**Chapter 8 – The Hunt and the Warning**
The horses were already saddled when Amaris arrived at the palace stables. The scent of hay and sweat lingered in the cool morning air, and guards lined the yard in full ceremonial armor. It wasn't just a hunt. It was a royal display—a tradition meant to show the strength of the crown, the unity of the court, and the presence of their queen.
Her heart hammered in her chest.
She didn't belong here.
The prince stood near a black stallion, cloaked in a dark green riding coat embroidered with gold. A sword hung by his side, though he wasn't wearing his crown. He didn't need one. Authority clung to him naturally, like shadow to flame.
"You're late," he said without turning to look at her.
Amaris swallowed hard. "I'm not used to dressing for war."
"It's not war. It's a hunt."
"To me, there's no difference."
That made him turn. His eyes found hers again — unreadable, dark, observant. "Stay close to me," he said after a pause. "Do not wander. And if anything feels wrong, say something."
She nodded, then glanced at the beast she was meant to ride. The chestnut mare was strong, nervous, and towering. Amaris had never ridden anything bigger than a village donkey, and even that had thrown her once. She couldn't help but feel the animal sensed her unease.
"I'll fall," she muttered under her breath.
"You'll hold on," the prince replied.
Then, before she could protest, he was beside her, lifting her effortlessly into the saddle. His hands were warm, steady, and firm. They lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
He mounted his own horse with practiced ease, and with a wave of his hand, the hunting party began their descent into the Northwood.
—
The woods whispered with life. Branches bowed with morning dew, and the scent of pine and moss filled her lungs. Birds chirped in protest as the riders passed, and somewhere ahead, hounds barked in excitement, chasing the scent of a stag.
Amaris stayed close to the prince, as instructed. Every branch that snapped made her flinch. Every sudden turn nearly unseated her. She kept her knuckles white against the reins.
"You're stiff," he said without looking at her. "Loosen your grip. The horse feels your fear."
"I don't have fear," she replied quickly.
He smirked faintly. "You're a terrible liar."
She didn't respond.
They rode in silence for a while until the path narrowed. The others moved ahead, deeper into the woods. The prince slowed his horse, glancing around with caution. His hand slid closer to the hilt of his blade.
"What is it?" she asked, noticing his change in posture.
His eyes scanned the trees with the instinct of someone trained to expect danger. "Something's wrong."
Then came the sound—faint at first, like the groaning of the forest. Then sharper. Metallic. A shriek, like armor clashing with steel. Not animal. Not hunting.
Men.
Arrows flew from the trees without warning.
"Down!" the prince roared.
He threw himself from his saddle, dragging Amaris down with him. They hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her side and arm, but she didn't have time to cry out. A guard behind them screamed and fell, an arrow lodged in his chest.
Ambush.
Amaris's heart thundered in her ears. The prince unsheathed his sword in one swift motion and positioned himself in front of her, shielding her with his body.
"Stay behind me," he growled. "No matter what."
The forest exploded into chaos — soldiers shouting, blades clashing, horses rearing and scattering in panic. The attackers wore no sigils, no colors. Rogues. Mercenaries. Assassins. Someone had paid them to do this.
Why?
She crawled behind a tree as instructed, trembling. Her fingers dug into the damp earth. Her breath came in shallow, shaking gasps. She had never seen death before. She had never seen someone fight like the prince fought now—like a beast made flesh. Each movement was precise. Brutal. Unrelenting. She had never seen someone kill for her.
And yet, here he was.
It was over in minutes. The last attacker fled into the trees, pursued by royal guards. The forest fell still again, like it had swallowed the chaos.
Amaris slowly stood, limbs aching. Her dress was torn at the sleeve and her braid had come undone, but she was alive. Her hand clutched at her ribs. Bruised. But not broken.
The prince turned to her, blood on his cheek and steel in his eyes. His gaze scanned her quickly for wounds.
"Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, though her knees felt like water. "I—I'm fine."
His jaw clenched. "You could've been killed."
"So could you."
"That's not the same."
"Why isn't it?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Instead, he sheathed his blade and began to walk away. But something in her rose up. She stepped forward.
"Why would someone try to kill you?" she asked.
He stopped.
"They weren't aiming for me," he said without turning.
Realization hit her like a slap. Her stomach turned, and her throat tightened.
"They were aiming... for me."
The prince nodded once, grim. "Your name is no longer small, Amaris. You carry the future of two kingdoms inside you now. That makes you powerful, whether you believe it or not."
"But I have no power," she said, her voice small. "I'm just a girl in a dress they forced me to wear."
"Power," he said quietly, "is not always something you hold. Sometimes, it's something others fear you might one day claim."
She didn't know how to respond. Everything she had known was crumbling. The palace, the marriage, the silence between them — none of it had protected her. Someone had sent killers for her. And she had no idea why.
So instead, she said the only thing she could.
"Thank you... for saving me."
He looked at her then, really looked. And what she saw in his face wasn't pride. It wasn't cold or cruel. It was fear.
Not for himself.
For her.