, the rush of water. My heart leaps. I turn toward the sound, forcing my body forward until the trees part and a river lies before me.
It isn’t vast, but wide enough to test me. The current is steady, the water dark and unwelcoming. I know it will be freezing, but staying along the riverbank would leave me exposed, vulnerable, with no way to defend myself. The only choice is through.
I step into the water, the icy bite stealing my breath. Cold seeps into my bones, numbing my limbs, but I push forward, stroke after stroke. My muscles scream, my lungs burn, yet I refuse to yield. By the time I drag myself onto the opposite bank, I can no longer feel my fingers or toes.
“Get up, Cora,” I scold myself aloud, my voice trembling. “Never yield.” My father’s motto echoes in my mind, a lifeline against despair.
I stagger through the clearing, soaked and shivering, and then—hope. In the distance, beyond the thinning trees, I see the faint outline of a small town. Relief surges through me, fragile but real. Perhaps there, I can find help.
But reality presses in. I have no coin, no provisions. Only the gold wedding band glinting faintly on my finger. I clutch it, torn between shame and resolve. If it comes to it, I will trade it. Survival demands sacrifice.
With the town ahead, I force my body onward, each step a battle, each breath a promise. I will not break. I will not yield.
I tuck my hands beneath my armpits, trying to warm them as I limp forward, every step sending fire through my ankle. My body screams at me to stop, but I force myself onward.
At last, the trees thin, and the sight before me steals my breath, the walls of a town, banners fluttering in the cold wind. Stitched in white against black, the North Star gleams proudly. Garrion’s crest. His territory. Relief surges through me so sharply it nearly brings me to tears.
A guard stationed at the gate notices me and rushes forward, his armor clattering. “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asks, concern etched across his face.
I collapse to my knees, too weak to stand any longer. “My name is Cora Darkmoor, wife of Lord Darkmoor,” I manage, my voice hoarse. I lift a trembling hand, pointing back toward the river. “I was taken by bandits.”
The guard’s expression hardens, suspicion replacing concern. “Nice try, ma’am. Our Lord would never let his new bride slip into the fingers of bandits.” His words cut, disbelief sharp as a blade.
Desperation claws at me. “We just crossed the canyon pass,” I insist, my voice breaking. “I was gathering berries for dinner, we couldn’t risk a fire. They grabbed me, put a knife to my throat.” My throat tightens at the memory, but I force the words out, praying he will believe me.
Before he can reply, a woman’s voice rings out from behind him. “What is going on here?”
She steps forward, her presence commanding, her eyes narrowing as she takes me in. Then her expression shifts, softening with pity. “Poor child,” she breathes, rushing to my side. “What happened to you?”
“This one claims to be the wife of our Lord,” the guard scoffs, laughter sharp and dismissive. “I told her there’s no way he would let bandits take her.”
The woman ignores him, her eyes softening as she bends to help me up. “Come with me,” she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. She guides me through the gates, her arm steadying me as my body finally begins to give up the fight.
By the time we reach her small house, exhaustion has hollowed me out. My limbs are heavy, my ankle throbs, and the cold clings to me like a second skin. She helps me peel off my soaked clothes, replacing them with her own, warm, dry, smelling faintly of herbs and smoke.
“Now,” she says gently, “tell me what happened.”
I recount everything, from the moment we left Amberfall to the canyon pass, to the bandits’ ambush. My voice trembles at times, but she doesn’t interrupt. She listens, her silence a quiet reassurance that my words matter.
The door bursts open without warning. A man strides in, his presence sharp, his tone clipped. “Nyra, what is going on here? The city guard claims there is a woman impersonating our Lord’s wife.” His eyes fix on me, hard and skeptical.
Nyra rises, her voice steady. “Arlo, I don’t think she’s lying. Everything she told me fits.”
Arlo narrows his gaze. “Where was the last place you saw Lord Darkmoor?”
“We had just crossed the canyon pass,” I answer, forcing strength into my voice. “We were waiting for the rest of the men to follow when the bandits grabbed me.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods curtly. “I will send some of our soldiers there. If what you say is true, then his lordship will come here.” His words are practical, but his eyes betray disbelief. Without another word, he turns and leaves.
Relief and frustration mingle in my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper, “that is all I ask.”
Nyra kneels beside me again, her hands gentle as she takes mine. “Now, let me look at your wrists. They’re badly burned.”
I glance down at the angry red marks, the skin raw from the candle flame. Her touch is careful, her concern genuine.
“Thank you, Nyra,” I say, offering her a weary smile. For the first time since the bandits took me, I feel a flicker of safety.