It was dawn.
The sky was still a pale gray, and the wind carried the sharp bite of morning frost. Ruslan stood in the shadows of the trees, his eyes fixed on the palace gates in the distance. His arms were crossed, cloak wrapped tightly around him. His breath came out in puffs of mist.
Then, movement.
The palace gates opened.
A carriage rolled out, flanked by armed guards on horseback. The royal crest glinted faintly on the side. Several servants followed behind on foot and horseback, carrying supplies. It looked urgent, like an escape.
Ruslan leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
"So," he muttered. "Where are you running to, Your Highness?"
He watched until the carriage passed the bend in the snowy road, guards keeping a tight circle around it.
Then he turned to the man beside him. "Anatoly."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Follow them. Quietly. Don't get too close. Just ask around. Find out where they're headed. Be someone else. Anyone. A merchant. A traveler. I don't care."
