Chapter 35: Flight into Darkness
The cool kiss of dew on her bare ankles, the rhythmic sigh of the wind through moon-silvered grass – Liliana finally felt the suffocating pressure in her chest begin to loosen. Seren nudged her shoulder, warm breath puffing against her cloak. "Just needed space, girl," Liliana murmured, her voice swallowed by the vast, quiet night. "Too many… voices." Cyros’s honeyed words, Apollo’s intense gaze, the Emperor’s disapproval – all momentarily muted by the ancient hills.
The crack of splintering wood shattered the silence. Not thunder. Too close.
Liliana whirled, her Jaguar instincts instantly overriding fatigue. Three figures detached from the deeper shadows of a nearby hawthorn grove, spreading out across the slope below her. Moonlight glinted dully on short swords and the nocked arrow of a compact recurve bow. Their movements were silent, efficient. Mercenaries. Or worse.
Seren screamed – a high, equine shriek of pure terror. Liliana saw the mare’s muscles bunch an instant before the arrow struck. It hit Seren high on the shoulder with a sickening thud. The grey mare reared, pawing wildly at the air, the force of the impact and her own panic combining to unbalance her.
"Seren!" Liliana lunged, too late.
The mare crashed sideways, throwing Liliana violently through the air. Time stretched, horribly thin. The world spun: silver grass, black sky, Seren’s thrashing legs. Then the impact. Air exploded from Liliana’s lungs as she slammed into the hard, damp earth. Pain, sharp and immediate, lanced through her hip and shoulder. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue.Move. The command screamed in her mind, overriding the dizzying pain. Shadows shifted – the attackers closing in, swords drawn, the archer already reaching for another arrow. Seren struggled weakly, a terrible gurgling sound escaping her. No time.
Liliana rolled, scrambling to her feet with a gasp. Her left ankle screamed protest, threatening to buckle. Bare soles slapped against cold, uneven turf as she pushed off, abandoning Seren, abandoning the clearing. She dove headlong into the inky blackness beneath the hawthorns, thorns tearing at her cloak and bare arms like claws.
"After her!" A guttural voice snarled. Boots pounded the earth behind her, closing fast.
The Whispering Hills weren't gentle tonight. They were a labyrinth of treacherous shadows, roots that snaked out to grab her injured ankle, low branches that whipped her face. Her breath tore ragged in her throat. Every jarring step sent fresh waves of pain radiating from her hip. She could hear them – two, maybe three – crashing through the undergrowth behind her, their movements less graceful, louder, but terrifyingly persistent. The archer hadn’t followed; he’d stay high, find a clear shot. The knowledge was ice in her veins.
She stumbled over a hidden root, catching herself on a rough-barked tree trunk. Her hand came away sticky with sap – or blood. She couldn’t tell. Moonlight filtered weakly through the dense canopy, creating deceptive pools of light and deep, swallowing darkness. She pressed herself flat against the tree, chest heaving, trying to muffle the sound. Listening.
Silence. Then, the crunch of a boot snapping a twig. Off to her right. Too close.
"Spread out," the same guttural voice commanded, lower now. "Check the thickets. She’s hobbled."
Hobbled. True. Liliana scanned the patchy moonlight. A denser thicket of brambles lay ahead, promising deeper cover, deeper scratches. Beyond that, the land seemed to drop away steeply. A ravine? Or just more treacherous slope? Either offered risk. Staying meant discovery.
She took a shallow breath, gathering herself, ready to bolt for the thicket’s dubious safety. Then she saw him. Silhouetted against a rare shaft of moonlight on a small rise ten paces away. The archer. He wasn’t looking at her; he was scanning the slope below, the recurve bow half-drawn. An easy shot if she broke cover now.
The archer’s outline sharpened against the pale moonlight, an unmoving statue scanning the chaotic slope below. Liliana’s breath hitched, every scrape and bruise from the fall screaming for attention. Dead if I stay. Dead if I run wrong. Seren’s final, wet gurgle echoed in her memory, fueling a cold rage that momentarily eclipsed the fear. C
"See anything?" a harsh whisper drifted from her left, closer than she liked.
The archer didn’t turn. "Not yet. She’s pinned. Check the gully edge."
Liliana’s fingers dug into the rough bark. Pinned. They thought she was cornered, injured prey. Maybe she was. Her ankle throbbed, a hot pulse mirroring her racing heart. The thicket offered thorns and maybe cover, but the archer’s line of sight was clear. The ravine beyond was a sheer drop into unknown blackness. Apollo’s face flashed in her mind – that rare, devastating smile reserved for court, not for barefoot fugitives bleeding in the dirt. The thought of never seeing it again was a sharper pain than her hip.
LILIANA TOOK IN A DEEP BREATH, IGNORED THE PAIN AND SPRINTED INTO THE FOREST.
Not towards the thicket. Not towards the drop. Straight at the archer’s position. A desperate, diagonal lunge across the patchy moonlight. Surprise was her only weapon. Her bare feet found purchase on slick grass, then skidded on loose shale. She pitched forward, momentum carrying her into an awkward, rolling somersault just as the startled archer loosed his arrow. It hissed through the air where her head had been, thudding into the turf.
"Here! She's making for the ridge!" the archer bellowed, fumbling for another arrow.
Liliana was already scrambling up, ignoring the fresh sting of scraped knees and palms. She vaulted over a moss-covered boulder, landing hard on the other side. The ridge wasn't safety; it was just another obstacle. But it bought seconds. Below, the two swordsmen cursed, crashing through brush as they redirected their chase uphill. Their boots were loud, clumsy on the uneven ground compared to her silent, desperate flight.
She hit a denser patch of ancient oaks, their gnarled roots twisting like serpents in the gloom. Moonlight vanished, replaced by an oppressive, leafy darkness that smelled of damp earth and decaying wood. Her lungs burned. Every muscle trembled with strain and shock. She pressed her back against a massive trunk, listening, trying to control her ragged gasps. The shouts sounded farther away now, confused.
"...lost her in the dark!"
"Idiot! Fan out! She can’t have gone far with that limp."
"Check the creek bed!"
A faint, rhythmic drip... drip... drip reached her ears, incongruous in the tense silence. Not water. Too thick. She glanced down. Dark liquid welled steadily from a deep gash on her forearm she hadn’t even felt, pooling in her palm before falling onto the leaf litter below. Trail. Panic flared anew. She ripped a strip from her already tattered undershirt with her teeth, wrapping the wound hastily, tying it tight with trembling fingers. The coarse fabric bit into her skin.
Movement. A rustle, too deliberate, too close, to her left. Not a pursuer crashing – something quieter, stalking. Liliana froze, every sense straining. She slid her hand to her hip where her dagger should be. Empty. Lost in the fall. Her training screamed at her vulnerability. Think like prey hides. Think like the Jaguar you are. She melted lower, becoming a shadow among shadows, her pink curls tucked close against the rough bark.
A low, guttural growl vibrated through the still air, seeming to come from the very roots of the tree she leaned against. It wasn’t human. Liliana’s blood ran cold. The mercenaries were one nightmare. The Whispering Hills held older, wilder terrors her mother’s lullabies never mentioned. The growl deepened, accompanied by the soft crunch of heavy paws on dry leaves, circling.
The growl deepened, accompanied by the soft crunch of heavy paws on dry leaves, circling. Liliana pressed harder against the ancient oak, the rough bark scraping her cheek, her own breath a frantic, silent gasp trapped in her throat. Something large, something primal, was hunting her in the dark. Not the clumsy mercenaries. Worse.
A twig snapped sharply to her right, followed by a startled curse – human. "What in the hells?" one of her pursuers hissed, his voice thick with sudden fear. The heavy paw-steps paused, then shifted direction with a low, rumbling snarl, drawn towards the new sound.
Chaos erupted. A panicked yell tore through the trees, followed by the frantic clash of steel against something hard and fast. "Bear! It's a damned bear!" The mercenary's scream ended abruptly in a wet, tearing sound and a heavy thud. The other man shouted incoherently, the ring of desperate sword blows echoing briefly before another sickening crunch silenced him.
Liliana didn't wait. She pushed off the tree, ignoring the screaming protest from her ankle and the throb of her bleeding arm. Survival screamed louder. She stumbled through the ink-black woods, guided only by the fading sounds of violence behind her and the desperate need for distance. Moonlight finally pierced the canopy ahead, revealing a small clearing choked with tall ferns.
And horses. Three sturdy geldings, tethered hastily to a low branch, their ears pinned back, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood and fear drifting from the woods. Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over her. The mercenaries' mounts. Their owners wouldn't be needing them.
She moved fast, her movements jerky with adrenaline and pain. Her fingers fumbled with the simple knot securing the nearest horse, a sturdy bay. "Easy, easy," she breathed, her voice raw. The horse snorted, skittering sideways, but didn't bolt. She grabbed a handful of mane, swung herself awkwardly onto its bare back, and dug her bare heels hard into its flanks.
"Hyah!" The bay surged forward, crashing through the ferns and out onto the open slope of the Whispering Hills. Wind whipped her tangled pink curls back, stinging her eyes. She leaned low, urging the horse faster, faster, away from the nightmare behind her, away from the clearing where Seren lay, away from everything familiar. The cool night air rushed past, carrying the fading echoes of snarls and the metallic scent of her own blood. She didn't look back.
She rode through the remaining hours of darkness, the bay's powerful strides eating the miles. The moon dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into profound blackness broken only by the faintest starlight. Liliana clung on, guided by instinct and the horse’s sure footing, her body a map of aches – the bruised hip, the throbbing ankle, the arm wound pulsing beneath its crude bandage. Exhaustion warred with terror, each jarring step a fresh agony.
Dawn crept in, grey and hesitant, revealing a landscape utterly alien. The gentle, familiar undulations of the Whispering Hills were gone. Instead, jagged, rocky outcrops thrust from the earth like broken teeth, draped in unfamiliar mosses. Strange, twisted trees with peeling silver bark replaced the sturdy oaks. A thin mist clung to the hollows, obscuring any landmarks. Liliana reined the weary bay to a halt on a high, windswept ledge, her heart sinking. Nothing looked right. Nothing felt right.
"Where...?" she whispered, the word lost in the vast, indifferent silence. The hills she knew were soft, green, whispering secrets. This place felt hard, ancient, and utterly silent. She scanned the horizon desperately, turning the bay in a slow circle. Rocky slopes, mist-shrouded ravines, dense copses of those strange silver trees – all directions looked equally forbidding and unfamiliar. Panic, cold and insidious, began to coil in her gut, replacing the fading adrenaline. She was profoundly lost.
She nudged the bay forward again, descending into a narrow valley choked with mist and thick, thorny underbrush. The horse picked its way carefully, head low, as tired as she was. Hours bled into one another. The sun climbed higher, burning off some mist but revealing only more of the same harsh, unfamiliar terrain. Her water skin was empty, her mouth parched. Hunger gnawed, a dull counterpoint to the sharper pains. Every hopeful crest revealed only another desolate vista. Despair settled over her like a shroud. She was circling, she realized dully, recognizing a peculiarly twisted tree she’d passed hours ago. Hopeless.
Liliana slumped forward, resting her forehead against the bay’s warm neck. The horse stopped, blowing softly. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and humiliating. Cyros’s letter, tucked away, felt like a cruel joke. Apollo felt impossibly distant. The Jaguar guard felt like a dream. She was just a lost, bleeding girl on a stolen horse in a land that didn't want her.
"Lost, Duchess?" The voice was calm, deep, and came from directly above her.
Liliana jerked upright, pain lancing through her shoulder, her hand instinctively flying to her empty dagger sheath. Perched casually on a rocky overhang ten feet above the trail, a man watched her. He was lean, dressed in practical, dark leathers that blended with the stone, his face shadowed by a hood. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of a long knife at his belt. His eyes, visible even in the shadow, held a sharp, assessing intelligence. He hadn't been there a moment ago.
Her breath hitched. "Who are you?" Her voice came out hoarse, wary. Every instinct screamed danger, but exhaustion pinned her in place.
He tilted his head slightly. "Call me Mant." A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.
The mist curled around the bay’s legs like cold fingers as Liliana stared up at the hooded figure. Mant. The name meant nothing, but the stillness in his posture screamed predator. Her fingers tightened on the reins, knuckles white against the leather. Every instinct screamed run, but the bay was spent, and the jagged rocks offered nowhere to go. "Cyros sent you?" Her voice cracked, raw from dust and fear. She remembered the prince’s elegant script describing firefly forests – a lure that felt like betrayal now.
He dropped soundlessly from the ledge, landing in a crouch before straightening with fluid grace. His hood shifted, revealing sharp features and eyes the colour of tarnished silver, assessing her injuries with unnerving calm. "Assigned as your shadow weeks ago," Mant stated, his voice low and devoid of flourish. He gestured towards the fading bruises on her hip, the crude bandage darkening on her forearm. "My failure. Lost sight when those mercenaries swarmed you near the hawthorns." He dipped his head, a gesture of profound respect that felt alien in the desolate landscape. "Apologies, Jaguar. Deeply."
Liliana’s breath hitched. Cyros’s sudden, intense interest. The ambush. This man appearing like a ghost in the wilderness. It stank of a game she hadn’t agreed to play. She glanced back at the twisted silver tree she’d passed twice – a mocking landmark in this labyrinth of stone. Apollo’s stern face flashed in her mind, the warmth of his rare smile a distant memory against the chill mist. Could she trust a blade sent by the Eastern Prince? Mant waited, motionless, his hand resting lightly near his knife hilt, offering no threat, only stark reality.
"Safety," Mant continued, the word a quiet promise. He nodded towards a narrow, almost invisible path winding between two moss-slicked boulders. "There’s shelter nearby. Water. Supplies." His tarnished silver eyes held hers. "Please," he urged, the respect unwavering. "Follow me."
Hesitation coiled tight in Liliana’s chest, warring with the bone-deep ache in her hip, the throbbing reminder of Seren’s loss, the terrifying emptiness of not knowing east from west. The bay shifted beneath her, exhausted. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford, but the alternative was dying lost and alone in this stone maze. She met Mant’s steady gaze, searching for deceit, finding only cool competence. A slow, reluctant nod. "Lead," she rasped, nudging the weary bay forward. Mant turned without another word, melting into the path’s shadow, his dark leathers blending seamlessly with the rock as Liliana followed the assassin deeper into the silent hills.
Mant turned without another word, melting into the path’s shadow, his dark leathers blending seamlessly with the rock as Liliana followed the assassin deeper into the silent hills. The narrow track twisted between sheer, moss-slicked walls of stone, the air growing colder, damper, smelling sharply of wet earth and something vaguely metallic. Liliana kept the bay close, its warm flank brushing her injured leg, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain radiating from her hip socket. She focused on Mant’s back, a shifting patch of darkness ahead, her mind replaying Seren’s scream, the bear’s growl, the wet thuds silencing the mercenaries. Apollo felt galaxies away.
The path abruptly widened into a shallow cave mouth, hidden behind a waterfall of thick, hanging vines dripping icy water. Mant pushed them aside without a sound, gesturing her in. Inside, the space was cramped but dry, smelling faintly of old smoke and dried herbs. A low firepit sat cold in the center, surrounded by smooth stones. "Dismount," Mant instructed, his voice low but carrying easily in the confined space. "Rest. I’ll see to the horse."
Liliana slid off the bay’s back, her injured ankle buckling instantly. She caught herself on the cave wall, gritting her teeth against the sharp stab. Mant was already moving, efficiently unsaddling the bay, rubbing it down with handfuls of dry moss, his movements economical and precise. He tethered it near a trickle of water seeping from the rock wall. Only then did he turn his full attention to her, those tarnished silver eyes scanning her from tangled pink hair to bare, scraped feet. "Sit," he commanded softly, pointing to a folded blanket near the firepit. "Show me the arm first."
Hesitantly, Liliana sank onto the blanket, the rough wool scratchy against her torn leggings. She unwound the crude, blood-soaked strip of undershirt from her forearm. The gash beneath was deep, angry red, still weeping sluggishly. Mant knelt beside her, pulling a small, oiled leather pouch from his belt. He dampened a clean cloth with water from his own skin, his touch surprisingly gentle as he cleaned away the dried blood and grime. The water stung fiercely. "Bear claw?" he asked, his voice flat.
"Arrowhead," Liliana corrected, flinching as he probed the edges. "When Seren fell. Sliced me on the way down." Saying her mare’s name aloud tightened her throat unexpectedly. Mant merely nodded, pulling out a small ceramic jar filled with a pungent green paste. He applied it thickly to the wound; it burned like fire ants, then settled into a cool numbness. He bound it expertly with fresh linen strips from his pack, his fingers deft and impersonal.
He moved to her ankle next, his hands probing the swollen joint with clinical detachment. "Badly wrenched," he murmured. "Not broken." He produced another jar, this one containing a viscous, amber salve smelling strongly of wintergreen and pine resin. He warmed a dollop between his palms before applying firm, rhythmic pressure around her ankle and up her calf. The heat seeped deep, easing the sharpest edges of the pain, forcing a small sigh of relief from Liliana despite herself. His hands were strong, capable, utterly devoid of anything but practical intent. He finished by tightly wrapping the ankle with more linen for support.
Finally, he examined the deep bruise blooming across her hip and lower back, a mottled tapestry of purple and black against her pale skin visible through her torn tunic. He didn’t touch it directly, just assessed it visually. "Deep bruising. Rest will help." He rose, dusting his hands off on his leathers. From another pouch, he pulled out two flat, round objects wrapped in waxy leaves. He placed one near the cold firepit stones and began striking flint and steel onto dry tinder he’d evidently prepared earlier. Within moments, a small, efficient flame crackled to life.
He unwrapped the leaf packet near the heat. Inside was a dense, dark cake studded with nuts and dried fruit. The smell that bloomed was incredible – rich, nutty, sweet, and deeply unfamiliar. He broke off a piece and handed it to her. "Eat. It’s travel bread from the Eastern Marches. Sustenance."
Liliana took it cautiously. The texture was dense, almost crumbly, but the taste exploded on her tongue – complex sweetness from dried berries she couldn’t name, the earthy crunch of roasted seeds, a hint of something smoky and rich. It was utterly delicious, unlike anything from the Imperial kitchens. She devoured it, suddenly ravenous, the flavors momentarily eclipsing her pain and fear. Mant watched her eat, his expression unreadable, then handed her his water skin. She drank deeply, the cool water washing down the rich bread.
He ate his own portion quickly, efficiently, like refueling a machine. As soon as Liliana finished hers, he stood, kicking dirt over the small fire, plunging the cave back into cool gloom lit only by the faint daylight filtering through the vines. "We leave. Now." He began gathering his sparse supplies with swift, decisive movements.
Liliana stared, the comforting numbness from the salve warring with fresh disbelief. "Now? Mant, I can barely walk properly. The bay’s exhausted. What’s the gods-damned rush?" She gestured at her bandaged arm and wrapped ankle. "Another hour won't kill us."
He paused, strapping his pack closed with a sharp tug. His gaze, when it met hers, was utterly serious, devoid of its earlier detached calm. "Yes, Jaguar, it very well might." His voice was low, urgent. "Those mercenaries weren't just random bandits hunting Imperial strays. They were hired blades, sharp and coordinated." He moved closer, crouching before her again, his eyes intense. "There are fires burning across the Empire, Liliana. More than just Cyros's rebellion against your Emperor father-in-law."
Liliana blinked, the unfamiliar use of her name jolting her. "What?"
"His Majesty Cyros," Mant continued, the title spoken with clear reverence, "has his own enemies. Powerful ones. Old grudges, rivals who see his bid for independence as weakness. And your name..." He shook his head slightly, a flicker of something like disbelief crossing his features. "...your name, Duchess, has spread like wildfire through every court, every tavern, every rebel camp from the Western Peaks to the Salt Marshes. Everyone knows the Lost Daughter of the Eastern Marches. Everyone knows what you look like – pink hair, pink eyes, impossible to miss. Everyone knows your political importance: heir to Milodious, betrothed to Apollo, the Sun Prince's obsession." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Why do you think those blades found you the instant you slipped the Palace leash?"
A cold dread seeped into Liliana’s bones, colder than the cave floor. Cyros’s elegant letters, the vivid descriptions of the Firefly Forests... Apollo’s intense, possessive gaze... The ambush happening so fast, so precisely. The pieces clicked together with terrible clarity. Her voice came out thin, accusing. "I thought... I thought that ambush was Cyros. A rouse. To force me east. To make me run to him."
Mant recoiled as if physically struck. His eyes widened, genuine shock etching lines onto his usually impassive face. For a heartbeat, he looked utterly horrified. "Your Grace," he breathed, the respect suddenly thick with something akin to outrage. "Prince Cyros would never." He shook his head vehemently. "He would never put you in harm's way like that. Not for any purpose. And he certainly," Mant’s voice hardened, his gaze locking onto hers with fierce intensity, "would never allow you to be injured. Please." He almost pleaded, the word stark against his assassin's demeanor. "Bar that thought. It is poison."
The conviction in his voice, the raw shock, hit Liliana harder than the fall from Seren. It felt true. Utterly, devastatingly true. The implications crashed over her. Not Cyros. Not Apollo. Someone else. Many someone elses. Hunters. Her breath caught. The cave walls seemed to press closer. Mant was already moving, pulling the vines aside, the grey daylight harsh. "We move," he stated, the urgency back, sharper now. "Every moment here is a risk your enemies gladly take." He offered his hand, not to help her up, but to pull her onto the waiting bay. The silent hills outside suddenly felt infinitely more dangerous than the bear-infested woods. Liliana grasped his wrist, the rough leather cool against her skin, and let him haul her up onto the horse’s back, the taste of the Eastern bread now ashes in her mouth. Mant swung up behind her, his body a solid, alert presence at her back as he took the reins, nudged the weary bay forward, and guided them out of the meager shelter, back into the vast, watchful silence of the hills.