Chapter 95 – The Journey to the Flames
The road stretched endlessly ahead of them, coiling like a serpent through the rugged hills and deepening forests. Zara sat inside the carriage, her hands resting on her lap, though her thoughts were anything but still.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves on dirt offered little comfort. Each mile away from the palace and closer to the southern post intensified the weight pressing down on her chest. She wasn't just riding toward Lucien—she was riding toward the heart of chaos.
A sharp knock on the carriage wood startled her. The curtain was drawn aside, revealing Sir Darius, the commander of the escort.
"We'll be stopping for a short break ahead, Your Highness," he informed her. "There's a rest station where we can water the horses and resupply."
Zara nodded. "Thank you, Commander."
He gave a respectful nod and rode ahead.
Zara glanced out the small window. The countryside had changed since morning. Trees were sparser here, the soil darker. In the distance, smoke coiled gently into the sky—not thick enough to mean destruction, but ominous enough to suggest a campfire… or a warning.
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At the rest station, she descended from the carriage. It was a simple outpost—wooden fences, barrels of water, and a small group of local farmers who supplied dried meat and bread to passing soldiers. Zara felt their eyes on her as she walked. Their gazes held no malice—only awe.
And fear.
"She's the prince's bride," one whispered.
"The one who tamed him," another added.
Zara felt her cheeks burn, but she didn't speak. Instead, she stepped toward a table where one of the soldiers laid out a crude map.
"How much farther to the southern camp?" she asked.
Sir Darius pointed. "We're two days out if we maintain our current pace."
Two days.
Two more nights without knowing if Lucien was truly safe.
Two more days of waiting.
She clenched her jaw. "Then we won't rest too long."
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That night, they camped near a bend in the river. The guards formed a protective circle, their torches casting flickering light over the swaying grass. Zara stayed awake in her tent, listening to the chirp of crickets and the distant hoot of owls.
She tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes—Lucien bleeding in the mud, shouting orders through the din of battle, reaching out for her.
Sometime past midnight, she emerged from her tent and walked to the river's edge.
The moon hung low, a pale guardian in the