Chapter 7 The black horse

~MARA POV~

My head throbbed with a dull, sickening ache.

I could feel the strong beat of heavy hooves hitting the ground in my chest. I was slung stomach-down across the saddle of a moving horse, my hands bound tightly behind my lower back. Cold iron bit into my skin, burning with a strange, unnatural heat.

I opened my eyes, my vision blurring as trees passed by in a dark fog.

Memory crashed into me all at once. The soldiers bursting into our home. The vines. The blade piercing my mother's side. The cold wave of silver magic flooded the square.

Mama.

A sharp sob caught in my throat. I thrashed violently against the saddle, twisting my torso to throw myself off the horse.

A heavy hand hooked down on the back of my dress, dragging me backward before my boots hit the ground.

"If you wanted to escape, you should have waited until your feet were under you," a calm, deep voice said above me.

I swung my legs around, pulling myself upright into the saddle. I found myself pressed against a broad, iron-plated chest.

The Prince.

I shoved against his chest with my bound hands, my teeth gritted. "Let me go, you bastard!"

He didn't move. He held the reins in one hand and my bound wrists in the other, his gray-blue eyes staring down at me without a trace of anger.

"Sit still, Mara," he said smoothly, shifting his grip to keep me centered on the horse. "Or I will tie you to the saddle frame."

I hated that he was right. I hated that I had no leverage, no weapon, and nowhere to run.

---

The line of royal soldiers rode in silence, the forest trees surrounding us like tall, silent guards. I leaned away from him as far as the reins would allow, glaring up at his sharp jawline.

"You killed them," I spat, my voice raw. "Your men burned my village. You killed my mother."

He kept his eyes on the trail ahead. "I wasn't in Bellmere when the cottage was breached."

"You command them!" I barked, twisting against his hold. "You're the Crown's Executioner. That makes you a murderer."

He didn't defend himself. He didn't offer a hollow apology or try to shift the blame to the Commander in charge.

"How many?" I pushed, my chest heaving. "How many Ashborn have you killed for your father?"

His jaw tightened slightly. The muscle near his ear twitched, but his face remained a cold, unreadable mask.

"Enough," he said softly.

The answer unsettled me.

I expected him to brag. I expected the arrogant, cruel pride of a royal soldier proud of his body count. Instead, he looked away toward the treeline, his dark brows furrowed in a quiet, deep silence.

---

An hour later, the vanguard halted near a shallow river. The soldiers set up a perimeter, while he dismounted and dragged me off the stallion.

My feet hit the dirt, my knees nearly buckling before I caught my balance. He stood over me, his tall frame blocking out the faint moonlight.

"Here are the rules," he said, his voice dropping into a clear, commanding tone. "You do not pull magic from the earth. You do not attack my men. And you do not attempt to run into these woods."

I glared at him, taking a step back until my shoulders hit a heavy oak tree. "And if I don't?"

He reached out, his gloved hand resting lightly on the handle of his sword.

"Then I stop being patient."

I let out a harsh, humorless laugh, lifting my chin to look him in the eye.

"You were never patient."

A faint spark flashed in his gray-blue eyes….not anger, but something strong and dangerous. He didn't pull his sword. 

He simply stared at me, his gaze swept over my bruised face and bloodstained clothes before he turned on his heel and walked toward the campfire.

---

By midnight, the temperature had dropped sharply.

I sat against the oak tree, my bound wrists resting in my lap. The cold ground oozed through my thin linen dress, making my teeth chatter uncontrollably.

I hugged my knees to my chest, refusing to let the soldiers near the fire see me break.

Footsteps crunched on the dry leaves.

Ronan approached, his long black wool cloak hanging heavy from his broad shoulders. He unclasped the silver brooch at his collar and draped the thick fabric over mine.

The wool was heavy and held the faint scent of leather and rain. Warmth flooded over my shivering skin instantly.

I pulled back, trying to push the heavy garment off. "Keep your charity."

Ronan reached down, catching the edge of the cloak and tucking it back firmly around my neck. His fingers brushed against skin for a split second, a strange chill ran down my spine.

"Keep it," he said tightly.

I glared at him through the dark. "Why?"

"Because you're shivering," he answered, stepping back. "And an unconscious prisoner is easier to carry than a dead one."

He turned and walked back to his side of the camp, settling against a wooden crate with his arms crossed over his chest.

I pulled the cloak tighter around myself, hating how warm it felt.

My gaze stayed on him in the dark. He had broad shoulders, a straight nose, and a thin scar running from his right eyebrow down toward his temple. He didn't look like a prince who spent his days in luxurious courtrooms. 

He looked like a soldier built for survival.

I caught myself staring and quickly snapped my eyes back to the dirt, annoyed with my own thoughts.

‘He is the enemy.’

---

The camp quieted down as the guard shift changed.

I sat in the shadows of the tree, bringing my hands to my face. The heavy silver restraints wrapped around my wrists were covered in strange, tiny runes that burned with a faint blue light whenever I tried to draw magic.

‘Think, Mara.’

I closed my eyes, focusing on the cold feeling buried deep in my chest. I didn't reach for death. I didn't reach for life. 

I simply squeezed my wrists together, pressing the heavy metal against the rough bark of the tree behind me.

‘Thump.’

A tiny, familiar vibration ran up my arms.

I opened my eyes.

A hairline crack appeared across the center of the right silver cuff. The faint blue runes blinked, then dimmed.

My heart beat against my chest.

The metal was reacting to me. The restraints built to suppress magic were cracking under the effect of whatever was inside my blood.

I squeezed my wrists tighter, leaning into the pressure.

CRACK.

A sharp, violent spark of silver magic broke out from my wrists, brightening the dark trees in a flash of bright light.

Across the clearing, a pair of sharp, gray-blue eyes snapped open in the dark.

Ronan was looking directly at me.

He wasn't reaching for his sword. He was watching the crack spreading across the silver cuff. Then his gaze lifted to mine. For the first time since Bellmere, I saw something other than coldness in his eyes.

Curiosity.

And somehow, that frightened me more.