He didn’t pause.
Through the square, through the narrow alleys that opened onto wider streets, past sleeping homes with shutters drawn tight. A child whimpered somewhere in the night, a dog barked once, then let loose a long, mournful howl toward the moon.
The sound sent a shiver down Eliza’s spine. It sounded like a farewell.
And still he ran, carrying her farther from everything she knew, each step taking her deeper into the unknown.
The bridge fell away beneath them, each pounding step carrying her farther from the safety of her walls, from the city whose stones had been her cradle and crown.
Eliza twisted, craning for one last look. Istrial’s towers rose in the distance, silvered by moonlight, proud and unyielding against the night. Her city. Her home. And she was being carried from it like spoils of war, unseen, unheard, powerless to stop it.
The shadows whispered, the wind howled, and the road stretched endlessly ahead.
And with every stride, Istrial slipped farther away.
Chapter
Nine
He hadn't expected this.
To take her away. The Queen of Maidan. A human—fragile, weak, already shivering against his shoulder in the night air. She was smaller than he'd imagined, lighter, too easily broken.
And yet…
She had stared at him with such fierceness when his blade had hovered at her throat.
She hadn't begged. She hadn't wept or pleaded for her life. She hadn't cowered like so many before her.
It unsettled him. This wasn't how humans were supposed to act when facing death. He had seen countless men—warriors, generals, kings—break before his blade. Yet she had shown a composure that rivaled the most seasoned orc warriors. A part of him—a part he quickly silenced—almost admired it.
Instead… she had spoken. Revealed her one and only bargaining chip, risking everything on a gamble. It had been desperation, yes—but desperation sharpened by cunning. And what she'd said…
The Ketheri.
Their reinforcements were coming. And to deal with them, better that she live. Alive, she might prevent the firestorm her death would unleash. Alive, she was leverage.
Kardoc would disagree. His brother saw only blood, only the simple truths of violence and strength. To Kardoc, a blade was the answer to every question.
His father would be angry too—at first. Draak Karthan had demanded her death, had ordered Rakhal to spill her blood and end this war with a single stroke. But anger passed, and anger could be reasoned with. His father was many things, but he was not a fool.
Kardoc, though—never.
Rakhal's gaze stayed forward, his strides long and steady along the pale stone road. He had always seen what others couldn't. Had always been able to anticipate several steps ahead, to look past the immediate moment into the shape of what might come.
That was what the shadows had taught him. To listen. To be still. To think where others rushed. To dance along the edges of possibilities, finding openings where there seemed to be none.
And now… this woman. This queen. She was no longer a target. She was a piece on the board.
The Ketheri were coming.
And he had a plan.
Abruptly, he veered from the road, boots striking the frozen earth as he cut toward the open plains. The land stretched wide, lit by scattered fires in the distance—his clan's encampments, their watchfires burning like stars across the dark. The winter-hardened grass crackled beneath his feet, the wind carrying scents that no human could detect—the musk of sleeping animals, the distant smoke of orcish forges working through the night, the metallic tang of weapons being honed. Familiar scentsdrifted to him even through the mask: smoke, blood, leather, the tang of steel. Home.
On his shoulder, she shivered violently. Her thin nightgown was no match for the night's breath, and her trembling grew with every stride. The gag muffled her, silenced her, but he could feel the small quakes of her body against him.
He ran on, tireless, until the last trace of walls and torches vanished behind them. No guards. No watchful eyes. Only the empty night and the vast hush of the plains.
