(Arthur's POV)
I did not remember ordering the men aside.
I only remembered walking.
The forest gave way beneath my steps, branches snapping, stones grinding under my boots as I carried her out of the ravine. Rose's blood soaked through my gloves, warm and slick, staining the white-gold trim of my armor in dark, spreading arcs.
She was lighter than I expected.
That thought struck me with cruel clarity.
For someone who had just stood against the empire's quiet cruelty—who had chosen me in the moment it mattered—she weighed almost nothing in my arms. Her head rested against my shoulder, breath shallow but present, each rise of her chest a fragile promise I clung to with everything I had.
"Make way." I ordered them.
The command tore from my throat without ceremony.
Soldiers parted instinctively, faces pale as they took in the sight of her—bloodied, limp, carried not by attendants but by the crown prince himself. I felt their eyes, their thoughts, their fear.
