The inn was low-ceilinged and sour with smoke.
Rotting wood. Spilled ale. Too many eyes.
Francesca and Alberta sat in the far corner hoods drawn, hands near their belts, backs to the wall.
The fire on the hearth had long since died, leaving only sputtering coals.
They asked in whispers.
Not about names.
About echoes.
A woman who once healed without herbs. A girl with fire-colored hair.
A ruin no one wanted to remember.
The innkeeper kept glancing at them.
Too long.
Too curious.
An old man muttered into his drink.
"I heard the Duke buried a body that wasn't hers. Covered the truth with gold."
Francesca glanced sideways. Alberta stared at her untouched cup, knuckles white beneath the table.
Outside, a wind stirred dust down the silent road.
That night, Francesca stood by the warped window, watching the moon vanish behind creeping fog.
"They're watching," she said.
Alberta didn't ask who. She just nodded.
They left before dawn.
The forest was pale with mist cold and quiet.
The kind of silence that presses tight against the ribs.
Every crack of a branch felt louder. Every crow call, a warning.
Then-
a snap.
Too steady to be wild.
Francesca's hand slid to her dagger.
Shadows shifted.
Then steel.
Five of them. Maybe six. Emerging from the fog like ghosts with blades.
Francesca stepped forward, body taut.
"You're not going to touch her,"
she said coldly, slipping into a stance far too disciplined for any handmaiden.
The first attacker lunged.
She ducked the blade and drove her dagger into his side fluid, fast.
Not clean, but deadly. Another came from behind. She twisted, kicked out his knee, and rammed her elbow into his throat.
Alberta grabbed a branch swung wide, cracked one across the face. Her stance wasn't trained but it was desperate, sharp, and full of bite.
"Stay behind me!" Francesca barked, slashing a blade from a wrist.
"No," Alberta snapped, shoving another back.
"Not anymore."
Francesca moved like a storm wrapped in silk.
Every turn of her blade was survival dressed in grace.
A mercenary swung high she ducked, slashed his thigh.
Another came low she spun, kicked his chest, stabbed him before he hit the dirt.
A third grabbed her wrist. She twisted, snarl tight on her lips, and disarmed him in two elegant moves.
"You're not just a handmaiden," one attacker muttered, panting.
Francesca smiled grimly.
"I iron shirts and stab hearts. Keeps my wrists flexible."
Then- a crack of steel. Silence.
A figure stepped from the trees coat half-drawn, sword dripping.
"Not bad," Dantes muttered, voice dry with amusement.
"For a couple girls on a morning stroll."
Francesca pointed her blade at the last attacker.
"He's mine."
"Be my guest," Dantes said, leaning on a tree.
"I'm just here for the commentary."
Francesca lunged, disarmed the man with a flick, and slammed her hilt into his head.
He dropped.
She turned, breathless.
"You always show up uninvited?"
Dantes smirked.
"And ruin the fun? Wouldn't dream of it."
His gaze shifted to Alberta mud on her dress, blood on her arm, still clutching the broken branch.
"You all right, Sunburn?"
She blinked.
"I didn't expect you."
"I tend to show up where people bleed," he said, wiping his blade on a fallen cloak.
"It's a bad habit. Keeps me social."
He glanced at Francesca, grin returning.
"Nice footwork, by the way. You throw elbows better than most knights. They teach that in embroidery class?"
Francesca narrowed her eyes.
"Want to find out?"
"Oh, I'd rather not get stabbed before breakfast."
Then back to Alberta. His smirk softened.
"But you," he said,
"not bad for a girl with a stick."
Alberta exhaled, still catching her breath.
"I had a good teacher," she muttered.
His gaze lingered. Just a moment too long.
"Then remind me to thank him," he said.
CHAPTER 8: DAUGHTER OF THE LION'S GUARDIAN END