Chapter 22: Carriage of Whispers
The wind howled outside the manor gates, laced with the chill of morning frost. Dawn hadn't yet broken, and the world remained a shade of blue-grey. A lone carriage, black and unmarked, waited at the front drive, its surface beaded with dew. Four horses stood still, their breaths puffing into the cold air like ghosts.
Lysander adjusted the collar of his coat, suppressing a shiver as he approached. A servant bowed, opening the door.
Inside, Seraphine sat, poised and unreadable. Two silent guards rode in the front compartment, and two more trailed behind on horseback. All of them were armored—more heavily than necessary for a gala escort. The air reeked of over-preparation.
Lysander stepped in and sat across from her, the carriage door closing with a thud. The moment it latched, the world outside muffled into silence.
He glanced around. "Cozy. If your idea of comfort involves a coffin on wheels."
Seraphine didn't answer. She simply looked out the window.
The wheels rolled, and the journey began. The forest swallowed them within minutes—tall trees casting long shadows as mist crept between trunks like stalking cats. The woods were quiet. Too quiet.
"I don't suppose you'd like to explain why our guards are dressed for war?" Lysander asked, voice low.
Seraphine turned her eyes to him slowly. "Precaution. We were attacked once. I'd rather not see it happen again."
He raised an eyebrow. "You act like danger follows you everywhere."
"It doesn't follow me," she said, looking back at the window. "It waits for me."
He leaned back. "That's not ominous at all."
The silence stretched again. Lysander glanced out. The fog was thickening, creeping between the trees like smoke. His hand drifted to his coat pocket, brushing the smooth surface of the prism. It hadn't reacted to anything—not light, heat, mana. Nothing. Yet something about it lingered. Watching.
He looked at Seraphine again. "Why are you really going to this gala?"
"I told you. Business."
"You also said masks were for hiding. So let's stop pretending."
She turned back, meeting his gaze for the first time. "Do you believe in fate, Lysander?"
"No," he replied without hesitation. "I believe in consequences."
She smiled faintly. "Then you'll fit in well tonight."
A whistle pierced the fog.
The carriage stopped. One of the guards dismounted and moved ahead to inspect something blocking the road. A cart lay sideways, wheels snapped, crates spilled. Two figures stood beside it, waving.
Lysander frowned. "Bit early for a trade caravan."
Seraphine's voice was sharp. "Tell them to keep moving."
The guard hesitated. "Milady, they may need help."
"Keep. Moving."
The guard didn't listen. He approached the wreck.
The world paused.
A sudden flash. Then silence.
The guard fell. No sound. No scream. Just a body slumping onto the frosted dirt.
"Move!" Seraphine snapped.
The carriage lurched forward. The remaining guards tightened formation, weapons drawn.
Lysander glanced out the window. The figures were gone. The cart still lay there, untouched. Blood stained the snow.
No attack followed. No arrows. No chasing enemies. Just that one, clinical kill.
"They wanted us to see," Lysander muttered. "Not strike. Send a message."
Seraphine's hands tightened into fists on her lap. "I know who it was."
He didn't press her. The name didn't matter. The fear in her eyes did.
They rode in silence. The trees thinned, and the mountain ranges faded in the distance. Soon, the outline of the capital rose like a stone leviathan. Towers, bridges, walls high enough to cage dragons. It looked majestic. Invincible.
Lysander didn't buy it.
As they neared the gate, he noticed something else.
The guards at the checkpoint glanced at the carriage.
Then they stared.
Not at him. At Seraphine.
One of them leaned to another and whispered. A third muttered loud enough for Lysander to catch the words:
"That woman... why is she still alive?"
The gates creaked open.
And the carriage rolled in.
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[End of Chapter 22]