The metallic ringing of clashing swords had been a frantic, desperate symphony of violence. Now, an impossible silence. My heart still thundered, a frantic, anxious drumbeat in my ears, but the noise from outside was simply gone. No shouts, no grunts, no scrape of steel—just the oppressive weight of the forest's stillness. One moment, a fierce battle; the next, nothing. It was wrong. It was terrifying.
Panic, cold and sharp, coiled in my gut. Minutes stretched into hours, or so it felt, each tick of the silent clock amplifying my fear. The carriage was no longer a refuge, but a fragile, vulnerable shell. I strained my ears, but there was nothing. Not even the rustle of leaves or the chirping of crickets. It was a vacuum, an unnatural void in which I was suffocating. The suffocating air within the carriage, a consequence of my rising panic, was a palpable, living thing that pressed in on me. The metallic tang of blood from before still hung in the air, a phantom of the violence I had not seen, yet could not forget.
I couldn't stay. The sheer suspense was a torment, a creeping madness that whispered of enemies closing in, of a gruesome end. I gripped the seat, my knuckles white, telling myself it would be better to die on my feet than to wither from fear in this cage. I had to help him.
Mustering a courage I didn't know I possessed, I reached for the door handle. It was an act of defiance, a direct refutation of his final, chilling command. My hands trembled, but I pushed it open.
The darkness outside was absolute, a palpable entity that seemed to swallow the moonlight whole. A single beam cut through the inky blackness, a stark spotlight on an empty stage. There was no battle. No bodies, no overturned carriage, nothing but the gnarled roots of ancient trees and the cold, unyielding face of rock. The clamor of swords, the heavy grunts—had it all been in my head? A hallucination of a mind on the edge of terror? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through me.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the veil of shadows, his piercing blue eyes gleaming like shards of moonlight. They were not the eyes of the man who had left me, but something else—something darker, wiser, and infinitely more dangerous. His blonde hair almost appeared silver in the moonlight, tousled as if he'd just risen from bed, framed a face chiseled from a colder, harder stone than the one I had known. The moonlight, rather than illuminating him, seemed to worship him, wrapping around his every step, casting long, menacing shadows that danced at his feet. The air shifted, growing heavy with his presence, and I understood. He was not a man; he was a god, a deity forged from the night itself.
"What did I tell you, princess?" His voice, a low, dangerous rumble, was laced with an echo of ancient power. It was not a question, but a condemnation. He was no longer the man who had held me; he was the darkness, and I had foolishly stepped out of the light.