Chapter 115 CHAPTER 115

Chapter 115 CHAPTER 115

The morning broke with a deceptive calm. Mist clung stubbornly to the thatched roofs of the village, and the sound of roosters crowing mingled with the muted clatter of soldiers packing their gear. The air smelled faintly of smoke and wet earth.

Seraphina lingered near the doorway of the hut they had been offered, her eyes fixed on the treeline. The note burned in her pocket like a brand: The first snare is set. Keep him alive.

Selene’s warning gnawed at her thoughts. Why keep him alive? Why not warn her of a strike aimed at herself? Unless the game had shifted. Unless Seraphina was no longer the only piece Rhodon sought to move from the board.

Lucien approached, fastening his gauntlet. His dark hair, still damp from a hasty wash, curled slightly at his temple. The sight might have drawn a smile from her in another life, but today there was only unease.

“You’ve been staring at the woods since dawn,” he said, his tone low so the others could not hear. “What is it you expect to see there?”

“Not see,” Seraphina murmured. “Feel.” She glanced at him, her expression grave. “The air is too still. Even the birds are quiet.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed, scanning the treeline. He trusted her instincts as much as his own blade. “Then we ride cautiously. I’ll double the scouts.”

She caught his wrist before he could turn away. “No. That will alert them we expect something. Let them believe us blind. If they think they hold the advantage, they will strike too early.”

His jaw clenched. “And risk them striking true?”

Seraphina’s grip tightened. “Better an arrow we see coming than a dagger in the dark. Trust me.”

For a long moment he held her gaze, then gave a single sharp nod.

\---

The procession set out under the pale light of morning. Villagers watched from doorways, some with tentative gratitude, others with suspicion. The retinue stretched long across the muddy road—guards, servants, packhorses carrying provisions. Lucien rode at the head, his posture sharp, every sense attuned. Seraphina rode beside him, cloak pulled tight against the chill, eyes flicking to every shadow.

The first miles passed uneventfully. Too uneventfully.

A soldier’s horse stumbled, nearly throwing its rider. Another pack animal bucked wildly, snapping its reins. The road, once firm, grew inexplicably treacherous. Mud deepened though no rain had fallen.

Seraphina noticed the pattern first.

“They’ve softened the ground,” she whispered to Lucien. “Sabotage. To slow us.”

He cursed under his breath. “If we dismount, we lose speed. If we push through, we risk breaking horses’ legs.”

As if on cue, a sharp twang split the air.

An arrow hissed through the fog, burying itself in the earth inches from Lucien’s boot.

Shouts erupted. Guards raised shields, horses screamed, and panic rippled through the line.

“Ambush!”

Figures burst from the treeline—archers cloaked in brown and grey, blending with bark and mud. Their arrows rained in a deadly storm.

Lucien’s blade flashed free in an instant, his horse rearing as he deflected a shaft meant for his throat. Seraphina spurred forward, cloak whipping like wings, her mind racing.

Not random brigands. Too precise, too well-positioned. These were soldiers, trained—and bought. Rhodon’s hand was all over it.

\---

The air thickened with chaos. Horses thrashed, soldiers scattered. Lucien fought like fire incarnate, cutting down the first assailant who dared rush close, but more closed in, circling, waiting for a single slip.

Seraphina felt the raven’s voice echo in her mind: Keep him alive.

She slid from her horse, landing lightly in the churned mud. Her skirts dragged, heavy with damp, but she ignored it. Her eyes locked on the treeline. Somewhere out there, hidden in the fog, was the true strike meant for Lucien.

She scanned the archers, the rhythm of their fire. Then she saw it—one figure who did not release arrows as the others did, who lingered, poised, waiting for the exact moment Lucien’s guard would falter.

The assassin.

Her pulse thundered.

“Lucien!” she shouted, her voice cutting like steel. “Left ridge!”

He did not hesitate. Spurring his horse, he wheeled sharply, shield raised just as the hidden assassin loosed his arrow.

The shaft struck with brutal force, splintering against Lucien’s shield instead of his heart. The impact jolted him in the saddle, but he held firm, teeth bared.

And then Seraphina was moving, driven by instinct older than memory. She raced up the slope, mud sucking at her boots, while arrows hissed past. The assassin drew another, but she hurled a dagger with unerring precision, striking his bow from his grip.

He snarled, lunging at her with a curved blade.

Steel met steel as Seraphina drew her sword, sparks flying in the mist. He was fast, vicious, trained to kill—but she was faster, fury sharpening every movement. Their blades clashed again and again, the rhythm brutal, until she found her opening and drove her hilt into his jaw.

He staggered, and Lucien’s voice thundered behind her.

“Stand down!”

The assassin froze, eyes flicking between them, then spat blood and vanished into the trees, retreating with uncanny swiftness.

Lucien dismounted in a rush, seizing Seraphina’s arm. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, though her breath came hard. “Not me. You. That arrow—”

He lifted his shield, showing the splintered wood where death had nearly struck. His gaze burned with unspoken gratitude—and something deeper, fiercer.

“You saved me,” he said simply.

Seraphina pressed her lips tight. “No. Selene did. She warned me.”

Lucien’s brows knit, but before he could question further, a cry rose from the field.

“Fire!”

They spun. Smoke coiled from the rear of the column—wagons ablaze, flames leaping high.

Panic surged anew as men scrambled to douse it, but Seraphina knew with chilling certainty: this was not merely an ambush. This was the first snare tightening.

\---

By the time the last of the attackers melted into the mist, leaving behind smoldering wreckage and wounded men, the air stank of blood and smoke.

Lucien stood in the center of it, his sword red, his chest heaving. Around him, the remnants of their retinue regrouped, shaken but alive.

Seraphina knelt beside a fallen soldier, pressing her hands to his wound, her gown stained crimson. The man gasped, whispering a single word before slipping into unconsciousness.

“Rhodon…”

Her gaze met Lucien’s across the battlefield.

No more doubts. No more illusions of courtly games.

This was war.
And it had only just begun.