Amiya's POV
By the time they'd crested the next hill, Amiya's legs felt like they'd been carved from stone and then shattered. Every step jarred her bones, and every breath was a ragged curse caught behind her teeth. Yet she didn't stop. Couldn't. The road behind them still burned in her mind, and no matter how far they got from Selune, the stink of fear and fire clung to her like smoke.
Sylas hadn't said a word in over an hour. Just stalked ahead with that same focused, calculating tension in his shoulders. It should've been comforting—he always looked like he had a plan. But right now, it just pissed her off.
Because she didn't have a plan. Not anymore.
She kept her eyes on the ground as they walked, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only rhythm she could hold onto. Her thoughts kept spinning, looping back to everything they'd left behind. The guards. The screaming. The way the city had turned in on itself like a beast devouring its own tail.
And now?
Now they were walking into gods-knew-what with nothing but weapons, silence, and the tension between them thick enough to choke on.
She hated this. Hated the unknown. Hated feeling like she was one misstep from falling apart.
Amiya reached for the waterskin Sylas had handed her earlier and took a sip, barely tasting the warm, metallic water. It felt like survival and desperation all in one.
When they paused near a broken fence line overlooking a stretch of wild, wind-swept field, she finally broke the silence.
"Are we going anywhere specific, or are we just hoping the wilderness has better manners than Selune?"
Sylas didn't answer right away. Of course he didn't. He just glanced at her with that unreadable look she was beginning to despise.
"You really think Selune was the worst we'll see?" he asked quietly.
She didn't reply. Because no, she didn't believe that. Not really.
And that scared her more than anything else.
The path bent sharply after the ridge, cutting into a sparse grove of leafless trees that creaked and groaned with every gust of wind. Amiya kept her pace even, but her hand was never far from her dagger. She didn't trust quiet forests any more than she trusted cities.
At one point, she caught sight of a paw print in the dirt—too large to be a dog's, too fresh to ignore. Her stomach twisted. They weren't alone out here.
She glanced at Sylas. Still silent. Still unreadable. But she didn't miss the way his gaze darted to the edges of the trail, or the way his shoulders shifted ever so slightly, like he was ready for whatever was about to lunge out of the brush.
He knew. Just like she did.
Still, they didn't stop. Because what would they do? Turn back?
Amiya pressed forward, the ache in her legs forgotten for a moment as adrenaline crept into her chest again. Her world had shrunk to the feel of dirt beneath her boots, the hiss of wind through brittle branches, and the ever-present shadow of something waiting just out of sight.
Sylas's POV
The road had quieted, but Sylas's mind hadn't.
He'd spent years learning how to read silence. The silence of people who were about to kill you. The silence of someone holding in a lie. And the silence of someone barely holding themselves together.
Amiya's silence was that last one.
She hadn't complained. Hadn't asked how far they were going or where the hell they were even heading. She just walked, dagger within reach, eyes sharp as shattered glass. And every once in a while, Sylas caught her watching him—like she wanted to ask something, or maybe just scream.
He wouldn't have blamed her for either.
They weren't safe. Not even close. Every inch they put between them and the city only opened the door to new problems. Bandits, bounty hunters, gods-damned monsters if they were unlucky. And with the kind of heat Amiya was carrying? Unlucky was a guarantee.
Sylas didn't know who she was, not really. But he knew she was important. Important enough for someone to send armed patrols into a riot. Important enough to get people killed.
He should've walked away the moment she said they were hunting her.
Instead, he was leading her out into the wild, no plan, no backup, no idea what kind of storm they were stepping into.
He didn't trust easy. Never had. But watching her now—exhausted, filthy, stubborn as hell—it was hard not to feel something shift. Not sympathy. Not quite. Something sharper.
They reached a ridge just past noon, and he finally slowed.
He didn't hear the horse until it was nearly too late.
Just a low snort and the rustle of brush.
Sylas's hand went to his blade instantly. His eyes narrowed, scanning the trail ahead. A single rider approached, dark cloak billowing, posture relaxed in a way that meant they were either stupid or dangerous.
"Stay back," he said to Amiya, barely above a whisper.
The rider slowed as they came into view. Sylas recognized the face before the smirk.
Ronan.
"Didn't think I'd catch you running with royalty," Ronan called, voice casual, like they weren't on opposite ends of a very sharp blade.
Sylas stepped forward. "Didn't think you were dumb enough to track me."
Ronan's smile widened. "Oh, come on. You're the least subtle bastard I've ever met. You practically left breadcrumbs."
Behind him, Amiya tensed. He felt it. Like a string pulled taut.
Sylas didn't move his hand from his blade. "What do you want, Ronan?"
Ronan shrugged. "Same thing I always do. Answers. A little coin. And maybe to ruin your day."
Of course.
Sylas looked at Amiya, then back at Ronan.
"You should leave."
Ronan dismounted. Slowly. Deliberately. "And miss all the fun? I think not."
So much for a quiet exit.