My ribs throbbed where the cart's floorboards had been digging into me for hours.
The royal seal—the only thing that made us human—was now a death warrant signed in hot wax.
Churchill shifted above me, his heavy weight a constant reminder that I was no longer a princess, just a girl hiding under a pile of raw meat.
"The guards," Churchill hissed, his mouth an inch from my ear. "Listen."
I strained my ears over the creak of the wooden wheels. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. Outside the cart, footsteps rang out—sharp, rhythmic, and heavy. Not the sloppy stroll of the palace night-watch. These were Ironreach boots.
"Unit Four, reassign to the Vault," a voice barked. Cold. Final. "The previous occupants are... neutralized. If you see anything moving in the servant tunnels, gut it first and ask for a name later. There are no royals left in Eldros."
Neutralized. My lungs seized. I thought of my mother's face, her perfect smile as she tucked me in just two nights ago. Did they kill her? Or am I the one who's neutralized?
"Churchill," I breathed, my voice trembling. "They said neutralized. They meant us, right? Not—"
"Shut it, Rachel." His hand clamped over my mouth, smelling of copper and salt. He wasn't comforting me. He was shutting me down like a broken tool.
I bit his palm. Hard.
He didn't make a sound, but his grip tightened until I saw spots. My thought process was a screaming mess: I hate him. I should have stayed. I should have run to the vault myself. He's just taking me somewhere to finish the job for them.
"Look," he whispered, easing his hand just enough for me to gasp.
He nudged a loose slat in the floorboard. I peered through. We weren't in the city anymore. The ground was muddy, littered with grey slush and the bones of animals. We were passing the River of Ash. I saw a body face down in the shallows—a palace page, maybe sixteen. He still had his uniform on.
"They didn't just reassign the guards," Churchill muttered, his voice dropping to a jagged edge. "They purged them. Anyone who saw us leave is in that river."
"We have to go back," I said, a sudden, stupid surge of adrenaline hitting my system. "If the guards are gone, the back entrance is open. I can get the seals. I can prove—"
"Prove what? That you're a ghost?" Churchill sneered. He shifted, his knee pinning my thigh down. "The order is sealed, Rachel. It's done. The ink is dry and the people who knew your name are currently being eaten by fish. You go back, you're just making it easier for them to clean the floor."
"I don't care! I'm not rotting in a butcher's cart while some stable girl wears my jewelry!"
I lunged for the small hatch at the side of the cart, my fingers clawing at the latch. It was an impulsive, brain-dead move born of pure panic. I didn't want to be a 'ghost.' I wanted my bed. I wanted my life.
"Rachel, don't—"
I kicked the latch open. The cold air hit me like a physical slap, smelling of rot and wet earth. I tried to roll out, my mind screaming Run, run, run, but Churchill was faster. He grabbed my hair, yanking me back into the dark, cramped hole just as a torchlight flickered over the side of the road.
"Who's there?" a soldier shouted.
The cart stopped. My heart stopped with it.
Churchill didn't panic. He moved like a predator. He shoved me deeper into the corner, his body a solid wall of heat and threat. He pulled a serrated blade from his boot—the one I'd felt earlier. The light from the torch bled through the cracks in the wood, illuminating the dried blood on his knuckles.
"Stay down," he mouthed. "If you move, I'll kill you before they do."
The threat didn't feel like a lie. It felt like a promise. I shivered, my teeth chattering so loud I was sure the guards could hear. I made a mistake. I screwed up. I just gave us away.
I heard the butcher—the man driving the cart—mutter something about a broken axle.
"Check the cargo," the guard ordered.
I heard the tarp being ripped back. The scent of raw beef became overwhelming. I felt a drop of something wet hit my forehead. Blood. Cow blood. I stared at Churchill, his eyes fixed on the slats above. He was ready to spring. He wasn't scared; he was waiting for the kill.
"Just meat," the guard grumbled. "Smells like it's been out too long. Get moving. The Centurion wants the road clear by midnight."
The cart jolted again. My face was wet with animal blood, my dress ruined, my dignity buried somewhere in the mud of the River of Ash. I looked at Churchill. He was still holding the knife.
"You almost got us slaughtered," he said, his voice a low, vibrating growl.
"I wanted to go home," I whispered, tears finally blurring my vision.
"You don't have a home. You have a grave with your name on it back in Crownheart." He leaned in, his nose brushing mine, his gaze dark and suffocating. "From here on, you do exactly what I say. You don't think. You don't hope. You just survive. Understood?"
I wanted to scream that he wasn't my king. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. But then I looked at his hands—shaking just a little bit, the only sign that he was as terrified as I was. He was the only thing keeping me from the river.
"Understood," I choked out.
He tucked the knife away, but he didn't move back. He kept his weight on me, a heavy, tethering presence that made me feel both safe and utterly trapped.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of parchment. He didn't show it to me, but I saw the seal. It wasn't the royal crest. It was a black thorn.
"The guards weren't just reassigned to the Vault," he said, his voice sounding hollow. "They were reassigned to hunt me specifically. Someone told them I was the one who took you."
"Who?"
He finally looked at me, a flash of genuine pain crossing his bruised face. "The person you wanted to go back for. Your mother didn't just sign the order, Rachel. Вона gave them my location."
The world didn't just tilt then; it shattered. My mother hadn't just erased me. She'd tried to finish the job.
I leaned my head against Churchill's chest, the sound of his heart the only real thing left in a world of ghosts. I hated him for telling me. I hated him for being right.
I pulled his hand toward my neck, forcing him to feel the pulse he was now responsible for.
"Then we make them regret they didn't kill us when they had the chance," I whispered.
Churchill's grip on my hand tightened until it was painful, his eyes turning into shards of flint.
He wasn't my protector anymore; he was my accomplice in a suicide mission.
Would you like me to continue with Chapter 3: The Arrival at Thornveil and the First Night in the Huts?