Draven
The cold wind was one of the greatest challenges, and the road ahead of us seemed endless. Trees shed their leaves in silent laments, and snow gathered at the edges of the path, turning everything into a pale, treacherous mantle. Violet didn't speak much, her body swaying against my back as we rode, and for the third time in less than two hours, I felt her forehead press against my shoulder with an unusual, abnormal, feverish heat.On the first day of our escape, there was still strength in her movements, a rebellious spark in her eyes, but now she trembled frequently, her eyes half-closed, lips cracked from the cold and exhaustion. She seemed smaller in my arms, and it wasn't because of her weight. It was the fragility that time and weather had imposed on her. I felt her slipping away silently, losing strength. And all of it was my fault.We stopped under the partial shelter of an overhanging rock. The horse panted, as tired as we were. I dismounted and carefully lifted her from the saddle, her body curling into my arms as if begging for rest. I built a small fire with dry twigs I found inside a hollow tree and warmed some water with bitter herbs from my travel pouch. She resisted the drink at first, but a whisper from me was enough for her to yield.
— You're burning up inside, Violet... you need to drink.— I'm fine... — she murmured, her eyes damp and unfocused. — Just a bit tired.
It wasn't just fatigue. I knew that trembling in her fingers, the involuntary stiffness in her muscles, the skin that was both hot and pale. A strong cold, maybe even something worse. She wasn't used to travel, to the open air, to the constant chill of a nameless forest. Her immunity was fragile—just like her. At least on the outside. Inside, she still carried the fire of someone who would defy her own kingdom.The next morning, she woke up coughing. She tried to hide it, but I had already seen the misty eyes and shallow breath. When I mounted the horse again and settled her in front of me, wrapped in a thick cloak and a tight hood, I repeated to myself that she would endure. She had to. There was no other choice. Not for the two of us.
We reached the village of Grenthor after three days of forced march. A small place, lost among hills and pine trees. Narrow cobbled streets and wooden houses with smoke rising from chimneys. Rough-faced men and women who avoided eye contact. The kind of place that didn't ask questions, as long as you didn't draw attention.But attention was exactly what we couldn't afford.As soon as I saw the first poster nailed to the trunk of a tree—the crude sketch of Violet's face, her name written in huge letters WANTED — PRINCESS VIOLET, DAUGHTER OF CARDAN—my stomach dropped. I immediately tore the paper down. I saw more of them hanging in markets, at the blacksmith's, even on the inn's door.We disguised ourselves as best we could. I covered Violet with more cloth, a veil over her eyes, layers upon layers. We walked separately, a few meters apart, pretending not to know each other. I instructed her to wait in a narrow alley behind a spice shop while I purchased supplies. She nodded, without protest. Fatigue now spoke louder than pride.In the grocery store, I tried to keep my voice low.
— I need dry bread, dried fruit, medicinal herbs, and some lamp oil.— Going camping in the winter? — said the man behind the counter, raising a thick eyebrow.— I work for a merchant. Isolated caravan. I need to bring supplies north.
The old man nodded with disdain. He handed over the bags and counted the coins with the slowness of someone who wanted a better look at my face. That's when I heard them.Boots thudding outside. Harsh voices. Cardan soldiers.I asked to use the restroom and ended up slipping out the back door, walking quickly between barrels and crates. I nearly stumbled as I turned the corner of the alley and found Violet huddled in the shadows, her feverish eyes wide open.
— Draven? What happened?— Soldiers — I hissed. — They're asking questions. Looking for you.— Will they… find us?— Not if you listen to me now. Come.
I grabbed her hand and we ran through twisted alleys, crossed the side of the inn, jumped over a fence, and when we returned to the road, I traded cloaks with a drunk traveler sleeping against the church wall. Whether it was luck or fate choosing to spare us again, we left Grenthor unscathed. But I knew that with each village, each unfamiliar face, more posters would be plastered. And more watchful eyes would follow.
Two weeks later, exhausted and covered in mud, we reached the edge of Haldorn Forest, also known as the Whispering Forest. A place where the wind blew as if whispering old stories, where even the animals seemed to hold their breath in reverence of something greater.Violet fainted the moment she dismounted. I took her in my arms and walked into the forest, down paths that existed only in memory. I reached the clearing where the solitary cabin stood among thick roots. The roof was curved like the back of a sleeping beast. The door opened before I could knock.And there he was. That's where Carlo Hudy lived.The small glasses hung on his bony nose, his beard braided with silver strands, his gaze almost hidden beneath tired lids. But there was an unmistakable glow. Wisdom. Contained power. The sight of an old friend I trusted more than my own blood.
— I didn't know dead men went for walks — he said before I could say anything.
I stood still. And he smiled.Then he extended his arm. In his hand, a folded poster.The same one I had torn days before. But this one was newer. More detailed. On it, besides Violet's face, there was now another one. Mine...
— Seems like hunting ghosts is in fashion — Carlo said.
And there, in front of that paper, I realized that the weight of war was no longer measured by borders... but by faces on posters, by names turned into threats, by stories others were telling in our place.