Eyes Beneath the Helm
Knight!Mingi x Princess!Reader
Part II
Word count: 10.3K
Genre: Enemies to lovers, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff
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She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story.
The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
Your body freezes before your mind does.
Cold mud presses through the thin fabric of your dress as you sit half-sprawled on the forest floor, palms braced uselessly behind you, breath shuddering in your chest as you stare up at the towering figure blocking your escape. The knight doesn’t move, doesn’t advance, doesn’t lower his weapon, but the sheer weight of his presence pins you in place more effectively than iron chains ever could.
Your thoughts scatter, frantic and sharp all at once.
Think. Lie. Run. Fight.
No – fight is useless. One glance at him tells you that much. He is too tall, too broad, armour scarred and darkened by use rather than polish, a silhouette built for war rather than ceremony. If he wanted you dead, you would already be bleeding into the forest floor.
Which means he hasn’t decided yet. That, somehow, is worse.
Your gaze flicks quickly over him, cataloguing details with the instinct of someone who has watched knights train her entire life. The sword at his side rests untouched, angled just slightly forward, as though ready but not drawn. His stance is relaxed in the way only dangerous men ever truly are – balanced, grounded, impossible to knock over. The helmet conceals his face entirely, smooth metal swallowing whatever expression he might be wearing, giving you nothing to read, nothing to cling to.
Is he one of hers? Did she send him after me? Did he hear the orders?
Your pulse thunders in your ears as you scramble mentally for explanations – half-truths, excuses, anything that might buy you time.
Lost? A lie, but an easy one.
Attacked by bandits? Too risky -he’ll ask questions.
Running from wolves? The blood ruins that one,especially with no injuries.
Your eyes dart past him instinctively, searching for gaps between the trees, for uneven ground you could use to your advantage, for any possible escape route that doesn’t end with a blade in your spine. The forest is dense here, roots twisting like traps beneath the soil, branches thick enough to slow even a trained knight, but you are exhausted, soaked, shaking, and every muscle in your body is already screaming in protest.
You wouldn’t make it far. The realisation lands heavy and cold in your stomach.
Your fingers curl reflexively toward where your dagger should be, only to remember it’s gone – lost somewhere between the castle halls and the forest floor. The loss feels sudden and devastating, stripping you of the last illusion of control you thought you had.
Your breath stutters.
If he recognises me-
The thought fractures before it finishes. You can’t afford it. Recognition would mean questions. Questions would mean answers. Answers would mean capture, or worse – being dragged back to a kingdom that has already decided you are a monster.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression into something neutral, something unthreatening, even as fear coils tightly beneath your ribs. You lower your gaze just slightly, not enough to look submissive, but enough to appear human, frightened, breakable.
Because that might be the only thing that saves you.
The knight remains still, watching. Waiting.
And as your mind races for a story convincing enough to keep you alive for just a few more seconds, one terrifying truth becomes impossible to ignore: Whatever you say next will change everything.
Your thoughts barely have time to finish spiralling before his voice cuts through them, rough and low and edged with unmistakable impatience, the sound vibrating faintly through the metal that hides his face.
“I won’t ask again,” he says, tone flat but dangerous in its restraint. “What are you doing out here?”
Your breath catches as his gaze drops from your face, sweeping over you with a slow, assessing weight that makes your skin prickle beneath your soaked dress. His eyes – hidden, unreadable – trace the torn hem, the mud clinging to your skirts, the blood dried dark against the blue fabric, and the way your chest rises and falls too quickly to be anything other than panic.
You don’t speak quickly enough.
He stills. Then, quieter, heavier, as though the word itself carries something unwelcome with it, he says, “...Princess.”
The title lands like a blade between your ribs.
For a heartbeat, the forest seems to tilt, the air thinning until your lungs struggle to pull it in. Fear rushes through you in a cold, violent wave, washing away whatever fragile plan you were clinging to. Recognition means everything you were trying to outrun has finally caught you. Recognition means chains. It means being dragged back through the gates you barely escaped. It means Edrea wins.
You brace yourself instinctively, shoulders tensing, jaw setting as though you can somehow prepare your body for what comes next. There’s a strange, hollow calm that settles over you in that moment, a quiet acceptance of the danger you’ve been running from since the bells began to toll.
This is it, you think dimly. This is where it ends.
But instead of drawing his sword, instead of reaching for you, instead of calling out to unseen guards hidden among the trees, the knight exhales sharply through his nose and lets out a short, humorless scoff.
“Whatever you’re playing at,” he mutters, turning slightly away from you, “stop it.”
Your brows knit before you can stop them.
He shifts his weight, already beginning to step past you, voice dismissive, almost irritated rather than alarmed. “Get home,” he adds. “And don’t follow me.”
The words don’t make sense.
Your heart stutters, confusion flooding in so suddenly it nearly knocks the breath from your chest. He isn’t accusing you. He isn’t threatening you. He isn’t reacting the way someone who knows what happened should react.
He doesn’t know.
The realisation creeps in slowly, cautiously, like an animal testing unfamiliar ground.
He doesn’t know about the guard. He doesn’t know about the note. He doesn’t know about your parents.
To him, you aren’t a traitor or a murderer or a condemned criminal.
You’re just a princess who wandered somewhere she shouldn’t be.
And for the first time since you ran, you’re not sure whether that misunderstanding is a curse or the only thing keeping you alive.
You stare after him in disbelief as he turns away, boots crunching softly against the forest floor as though this encounter has already been dismissed in his mind, as though you are nothing more than an inconvenience he intends to leave behind among the roots and shadows.
For a heartbeat, you simply watch him go. Then instinct kicks in.
“Wait–” you call out, pushing yourself up from the ground and stumbling slightly as you rush to follow, your legs still shaky from running and fear and everything that has shattered inside you over the last few hours. “Wait, please–!”
He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.
You hurry to match his pace, skirts snagging on low branches as you move, breath still uneven as you try again. “Stop– listen to me–”
Nothing.
He keeps walking, broad back solid and unyielding beneath his armor, as though the forest itself is parting for him alone. Every step he takes feels deliberate, final, and the frustration bubbling beneath your fear flares hot and sharp in your chest.
“Please,” you try once more, voice cracking despite your effort to steady it. “I–”
Still nothing. Panic and desperation twist together until you blurt the only thing you know might make him stop.
“Mingi…wait.” The effect is immediate.
He halts so abruptly you nearly collide with his back again, forced to stop short with a sharp intake of breath. Slowly – so slowly it feels intentional – he turns to face you, and for the first time since you ran into him, the full weight of his attention settles squarely on you.
The forest seems to quiet around you. “You shouldn’t know my name,” he says, voice low and edged with something hard and dangerous now, something far less dismissive than before.
Your heart pounds, suddenly aware of what you’ve revealed.
He straightens slightly, shoulders squaring as though bracing for impact. “I won’t go back,” he continues, the words coming out rougher this time, laced with conviction rather than anger. “Not now. Not ever.”
You blink at him, confusion cutting cleanly through the fear. “What?” you ask, breathless. “What are you talking about?”
He exhales heavily, a long breath that rattles faintly against the inside of his helmet, and for a moment you swear you can hear exhaustion beneath the steel. His posture shifts, tension bleeding from it just enough to suggest something unexpected.
Realisation. Slow, reluctant, unmistakable.
“…You’re not here to retrieve me,” he says at last, more to himself than to you, the edge in his voice dulling into something quieter, something wary. He falls silent, standing there in the shadowed forest, clearly recalibrating everything he thought this moment was going to be.
He turns back toward you fully this time, no longer half-angled toward escape, and for the first time since you collided with him, his attention settles on you with something sharper than irritation.
He looks at you properly.
Not just at the title you carry. Not just at the inconvenient presence you represent. At you.
His gaze tracks the trembling line of your shoulders, the way sweat darkens the fabric at your collar, the blood smeared unevenly across your dress where your hands tried – and failed – to save a dying man. He takes in the tear tracks cutting through the dirt on your cheeks, the way your hands curl and uncurl at your sides as though searching for something solid to hold onto, and finally, the fear sitting naked and unguarded in your eyes.
Whatever he sees there makes him still. Alarm creeps into his posture so subtly you almost miss it, his shoulders tensing beneath the armour, his head tilting a fraction as though recalculating.
“What happened,” he asks, and this time it isn’t a demand. It’s low, rough, but edged with something close to concern.
Your breath shudders as the question finally cracks you open.
The words spill out of you unevenly, tangled and broken, your voice thin with exhaustion and grief as you try to explain – about the court, the accusations, the guard at your door, the blood, the lies, your parents. You stumble over details, lose your place, have to stop more than once to drag in a breath that doesn’t quite reach your lungs, but you keep going because stopping feels like giving in.
“I didn’t do it,” you whisper at the end, voice barely holding together. “I swear to you, I didn’t. They were alive this morning. I would never – please…”
You don’t realise you’ve stepped closer until you’re already there, hands clenched in the fabric of your skirt as you look up at him, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “Please believe me.”
For a long moment, he says nothing.
He stands there, tall and unmoving, his helmet angled directly at you so you can’t see his eyes, can’t read what’s happening behind the steel. The silence stretches painfully, long enough for doubt to creep back in, long enough for fear to reassert itself.
Then, finally, he speaks. “I left at the right time.”
The words land bluntly, without cruelty, without comfort – just truth.
You blink at him, thrown. “What… what do you mean?”
He exhales again, slower this time, as though the admission itself weighs on him. “I abandoned my post,” he says simply. “Walked away.”
Your breath catches. “You – why?”
“Because I heard the same announcement you did,” he replies, voice hardening slightly. “Because I know Edrea. And because I would never kneel to someone like her.”
The conviction in his tone is unmistakable, carved deep and immovable. He shifts his stance, turning slightly away as though the castle itself is something he refuses to face, even from this distance.
“She’s cruel,” he continues, almost absently. “Always has been. And cruelty with a crown doesn’t end quietly.” He pauses, then adds, more quietly, “I won’t serve that.”
The forest seems to close in around the two of you, the space between your fates narrowing with every word. And suddenly, you’re not standing in front of a knight sent to capture you. You’re standing in front of a man who ran, just like you did.
The silence that follows his admission settles strangely between you, thick with things unsaid, with choices neither of you seems ready to acknowledge. You study him for a moment, this knight who ran from the same crown now hunting you, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips free.
“Where are you going?” you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.
He barely glances at you. “That’s none of your concern.”
Your brows knit, irritation flaring hot and immediate. “It is if you’re the only armed person I’ve run into who hasn’t tried to kill me.”
He turns fully away again, clearly done with the conversation. “You’ll manage. You always do.”
Something sharp twists in your chest at that – at the assumption, at the dismissal, at the way he speaks like you’re already an inconvenience best left behind.
“Wait,” you say, stepping forward before you can reconsider. “I need help.”
That makes him pause. Just barely. He looks back over his shoulder, helmet catching a sliver of muted forest light. “No.” The word is flat. Immediate. Unapologetic.
You stare at him, disbelief giving way to anger in a rush so fast it almost takes your breath. “No?” you repeat. “You won’t help me?”
“You’re not my responsibility,” he replies coolly. “Not anymore.”
Anymore. The implication snaps something in you cleanly in two.
“Oh, that’s rich,” you bite out, fury flooding back into your limbs like a long-lost friend. “You abandon your post, disappear into the woods, and now you get to decide who deserves help?”
He shrugs, the movement heavy beneath steel. “I decide who gets me killed.”
You laugh, sharp and humourless. “So that’s it? Everyone else be damned, as long as you get to walk away with your honour intact?”
He turns back to face you fully now, and though you still can’t see his eyes, you can feel the way his attention locks onto you, heavy and unyielding. “You’re a royal,” he says bluntly. “You’ll be fine.”
Your jaw clenches. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”
“I know enough,” he counters, voice edged now. “You were born into silk and servants and safety. You’ve never had to fight for anything in your life.” That one lands like a slap. You step closer, anger crackling beneath your skin. “You think I’m lazy?” you snap. “You think I’m arrogant because I didn’t grow up starving?”
He scoffs softly. “I think you’re like the rest of them, used to the world bending when you ask it to.”
“You’re wrong,” you fire back immediately, the words tumbling out hot and fast. “And if you had ever bothered to look past the crown, you might actually know that.”
His shoulders tense, just slightly, and for the first time you sense something beneath his certainty – a crack, a nerve you’ve struck without meaning to. “Royals always say that,” he replies, tone darkening. “Then they go back to their castles and forget.”
You laugh again, but this time there’s something raw in it. “I don’t have a castle anymore.” The words hang between you, sharp and undeniable.
He doesn’t respond right away.
Instead, he studies you again – not as a nuisance, not as a title, but as someone standing soaked, shaking, furious, and very much not safe. The argument hasn’t ended, not really, but something has shifted all the same, the ground beneath both of you subtly rearranging itself.
And neither of you seems quite ready to acknowledge it yet.
He turns away from you again, clearly finished, his boots already beginning to crunch against the leaf-littered ground as though this conversation—and you—have already been decided and dismissed.
“Wait,” you call out, the word sharper than before.
He doesn’t stop.
The panic that flares in your chest burns hotter than fear now, hotter than grief, and before you can weigh the consequences of what you’re about to say, the truth tears itself loose.
“If you leave,” you say, your voice shaking but unyielding, “my blood will be on your hands.”
He stops. Not slowly. Not reluctantly.
He freezes as though struck.
The forest seems to quiet around the two of you, the distant calls of birds fading into an uneasy hush as he turns back, every line of his body suddenly rigid beneath the armour. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel the way his attention locks onto you – sharp, furious, wounded in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with guilt.
“I have some skills,” you continue quickly, words tumbling out now that you’ve started, breath hitching as you force yourself to meet his gaze. “I can fight. I can hunt. I can treat wounds. But alone – out here-” You gesture helplessly at the trees, at the endless wall of green and shadow surrounding you. “I wouldn’t last two days.”
You swallow hard.
The forest looms around you, impossibly dense, its canopy layered so thick the sky is little more than fractured light above your heads. The trees stretch on for miles and miles and miles, an ancient, untamed expanse that forms the true border between kingdoms, more impenetrable than stone walls, more merciless than armies. It is the land no ruler ever truly conquered, the place where roads vanish, where maps become guesses, where both common beasts and old, whispered creatures roam freely beneath the cover of leaves and mist.
This forest does not forgive the unprepared.
And it certainly does not protect the hunted.
Mingi’s jaw tightens visibly beneath the edge of his helm. His hands curl once at his sides, fingers flexing as though resisting the urge to reach for his sword—or to tear something apart. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, lower, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to resentment.
“That’s not fair,” he says.
You don’t look away. “Neither is being sentenced to death for crimes you didn’t commit.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, the kind that weighs more with every passing second. You can almost hear him arguing with himself behind the steel – duty clashing with survival, bitterness warring with something older and harder to silence.
Finally, he exhales sharply, the sound scraping against the inside of his helmet.
“There’s a village,” he says at last, the words dragged out like a confession he never wanted to make. “Far enough from your kingdom that your name won’t matter. They trade with outsiders. They don’t ask questions.”
Your heart stutters.
“I’ll take you that far,” he continues, already sounding irritated by the promise forming in his mouth. “After that, you’re on your own.”
Relief floods you so suddenly your knees nearly give out, but you force yourself to stay upright, to stay steady, to not look as desperate as you feel.
“I agree,” you say immediately. “I won’t ask for more.”
He nods once, sharply, as though sealing the decision before he can change his mind. “Good.”
Without another word, he turns and starts walking again – this time not away from you, but forward, deeper into the forest, expecting you to follow.
And you do.
Because for now, this reluctant knight is the only thing standing between you and a world that wants you dead.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The castle does not breathe without you.
Its halls, once alive with familiar rhythms and gentle routines, now pulse with frantic motion and barely contained hysteria. Torches are lit long before dusk, their flames flickering wildly against stone walls as guards race through corridors with orders shouted half-formed and half-mad. Servants scurry like startled birds, clutching messages, dropping trays, whispering prayers beneath their breath as the weight of the morning’s horrors settles deeper into the marrow of the place.
The court is in uproar.
Advisors argue in tight circles, voices overlapping, fingers stabbing at maps spread across long tables as they debate routes, forests, borders, and the likelihood of escape. Messengers are dispatched in all directions, boots pounding across cobblestone courtyards, horses saddled and driven hard as though speed alone might undo what has already been done.
“She couldn’t have gone far-”
“Seal the eastern passes-”
“The forest is dangerous-”
“Dangerous or not, she’s a traitor-”
That word spreads faster than truth ever could.
Traitor.
It slides easily from mouth to mouth now, spoken with fear, with anger, with righteous certainty. Your name is no longer said aloud, nor your title. It doesn’t deserve to be. Not anymore.
Edrea stands at the heart of the chaos, dressed in mourning black that clings elegantly to her frame, her expression carved into perfect devastation. She weeps openly when nobles approach her, pressing gloved hands to her face, allowing her shoulders to tremble just enough to sell the grief. She accepts condolences with quiet dignity, nodding as though each one is a burden she never asked to carry.
“They will find her,” she says softly, voice breaking in all the right places. “They must. For the kingdom. For my parents.”
Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her voice fragile. Her performance flawless.
“Bring the traitor back,” she demands moments later, fury sharpened and public, her voice carrying across the hall with unmistakable authority. “Dead or alive. She will answer for what she’s done.”
Guards bow deeply at her feet.“Yes, Your Grace.”
The castle obeys.
Search parties spill from the gates, banners snapping violently in the wind as soldiers disappear into the treeline you vanished into hours earlier. The bells toll again, this time not as warning, but as declaration. The kingdom has chosen its truth, and it will hunt until it is satisfied.
Eventually, when the court has exhausted itself into grim, relentless motion, Edrea excuses herself with practiced grace. She retreats to her chambers alone, the heavy doors closing behind her with a finality that echoes long after the sound fades.
Inside, silence reigns.
She moves to the tall window overlooking the forest, the same forest that now swallows you whole, and peers out across the endless sea of green stretching toward the horizon. For a moment, she allows herself to drop the act completely.
The tears vanish .The grief evaporates. The mask falls away.
A slow, wicked smile curves her lips as she presses her fingertips lightly against the glass. “Run,” she murmurs softly, almost fondly. “Let’s see how long you last.”
The forest does not answer. But it listens.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time the sun begins to sink, the forest has changed its mind about you.
The light thins first, fading in uneven strands through the canopy until the world is painted in deep greens and bruised blues, shadows stretching long and crooked across the forest floor. What warmth the day offered slips away quietly, replaced by a creeping cold that settles into your damp clothes and clings there, persistent and unforgiving. Every breath you take begins to fog faintly in front of your mouth, a soft reminder of how quickly comfort can be stolen.
The forest grows louder as darkness approaches.
Branches creak overhead as though the trees themselves are shifting, adjusting their weight, whispering to one another in a language you don’t understand. Somewhere deeper within the undergrowth, something small scurries away at your passing, leaves rustling sharply before falling still again. Insects hum low and constant, a steady pulse beneath the quiet, while farther off, an unfamiliar call echoes – long, hollow, and not quite animal.
You pull your sleeves closer around yourself without realising it, fingers stiff from cold and exhaustion.
Mingi moves ahead of you without slowing, his presence a dark, solid shape against the thinning light. He knows this forest in a way you don’t – not intimately, perhaps, but enough to read its signs. His steps are careful but confident, avoiding the worst of the roots and uneven ground, angling his body instinctively to keep the densest brush at his back.
As night settles fully, the forest reveals its true nature.
Eyes glint briefly from the shadows before disappearing again. Wings beat suddenly overhead, sending a rush of air through the branches. Something howls in the distance, low and mournful, and is answered moments later by another voice farther away, the sound threading unease straight through your spine.
This place is alive in the dark. And not all of it feels welcoming.
The temperature continues to drop, the cold sharpens until it seeps into your bones, and the smell of damp earth grows heavier with every step. Moss glows faintly in patches along fallen logs, pale and ghostlike, and the path ahead becomes harder to distinguish as the forest swallows what little light remains.
You realise, with a quiet flicker of fear, that if Mingi were to disappear into the trees now, you would have no idea how to follow him. The thought settles uncomfortably in your chest. Night has claimed the forest. And you are very far from home.
The cold creeps in slowly at first, subtle enough to ignore until it isn’t.
Your fingers stiffen, numb at the tips, and a shiver works its way through you despite your best efforts to suppress it. Your damp dress clings uncomfortably to your legs, the fabric growing heavier with every step, and the deeper you move into the forest the more the temperature seems to drop, as though the sun took any remaining warmth with it when it vanished.
Mingi does not slow. Does not turn. Does not acknowledge the quiet tremor running through you.
You glare at his broad back, irritation bubbling up beneath your exhaustion. “Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, the words barely audible over the crunch of leaves and twigs.
He doesn’t react.
You huff softly, wrapping your arms around yourself as another shiver shakes through you. “Do you ever take that stupid thing off?” you ask, voice edged with fatigue and annoyance.
He stops. Just long enough to make you wonder if you’ve finally pushed too far. “What thing,” he replies evenly, without turning around.
You stare at him for a moment, incredulous. Then you lift a hand and point directly at his head. “Your helm. The walking fortress you’ve decided to permanently attach to your skull.”
He turns slowly this time, helmet catching what little light filters through the trees, and the look you imagine behind it is unimpressed at best.
“No,” he says curtly. That’s it. No elaboration. No explanation.
You scoff quietly. “You’re really not going to explain that, are you?” Silence answers you.
You shake your head, muttering something about knights and their secrets as you fall back into step behind him, your irritation doing little to warm you but at least keeping your mind off the cold. The forest thickens further ahead, the trees giving way to a cluster of massive stone formations jutting up from the earth like the broken spine of something ancient.
Mingi slows then, scanning the area with practiced ease.
Between two towering slabs of rock, half-hidden by creeping ivy and shadow, is a narrow opening – more of a fissure than a cave, really, but deep enough to block the wind and wide enough to crouch inside. The stone around it is worn smooth, as though it has sheltered travelers before you, and the ground beneath looks dry compared to the forest floor outside.
He gestures toward it briefly. “We’ll stop here.”
You peer into the space, noting its limits quickly. It’s not somewhere to explore, not somewhere to linger longer than necessary, but it will keep the worst of the cold and wind at bay.
For now, it’s enough.
You step closer to the rocks, the forest noises continuing around you as night settles fully in, and for the first time since leaving the castle, you realise you might actually survive until morning.
Even if the company is… difficult.
The cold never fully leaves, but exhaustion dulls its edge.
You curl slightly against the stone, knees drawn in, the hard ground pressing uncomfortably into your side as your body finally begins to lose its fight against the day. The sounds of the forest fade in and out around you – sometimes sharp and startling, sometimes distant and muted – until they blend into something almost rhythmic, a low hum that pulls at your consciousness like a tide.
Your eyes slip closed. Then open again. Then close.
You drift in that strange, weightless space between waking and sleep, where time stretches thin and thoughts come untethered. You’re dimly aware of Mingi nearby, a solid presence just beyond the edge of your vision, unmoving except for the subtle shift of his weight now and then. Each time you surface, he’s still there – standing, watching, listening.
He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t lean. He doesn’t rest.
Even half-lost to sleep, you notice it.
Your lashes flutter as you glance at him again, your head lolling slightly against the rock. He stands at the mouth of the small shelter, body angled outward, sword within easy reach, helm fixed forward as though daring the forest to test him. It’s instinctive, almost unconscious, the way he positions himself , how his body blocks the narrow opening, how his attention never fully softens.
Knight training, you realise dully. It never left him.
Even now, even after abandoning his post, even after walking away from the castle and the crown and everything they represented, his body still remembers its purpose. Protect. Guard. Endure.
Something quiet twists in your chest.
“Mingi,” you murmur, your voice rough and barely more than breath as you shift, the movement pulling you back toward wakefulness. “You don’t… have to do that.”
He doesn’t look at you. “Do what.”
“Stand,” you say softly, blinking as your vision swims. “You can rest. I’ll… I’ll wake you if I hear something.”
For a moment, you think he might actually consider it. Instead, he exhales, a slow, dismissive breath that rattles faintly inside the helm. “It’s fine.”
You frown faintly, fighting the pull of sleep. “You haven’t sat down once.”
“That’s not your concern,” he replies, though there’s no real edge to it now – just habit.
Your eyes close again, then open, stubborn even in exhaustion. “We’re not walking forever,” you mumble. “You’re allowed to be human.”
He finally glances back at you then, just briefly, the angle of his helmet shifting enough that you feel the weight of his attention settle on you again. “We won’t be walking far,” he says, voice low and certain. “There’s a village nearby. Stonehaven.”
The name lingers in the cool air. “By morning,” he adds, “we’ll be there.”
Something about the way he says it – grounded, factual, unwavering – eases the tight knot in your chest more effectively than sleep ever could. You hum softly in response, the sound barely there, and this time when your eyes close, they stay closed a little longer.
You don’t see him shift his stance. You don’t see him angle himself more deliberately toward the forest. You don’t hear the way his grip tightens infinitesimally around the hilt of his sword. But he remains standing all the same.
Watching. Waiting. Keeping the dark at bay.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You are walking through the village you grew up visiting as a child, the cobbled streets stretched long and narrow beneath your feet, every stone too clean, too perfect, as though scrubbed of warmth and memory. The sky above is colourless, neither day nor night, and the air feels thick in your lungs as you move forward without quite knowing why.
People line the streets.
At first, they are familiar – bakers, smiths, women who once pressed warm bread into your hands and men who bowed awkwardly when you passed – but as you draw closer, their faces blur and sharpen into something crueler. Their eyes follow you with open disdain, their mouths twisting as whispers swell into voices.
“Traitor.”
“Murderer.”
“She killed them.”
“How could she?”
You try to speak, to explain, to tell them they are wrong, but no sound comes out. Your throat burns with the effort as the words die before they ever reach your lips. Rotten fruit strikes the ground near your feet, splattering across the stone, and something heavier follows, something meant to hurt.
The path leads inevitably upward, toward the castle.
Its gates loom impossibly tall now, iron-black and yawning wide as though expecting you. Guards flank the entrance, faces hidden beneath helmets that look disturbingly familiar, and as you step through, the air grows colder still.
Inside the throne room, Edrea waits.
She stands at the top of the dais, dressed not in mourning black but in gleaming gold, her crown heavy and radiant atop her head. Her smile is slow and wicked, curling with satisfaction as she looks down at you, eyes bright with triumph.
“You always did like the spotlight,” she says sweetly, tilting her head. “Even at the end.”
Your knees are forced to the floor.
The court surrounds you in a perfect circle, silent and unmoving, their faces pale and hollow, eyes empty of mercy. Someone reads charges you don’t recognise, words blurring together until they lose meaning entirely, and then – inevitably – comes the sentence.
Execution.
They drag you forward, through a side door, out into a courtyard drenched in shadow. A massive executioner’s sword – broad-bladed, heavy, impossibly sharp – rests against a block stained dark with old blood. The weight of it presses down on your chest even before it’s lifted, stealing your breath.
You are forced to kneel.
You lift your head at the last moment, desperate and shaking, searching for something, anything, that might save you.
Edrea watches from above, eyes gleaming, her grin unbroken.
The executioner raises the sword.
Time slows, stretching thin and brittle as the blade begins its descent, slicing through the air toward you–
—
“Wake up.”
Your eyes fly open with a sharp gasp, your body jerking violently as though ripped from the edge of a cliff. Cold air rushes into your lungs, your heart slamming so hard it hurts, your hands clawing instinctively at the ground beneath you as you struggle to orient yourself.
The forest swims back into focus. Stone. Shadow. The faint grey of early morning light filtering through the trees.
And Mingi.
He crouches in front of you, closer than he was before, one gloved hand braced against the rock beside your head. His posture is tense, his helmet angled down toward you, and though you can’t see his eyes, you can feel the intensity of his stare.
“You were thrashing,” he says, voice low and rough, threaded with unmistakable concern beneath the irritation. “Muttering. Shouting.”
Your breath shakes as you drag a hand over your face, cold sweat clinging to your skin, the echo of the blade still ringing in your ears.
“It was a dream,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
He studies you for a moment longer, as though weighing whether to say something else, then straightens slightly, stepping back just enough to give you space. “We move at first light,” he adds gruffly. “Try to stay awake this time.” But the edge in his voice doesn’t quite hide the fact that he woke you because he was worried.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dawn comes quietly, almost apologetically.
A thin wash of grey light seeps through the trees, dulling the shadows and pulling the forest slowly back into focus. The air is still cold, but no longer biting, and a faint mist curls low to the ground, clinging to roots and stone like something reluctant to leave. The night creatures retreat one by one, their calls fading into silence as birds begin to stir overhead, tentative at first, then braver as the light strengthens.
Mingi moves with efficiency as the morning settles in, checking the surrounding area with a practised sweep of his gaze before adjusting the straps of his armour. There’s no ceremony to it, no wasted motion, just habit layered over years of discipline. You push yourself upright, joints stiff, limbs heavy with the ache of too little rest, brushing dirt and dried leaves from your dress as best you can.
You glance at the narrow shelter once more before stepping away from it, oddly aware that it’s the first place you’ve slept since losing everything. As you follow him back into the forest path, you hesitate, then speak. “You said the village is called Stonehaven.”
He grunts in acknowledgement, already moving ahead.
“What’s it like?” you ask, more cautiously now. “How far is it from here?”
He lets out a short, humourless scoff. “You really don’t know.”
You bristle immediately, irritation sparking back to life as fatigue loosens its grip. “Why would I?”
He slows just enough to glance back at you, head tilting. “It’s one of the oldest trading villages in the region. Neutral ground. Merchants, hunters, travellers. Everyone knows it.”
You lift your chin, defensive heat rising in your chest. “It’s not part of my kingdom.”
“That’s the problem,” he replies flatly. “You think borders excuse ignorance.”
You stop walking. “That’s not fair.”
He turns fully this time, arms crossing over his chest with a quiet clink of metal. “You’re royalty. You’re taught maps before you can write your own name.”
“You think I sat around memorising villages for fun?” you snap back. “I learned what I was told to learn. And Stonehaven was never relevant to my duties.”
“Must be nice,” he mutters.
Your jaw tightens. “You don’t get to decide what I was allowed to know.”
He studies you for a moment, the silence stretching just long enough to feel pointed. “You could’ve asked.”
You laugh sharply. “Asked who? My sister?” The word tastes bitter. “She didn’t exactly encourage curiosity.”
Something in his posture shifts at that – not quite sympathy, not quite concession, but enough to ease the edge of his stance. “Stonehaven doesn’t care where you’re from,” he says finally, turning back toward the path. “That’s why it’s safe. As long as you don’t act like you own the place.”
“I don’t,” you say, following him again. “And I never did.”
He hums softly, noncommittal. “We’ll see.”
The forest opens slightly as you walk, the trees thinning just enough to let the morning light through in pale ribbons, and despite the tension still crackling between you, the path ahead feels more real now – less like running, more like moving toward something.
Even if neither of you is ready to admit what that something might be yet.
The forest stretches on around you as you walk, the path narrowing until it’s barely more than a suggestion between the trees, the ground soft beneath your boots and scattered with pine needles that dull the sound of your steps. Morning light filters down in broken shafts, catching on leaves and moss and damp stone, but for all its quiet beauty, the woods feel strangely restrained – as though something is being deliberately held back.
You glance around, frowning slightly.
“It’s… quiet,” you say at last, your voice low, careful not to carry. “Too quiet.”
Mingi doesn’t slow. “You expected otherwise?”
You hesitate, then nod. “All the stories I grew up hearing – about this forest, about what lives in it–” You gesture vaguely to the dense greenery around you. “I thought we’d have seen something by now. Or heard it.”
You swallow, eyes flicking to the shadows between the trees. “I knew better than to come in here. I always stayed near the edge. Close enough to run back if something went wrong.”
He lets out a soft, humourless huff. “That’s because you were smart.”
You look at him, surprised by the lack of insult.
He continues, eyes scanning the undergrowth with quiet focus. “We’re not deep enough yet. The creatures worth fearing don’t linger near borders.”
Your brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because borders mean people,” he replies simply. “Guards. Hunters. Fires. Steel.”
He steps over a thick root, his voice steady as he speaks. “Creatures that survive long enough to become legends learn quickly where not to linger. The closer you are to a kingdom, the more likely you are to run into poachers, mercenaries, or someone desperate enough to try their luck.”
You feel a chill that has nothing to do with the cold.
“The deeper you go,” he adds, “the higher the prize.”
You glance back the way you came, unease curling in your stomach. “Prize?”
He finally looks at you then, helmet tilting slightly. “The more mystical the creature, the more someone’s willing to pay for it. Teeth. Scales. Blood. Bones. Magic.”
Your mouth goes dry. “So the stories…” you murmur.
“Are watered down,” he finishes. “Parents tell their children about monsters so they don’t wander. They don’t tell them about men.”
The words settle heavily between you as the forest thickens again, the trees pressing closer, the light dimming just a fraction more with every step forward. For the first time, you realise that the forest’s silence isn’t emptiness. It’s restraint. And whatever lives deeper within it is simply waiting for you to cross the invisible line.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The forest does not end so much as it loosens its grip.
The trees thin gradually, their branches pulling back as though reluctantly making room, and the dense hush of the woods gives way to a different kind of noise – low, constant, alive. The scent of damp earth shifts too, mingling with smoke, hay, and animals, and when you step out from between the last line of trees, the land opens into a wide, uneven clearing that stretches farther than you expected.
Mingi slows, then stops. “That’s it,” he says simply.
You follow his gaze.
Stonehaven sprawls before you in a way that feels almost chaotic at first glance, nothing like the carefully planned villages nestled beneath your old castle’s shadow. There are no stone walls here, no towers rising proudly toward the sky, no polished streets or carved gates to announce importance. Instead, the village feels grown rather than built, shaped by need and time rather than authority.
Most of the buildings are made from wood, their frames rough and darkened by weather, packed with straw and clay, roofs thick with thatch weighed down by old planks and stones. Hay bales are stacked haphazardly beside homes, some already half-collapsed where animals have clearly helped themselves. Smoke curls lazily from crooked chimneys, carrying the scent of cooking grain and burning peat into the air.
The paths between the buildings are wide but uneven, churned thick with mud from boots, hooves, and wagon wheels, the earth dark and sticky beneath your steps. You have to watch where you place your feet, lifting your skirts slightly to keep them from dragging through the worst of it, and even then the hem quickly darkens with grime.
People move everywhere.
They are rugged, broad-shouldered, sun-worn, dressed in layers of wool and leather patched so many times it’s hard to tell what the original fabric was meant to be. Men and women alike carry tools rather than weapons – hoes, buckets, knives meant for work rather than war – and children dart between them with careless energy, shrieking laughter trailing behind them as they chase one another through the mud.
Animals roam freely among it all.
Goats bleat as they clamber over low fences and stone piles, completely unconcerned with where they are meant to be. Cows stand placidly in the middle of the paths, chewing lazily while villagers step around them without complaint. Pigs root noisily through discarded scraps near the edges of homes, their grunts mixing with the clatter of tools and raised voices calling instructions.
It is loud. Messy. Alive. Nothing here gleams. Nothing here bows.
And yet, as you stand at the edge of the clearing, taking it all in, there is an undeniable sense of purpose in the way everyone moves, each person bound to the land, to their work, to one another, without the brittle politeness of court life or the suffocating weight of hierarchy.
It is nothing like home. And somehow… that makes it feel safer.
You glance at Mingi, who is already scanning the village with the same wary focus he used in the forest, posture still guarded, helm still firmly in place.
“This is where I leave you,” he says quietly, not unkindly, but final.
You look back at Stonehaven, heart pounding with a strange mix of fear and reluctant hope, aware that crossing into this village means stepping into a life completely unknown.
A life without titles. Without protection. Without certainty.
But also… without Edrea. And for now, that is enough.
You turn toward him slowly, the weight of everything that has happened settling heavily but steadily into your bones, and offer him a small, polite nod, the kind drilled into you since childhood, even now refusing to fully leave your body.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For bringing me this far.” It isn’t grand. It isn’t dramatic. But it’s sincere.
He inclines his head a fraction in response, already shifting his weight as though preparing to leave, his presence angled away from you and back toward the road that led deeper into the forest.
“And you?” you ask, hesitating only briefly. “What will you do now?”
Before he can answer, before the question can settle between you, a loud, sharp shriek slices through the village air.
“HEY-YOU – STOP RIGHT THERE–!”
A large man barrels toward you from between two houses, boots splashing loudly through the mud, arms flailing with frantic urgency. You startle violently, stumbling back a step as your heart leaps into your throat, the sound ripping you straight back into the instinctive terror of being chased.
Mingi reacts instantly.
He moves in front of you in a single, fluid motion, armor shifting with a sharp clink as his hand snaps to the hilt of his sword. The blade is halfway free before the man skids to a halt, throwing his hands high into the air with a panicked shout.
“WAIT— WAIT— NO— NO HARM— NO HARM, I SWEAR—”!
Mingi freezes, sword hovering dangerously close to being drawn fully, his stance coiled and lethal, every inch of him screaming threat. The man gulps visibly, eyes darting between the steel and the imposing figure holding it.
“I mean it,” the man pants, breathless, palms still raised. “I don’t want trouble – gods, I like my head where it is – I just – I’ve got a message. An important one.”
The word lands with weight.
Mingi doesn’t lower his hand, but his grip tightens slightly instead, suspicion radiating from him in quiet waves. “For who,” he asks, voice low and edged with warning.
The man swallows, then gestures vaguely between the two of you. “For… well. For you. And-” his eyes flick briefly to you, lingering with curiosity before snapping back to Mingi "certainly for the lady you’re travelling with.”
That is enough to give Mingi pause.
He studies the man for a long, silent moment, helmet tilted just enough to suggest scrutiny rather than immediate violence. Finally, he eases the sword back into its sheath with a controlled movement, though his body remains tense, ready to strike again if needed.
“Talk,” he says.
“Not here,” the man replies quickly, lowering his hands but keeping them visible. “Walls have ears in Stonehaven. Come with me. My place isn’t far.”
Mingi hesitates only a second before nodding curtly. He glances back at you, just briefly, as though checking you’re still there, then gestures with his head toward the man. “Lead.”
The man exhales in relief and turns, weaving quickly through the muddy paths between the houses. You follow, heart thudding with unease and curiosity in equal measure, past goats tied to fence posts and children who pause to stare openly at the sight of a fully armoured knight moving through their village.
At the edge of the clearing, the man stops in front of a small, squat house built from dark wood and packed clay, its roof sagging slightly beneath layers of straw. Smoke curls lazily from a crooked chimney, and a bundle of drying herbs hangs beside the door.
“This way,” he mutters, pushing it open.
And as you step inside after them, you have the distinct feeling that whatever message he carries is about to change far more than either of you intended.
The inside of the house is warm in a way the forest never was.
Wooden beams stretch overhead, darkened with age and smoke, their surfaces etched with old tool marks and small, careful carvings that suggest hands more used to work than ornament. The walls are lined with shelves cluttered with jars of dried herbs, coils of rope, rusted tools, and bundles of seeds wrapped in cloth. A simple hearth crackles quietly at the far end of the room, casting a soft orange glow across the packed earth floor and the rough table set at its centre.
It smells like soil, smoke, and something faintly sweet.
Mingi steps inside last, filling the doorway before nudging it shut with his heel, his presence immediately dominating the small space. He doesn’t remove his helm. He doesn’t relax. His hand remains close to his sword as his voice cuts through the quiet, low and unforgiving.
“You’ve got a minute,” he says. “Explain yourself.”
The man swallows, nodding quickly. “Right, yes. Of course.” He clears his throat, straightening slightly. “Name’s Martinus. Groundskeeper here in Stonehaven. I tend the outer fields, keep an eye on who comes and goes.”
You watch him carefully as he speaks, searching his face for any hint of deception, but all you see is urgency, and something else beneath it. Sympathy.
“Word’s travelled faster than your sister would’ve liked,” Martinus continues, glancing briefly at you before turning his attention back to Mingi. “About what happened in Eirendale. The king. The queen. The accusations.” His mouth tightens. “And about Edrea being crowned.”
Your breath catches. “So quickly?” you ask quietly.
He nods. “Too quickly for lies to settle comfortably.”
Your chest tightens as the weight of it presses in. “I didn’t do it,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I swear– I would never – ”
“I know,” Martinus says immediately, holding up a hand. “Most of us do.”
You blink, stunned.
“Villages beyond your borders have eyes,” he continues calmly. “And memories. Your sister’s reputation didn’t stop at the castle gates. People remember the way she spoke to traders. To farmers. To the messengers who brought bad news.” He snorts quietly. “No one’s surprised she’d spill blood for a crown.”
Your knees feel weak, relief and grief tangling painfully together.
Mingi shifts beside you. “Get to the point.”
Martinus nods again, expression sharpening as though bracing himself. “There’s a kingdom far to the west – beyond the ridge and the long coast. Ruled by a young king. No wife. No heirs.”
Your heart stutters.
“He’s heard what happened,” Martinus continues. “And he’s offering sanctuary to the princess of Eirendale.” He pauses deliberately. “Along with his hand in marriage.”
The words hang heavy in the air. You stare at him, shock rippling through you in slow waves. “Marriage?”
Mingi turns sharply toward him. “Why?”
“Because marriage is protection,” Martinus replies simply. “A claim. A declaration that touching her would mean war.”
You swallow hard. “But the kingdoms…” you begin.
“Already teetering,” Martinus finishes. “Edrea’s made enemies fast. Borders are tense. Trade’s slowing. Knights won’t cross into contested land – not yet. Not without blood being spilled.”
Mingi’s jaw tightens beneath the helm.
“He can’t send soldiers,” Martinus says. “But if she can reach him – if she can travel – his gates will open. No questions. No chains. Safety.”
You feel the room tilt slightly around you, hope and terror colliding in your chest. “This message,” you whisper. “How many people know?”
“Enough,” Martinus says quietly. “Every village outside Eirendale worth trusting has heard. Word’s being carried by traders, sailors, wanderers.” He meets your gaze steadily. “You’re not as alone as Edrea wants you to believe.”
Silence settles.The fire crackles. The house creaks softly. And the future shifts shape in front of you – dangerous, uncertain, and suddenly very real. And standing beside you, silent and armoured, is the only man who might get you there alive.
You draw a slow breath, steadying yourself as the weight of the offer settles into something tangible enough to grasp, and then you ask the question that has been quietly pressing at the back of your mind since Martinus first spoke.
“How far,” you say carefully. “Exactly.”
Martinus hesitates, and the pause alone tells you that you won’t like the answer.
“If the other villages know the truth,” you continue, a flicker of urgency bleeding into your voice, “then I can travel openly, can’t I? Through towns, along the roads. It would be faster that way. Safer.”
For a moment, he only looks at you. Then he exhales, long and pitiful, the sound weighted with the kind of regret that comes from knowing better but wishing the world worked differently. “That wouldn’t be wise,” he says quietly.
Your stomach tightens. “Why?”
“Because Eirendale isn’t just searching its own borders,” Martinus replies, shaking his head. “Your sister sent word everywhere the moment you ran. Rewards promised. Stories twisted. Descriptions handed out like currency.” His mouth pulls into a grim line. “There are plenty of men who don’t care whether you’re innocent – only that you’re valuable.”
The hope you felt moments ago dims, cooling into something sharper and more realistic. “So how long?” you ask again, softer now.
“On foot?” he says. “Days. If you’re lucky. A week, if you’re not.” The words settle heavily in the small room, stretching the silence thin.
Mingi speaks for the first time since the offer was made. “West,” he says, voice low and certain. “Past the ridge. Across the old trade routes. Toward the coast.”
Martinus looks at him, surprised, then nods. “Aye.”
“The kingdom of Valemere,” Mingi continues, as though testing the name against his own memory. “White cliffs. Deep harbours. Neutral ports.”
Martinus’ brows lift slightly. “You know it.”
“Of it,” Mingi replies. “Far enough that Eirendale’s reach thins. Strong enough that Edrea wouldn’t dare cross its borders without consequence.”
Martinus inclines his head. “That’s the one.”
You swallow, the word Valemere echoing softly in your thoughts, no longer just a rumour or a whispered promise but a real place – distant, dangerous to reach, and possibly the only future left to you.
“A week,” you murmur, half to yourself.
A week of forests. Of roads you can’t take. Of hiding when you should be welcomed. And beside you, Mingi remains silent once more, his presence heavy and immovable, as though the distance has already begun to calculate itself in his mind.
The journey is no longer theoretical. It is real. And it is long.
You turn back to Martinus slowly, the weight of everything he’s said pressing into your chest in a way that makes it hard to tell where fear ends and fragile hope begins.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For telling me. For believing me.”
He waves a hand as though brushing the gratitude aside, though his expression softens. “You’re welcome to stay long enough to eat,” he says. “Fill your waters. Take bread, dried meat, whatever you need. Stonehaven won’t turn you away—not today.”
Relief loosens something in your shoulders. “I won’t forget that.”
Martinus nods, then straightens slightly. “Luck be with you, Princess. You’ll need it.” His gaze flicks briefly to Mingi. “Both of you.”
You incline your head in a polite bow, one last echo of a life you’re not sure you’ll ever fully leave behind, and then you step back out into the village.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The air outside feels fresher somehow, cooler against your face as you draw in a long breath and let it out slowly. Stonehaven hums around you – animals shifting, people calling to one another, the scrape of tools against earth – but for a moment you stand still, letting the noise remind you that the world is still moving, still alive, even after everything you’ve lost.
Footsteps sound behind you. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him.
Mingi stops beside you, his presence solid and grounding, the faint smell of metal and leather carrying with him. He doesn’t speak at first, and neither do you. Instead, you watch a group of villagers wrestle a stubborn goat away from a sack of grain, their laughter sharp and real.
Finally, you glance up at him. “Can I trust it?” you ask quietly. “This… offer.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, the way his head tilts slightly as though he’s sorting through memories rather than rumours. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, careful.
“I’ve never heard anything bad about him,” he says. “Not from traders. Not from soldiers. Not even from men who like to complain.”
You swallow. “You know his name.”
He nods once. “King Aurelian of Valemere.”
The name settles into you, familiar andt steady, carrying with it the image of a place far from Eirendale’s reach and a man whose reputation has not yet curdled into cruelty.
“People say he’s young,” Mingi adds. “But fair. Keeps his word.”
You let the words sit, fingers curling lightly at your sides as you stare out at the village ahead, at the road that will eventually pull you westward whether you’re ready or not.
Fair. Young. A king who listens. It isn’t certainty. But it’s something. And for now, that may be enough.
The idea lingers long after you stop speaking about it.
Marriage.
It feels strange to think of the word in connection to yourself now, stripped of ceremony and choice and carefully planned alliances. You’ve always known it would come one day – your hand offered across a table, your future negotiated in quiet rooms – but you never imagined it would arrive like this, whispered in a stranger’s house as a lifeline rather than a celebration.
“I’ve heard of him,” you say eventually, more to fill the silence than anything else. “King Aurelian.” You hesitate, then add, almost awkwardly, “They say he’s… handsome.”
Mingi makes a sound that could generously be described as acknowledgment. “That’s usually the least important thing,” he replies flatly.
You glance at him, unimpressed. “Comforting.”
He doesn’t rise to it, only shifts his weight slightly, gaze fixed ahead as though already mapping the road in his mind. The lack of response makes your thoughts wander again, spiralling through what-ifs and half-formed fears until you shake your head, grounding yourself.
“Well,” you say, straightening slightly, “if that’s where I’m meant to go, I should probably start moving in the right direction.” You look around, then back at him. “Which way?”
He turns to face you. Even with his face hidden, the look he gives you is unmistakable. It’s sharp. Flat. Utterly incredulous.
You blink. “What?”
“What,” he repeats, as though testing the word. “Is wrong with you.”
Your brows knit immediately. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not walking there alone,” he says, the statement so firm it leaves no room for debate.
The certainty in his voice catches you off guard. “I didn’t say I was.”
“You were thinking it,” he replies.
You open your mouth to argue, then shut it again when you realise he’s right.
He exhales through his nose, clearly irritated. “The route to Valemere cuts straight through the deep forest. Not the edges. Not the border paths.” He gestures vaguely westward. “The outskirts would double the travel time, and that’s if you’re lucky.”
“And if I’m not?”
“They’ll expect you to avoid the forest,” he says simply. “Soldiers will search the roads, the villages, the crossings. Every place you should be.”
The implication settles coldly in your chest.
“Out here,” he continues, voice low and certain, “you’re harder to track. But alone?” He shakes his head once. “You wouldn’t make it.”
You study him for a moment, something cautious and searching flickering behind your eyes. “So what – you’re escorting me now?”
His jaw tightens beneath the helm. “I’m not letting Edrea’s men find you bleeding in the undergrowth,” he says. “Not after all this.”
It’s not comfort. It’s not kindness. But it is a promise.
And for the first time since Stonehaven came into view, the road ahead – dangerous, dark, and impossibly long – doesn’t feel quite as lonely as it did moments before.
You let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that pulls itself up from somewhere deep in your chest, and nod once.
“Alright,” you say. “But I should fill up before we leave. Food. Water.”
Mingi inclines his head slightly, already turning toward the heart of the village. “Good.” He pauses, just briefly, then glances back at you. “You have a weapon?”
You hesitate, then shake your head. “I dropped my dagger while I was running. Somewhere between the castle and the forest.” You grimace faintly. “But I can use a bow.”
You wait for it – the disbelief, the sharp comment, the inevitable reminder of what a princess should or shouldn’t be able to do. It never comes.
Instead, a low sound escapes him, quiet and unexpected. A chuckle. It’s rough and brief, more breath than laughter, but it still catches you completely off guard.
“I know,” he says simply.
You blink. “You – what?”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t slow. He just turns and starts walking toward the market stalls at the centre of Stonehaven, armour shifting with each step, voice carrying easily back to you. “Come on,” he adds, almost casually. “Let’s get you to your husband in one piece.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… real.
You watch his broad back for a moment before following, heart thudding with something dangerously close to anticipation, and as you step forward – toward supplies, toward the road west, toward a future you never planned – you can’t shake the feeling that the most dangerous part of this journey hasn’t even begun yet.
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