The carriage rattled along the lonely stretch of road, its wheels bumping over loose stones and dried ruts. Aric sat in the dim interior, wrists chafing against his chains. Two guards sat with him, muskets across their knees, while another four rode outside, eyes sharp on the path ahead.
Suddenly, a sharp crack shattered the silence.
One of the mounted guards cried out and pitched sideways off his horse as a musket shot rang through the trees. The horses neighed and reared, stirring the carriage to a shuddering halt.
"Ambush!" a guard bellowed, lifting his musket too slowly.
More shots followed; one, two, the carriage windows splintering, a guard inside crumpling against the wall. Smoke and the tang of powder filled the stale air.
"Draw swords!" someone outside roared.
Metal scraped as the men leapt into action, but dark figures burst from the thicket like ghosts, blades glinting in the dappled light.
"Stay in the carriage," a guard hissed to Prince Stefan as he yanked the door open to jump out.
Chains heavy, Prince Stefan had nowhere to go. Heart pounding, he strained to catch sight of the fight through the open door. Outside, swords clashed, a spray of sparks, grunts of pain, one of the men was thrown to the ground by an assailant who moved like a shadow.
More gunfire cracked. A horse screamed.
Two men in plain leathers appeared at the carriage door. Stefan shrank back.
One of them spoke in a low, urgent voice, "Quick, get him out before the others regroup."
A key flashed, clicking into his irons, and his chains fell away, left for the ones cuffing his hands.
"Move," one growled, dragging him out into the chaos.
The road was strewn with the bodies of guards and horses, the dust kicked up into a choking cloud. Stefan glanced around wildly as one of the abductors ushered him into the treeline at a run.
Behind them, someone shouted, "Stop him!"
A volley of musket fire answered, the sharp retorts echoing into the hills.
And then they were swallowed by the forest, the sounds of battle fading behind them, leaving only the pounding of Stefan's heart in his ears as they disappeared into the green shadows.
The forest was unnervingly silent at first, save for the faint creak of leather and the distant call of a crow. Stefan could feel the damp chill of the forest floor through the coarse fabric of his torn clothes. Shackled and bruised, he had been hauled like cargo, his strength sapped after long months in a dark cell. The sunlight streaming through the dense foliage was a cruel reminder of a world that had long forgotten him.
Suddenly, a twig snapped.
In an instant, his captors, hard-eyed men who kept hands close to their hilts stiffened, scanning the underbrush. Stefan's heart thudded painfully in his chest.
The men scarcely had a chance to draw their breath before shadows leapt from the undergrowth, gleaming swords in hand. Steel met flesh with a sickening sound; one of Stefan's captors staggered, his throat opened, dark blood bubbling over his chin as he crumpled into the ferns.
Black-cloaked figures surged from all directions, a flicker of steel and a sickening grunt as one captor was cut down without a sound. Another spun to face his attacker but was met with a sharp strike across the neck, crumpling where he stood. Blood spattered across the ferns.
Stefan recoiled, stumbling backward until his spine pressed against the rough bark of an ancient oak. He held his breath, eyes huge with fear as death unfolded around him in a flurry of brutal efficiency.
In moments that felt like eternity, every one of his captors was felled, their bodies scattered among the fallen leaves, breaths already silenced.
And then the forest was still again.
He was left trembling in a small clearing with a handful of strangers, their leathers smeared with blood, faces hard with purpose.
"Is it him?" a harsh voice called.
A man with a jagged scar across his brow strode toward Stefan. Without ceremony, his gloved fingers clamped around Stefan's chin, forcing his face up into the light. "Prince Stefan," the scarred one growled, recognition darkening his gaze.
The scarred leader gave a subtle signal to his men. Swords flashed into the light once more, this time held for an execution.
Stefan's knees buckled, terror flooding him as he saw the glint of steel. He couldn't speak because of the gag in his mouth and could only shake his head, eyes filled with fear.
"You need not fear," the leader drawled, lips twisting into a smile devoid of warmth. "This will be quick. Orders are to make sure you never see the throne again."
Stefan's knees gave way beneath him and he collapsed to the ground. Helpless, hands trembling against the forest floor, he looked up as the sword was raised
"Nothing personal," the leader continued. "Prince Benedict sends his regards."
Stefan's breath caught in his throat. Prince Benedict. Of course.
He opened his mouth, a hoarse sound of protest dying in his throat as the blade lifted but was shattered with a violent clang as another sword intercepted it mid-swing.
"Not so fast," growled a voice from the edge of the glade.
More men spilled into the clearing: better equipped, eyes sharp, moving as one.
"Lord Chancellor's men," The leader hissed.
The two groups crashed together with brutal force. Sparks flew and the forest filled with grunts, oaths, and the ring of clashing steel.
Stefan, heart pounding, stumbled backward and dropped into the underbrush, hands shielding his face as bodies surged around him.
A gloved hand grabbed his wrist. "Your Highness!" a deep voice urged.
He looked up into the face of a grim, unfamiliar soldier who deftly slashed his chains in one powerful stroke.
"Time to go," the man growled.
Stefan didn't wait to ask questions. Numb with fear, he lurched to his feet and was pulled into a sprint, branches whipping past as they fled deeper into the forest, the chaos of battle left swirling behind them, his pulse roaring like a drum in his ears.
Stefan stumbled through the underbrush, every breath burning in his chest. Behind him, the clash of steel and furious shouts continued as they were continuously being chased by Prince Benedict men.
"Keep going, Your Highness," hissed the soldier who had freed him, breath harsh with exertion as they wove between gnarled trees. "I'll hold them off!"
Before Stefan could protest, the soldier broke away, turning back into the forest with a snarl, sword raised. Stefan paused only long enough to see him engage the first of their pursuers, one against many and then forced himself onward.
Branches clawed at his face as he ran. Blood pounded in his ears. Fear lent him speed until, too quickly, the forest broke onto a jagged precipice.
He skidded to a stop at the edge.
The wind rushed up from the abyss, carrying the faint scent of rain. Far below, jagged rocks glistened like fangs. There was nowhere left to run.
Boots thudded behind him, and he spun to face the approaching men. Cold eyes stared back at him, hands tightening around their swords.
"You're trapped, prince," one of them sneered. "There's nowhere to hide."
Stefan's hands curled into fists. His heart thrashed wildly.
Better to choose my own fate.
He took one last glance at the yawning chasm beneath him, then drew in a trembling breath and stepped backward onto the edge of the cliff.
The soldiers paused, wary but smug, expecting him to beg or bargain.
Instead, Stefan held their gaze silent, defiant and slowly let himself fall.
A rush of wind tore at him as the world spun into a dizzy blur of sky and shadow.
When the soldiers finally reached the edge and looked down into the mist-shrouded abyss, there was nothing to see but jagged rocks far, far below.
One of them cursed under his breath. "No one could survive that," he muttered.
So they turned away, convinced that the prince was as good as dead.