Alaric didn't stop. He kept walking, his steps steady and even.
"You can't!" she sobbed. She tripped and fell into the mud, her expensive dress turning black with filth. "It's dark! I don't know where I am!"
She looked into the growing shadows of the forest. Every rustling leaf sounded like a bone snapping. Every owl sounded like a dying man's scream. The wolves were scary, but the empty darkness they left behind was even worse.
Alaric didn't say a word. He just gave a short, low whistle. His horse trotted out from the trees, its hooves splashing through puddles of cooling blood. The horse snorted at the metallic smell, but Alaric caught the reins and swung into the saddle in one smooth motion.
He sat tall on his horse, a dark shape against the fading light.
Roslin lay in the mud, gasping for air. All around her, the clearing was a nightmare. A severed arm lay nearby, fingers still curled. To her left, the sergeant's body was a hollowed-out mess, his chest ripped open by the wolves. The only sounds were the creaking wood of the broken carriage and her own quiet sobbing.
The tears came fast now. She finally realized she was completely alone in a world that wanted to kill her. She looked up at Alaric, her eyes blurry. He was fixing his gloves, his back to her, already starting to ride North.
"Please," she choked out, her voice a weak whimper. "Have mercy."
Alaric pulled on the reins, making his horse circle back slowly. He looked down at her, his face showing no emotion. He didn't look like a hero coming to save her; he looked like a judge.
"Mercy is for people who can stand on their own two feet," he said, his voice hard and flat.
He leaned down a little and held out a gloved hand. It wasn't a kind gesture. Roslin just stared at it, her body shaking so hard she couldn't move. Her crying turned into a high, panicked shaking sound.
"I... I can't," she sobbed, looking from his hand to the mangled bodies of her guards.
"I'm going to count to three," Alaric interrupted, his voice turning sharp and deadly. "If you aren't on this horse by the time I hit three, I'm leaving. The wolves are still hungry, and the smell of all this blood is going to bring every predator for miles. You can cry for them if you want."
Roslin's breath caught. She looked into his eyes and knew he wasn't lying.
"One,"
She scrambled to her knees. Her silk skirts were heavy with mud and blood, clinging to her legs.
"Two."
With a desperate, panicked jump, she reached out and grabbed his hand. Her fingers were slippery with mud, but Alaric's grip was like an iron trap. He pulled her up with terrifying strength, swinging her onto the saddle right in front of him.
She was pinned between his chest and the front of the saddle. Roslin slumped against him, her nerves completely shot. She was still crying, her face pressed into the cold leather of his armor as she tried to hide from the sight of the dead men.
"Quiet," Alaric ordered. She could feel his low voice vibrating through her own ribs. "If you make enough noise to bring more company, I'm dropping you off to distract them. It's easier for them to find you if you're screaming."
He didn't wait for her to answer. He reached around her to grab the reins, basically locking her in place with his arms. With a sharp click of his tongue, he kicked the horse into a trot, leaving the bloody mess behind.
As they moved into the trees, the two giant wolves stepped out of the dark. They followed the horse's heels like two shadows of death. Roslin kept her eyes squeezed shut, but she could still hear the wet thud-thud of their huge paws on the soft dirt, matching the beat of her own heart.
The moon climbed high, making the trees look like long, bony fingers on the trail. The steady swaying of the horse finally turned Roslin's terror into a dull, empty ache. Her tears had dried, leaving itchy salt streaks on her face. Her breath slowed down, though she still jumped every time a branch scraped against Alaric's armor.
She couldn't stop herself; she kept looking at the dark bushes next to the horse. Every few minutes, a pair of yellow eyes would flash in the moonlight. It was a silent reminder that the monsters were still there—hidden, but always close.
"You keep looking for them," Alaric said. His voice broke the silence like a dry stick snapping.
Roslin jumped, her back going stiff against his chest. She didn't answer. Her throat still felt like it was full of needles.
"Do you want to know their names?" he asked. He didn't sound friendly; he just sounded curious, like a scientist looking at a bug.
Roslin swallowed hard. Her voice came out as a tiny, broken whisper. "They... they have names?"
"Everything has a name," Alaric muttered, his eyes on the path ahead. "The one on the left is Rivy. The one on the right is Livy. They're sisters."
Roslin looked again. As if they heard their names, the two massive shapes drifted closer to the horse. In the pale light, she could see their powerful muscles and the way their black fur seemed to swallow the darkness. They moved so smoothly it made the heavy warhorse feel like a clumsy ox.
"Sisters," Roslin repeated quietly. The idea of such scary monsters being family was almost more frightening than the beasts themselves.
"They're loyal," Alaric continued. His voice got deeper as he started to pick apart her thoughts.
"That's more than I can say for your family. I wonder, Roslin... if I had left you in the mud, how long would it have taken your father to look for you? A day? Two? Or would he have waited until the crows finished with you so he could use your 'death' as a reason to raise his bridge prices?"
Roslin flinched, her fingers gripping the saddle. "He would have come for me. I'm his daughter."
"You're a Frey," Alaric shot back. She could hear the mean grin in his voice. "In the Twins, a daughter is just a coin kept in a purse until it's time to buy a favor. If Rivy and Livy were hungry, they'd protect each other. If your father was hungry, he'd sell your bones for silver and call it 'family business.'"
He felt her shake again. This time, it wasn't just fear. It was the stinging feeling that he was right.
"They're watching you, you know," Alaric whispered, leaning closer to her ear. "The sisters. They can smell the Frey blood on you. They find it... interesting."
Roslin squeezed her eyes shut, leaning as far away from the forest edge as his strong arms would let her.
They rode in a long, suffocating silence. The only sound was the steady thud-thud of the horse's hooves. She looked at the dark trees, then at the scarred leather of the man holding her. Finally, she forced the words out.
"Are you... will you drop me off at the Twins?"
The silence that followed was heavy. Alaric didn't answer. He didn't even move. To Roslin, the quiet felt like a death sentence. She immediately started to panic, imagining him tossing her to the wolves the moment he got bored.