Chapter 11

The Vorathiel soldiers are close. Their guttural voices echo through the forest, barking orders, crashing through underbrush like hounds on the scent.

Alina’s pulse pounds in her ears. She forces her legs to move, even as every step rips agony through her poisoned limbs.

She called out to anyone who might still be alive in the castle, anyone loyal to her family. The mental link should have lit up with answers.

But there was nothing.

No reply. No flicker of acknowledgment.

And that’s when she knows—she’s alone.

“Don’t let her get away!” a soldier yells, snapping her focus back to the moment.

Her chest tightens. Her parents’ lifeless eyes flash across her mind, and a sob nearly escapes. But she pushes it down. There’s no time to grieve. Not yet. Not when death is still chasing her.

The forest air is cold against her skin, but it’s not the crisp, calming cold she’s always known—the cold that’s part of her bloodline. This is something harsher. This cold isolates. Weakens.

Her power feels distant. Diminished. The neurotoxin in Isalda’s vines has slowed her healing, turning once-minor wounds into leaking rivers of pain. The silver burns in her veins.

She stumbles, catching herself against a tree, barely staying upright. Her vision blurs. The trees sway in the dark. The shadows seem to move with purpose.

“Keep moving, keep moving,” she whispers, her breath ragged.

But her body doesn’t obey.

Her knees collapse. She crumples to the earth, gasping. The ground is frigid and damp, but her skin barely registers it over the fire burning beneath it.

Footsteps crash behind her. They’re gaining.

“No…” she whispers, shoving herself up with trembling arms. “Not like this…”

She staggers forward, pushing through thorned branches and uneven roots. Every step is harder than the last. Her fingers are numb. Her blood leaves a trail behind her.

“She’s slowing down,” one soldier says, voice dripping with amusement. “She won’t get far.”

Alina’s heart races. She can’t let them catch her. She won’t go back to Magnus.

A rustle in the trees ahead.

She stiffens.

Is it more soldiers?

Or something worse?

She presses on, clenching her teeth as pain lances through her side. Her hand finds the wound—warm blood soaks through her fingers.

“There she is!” one of them shouts.

She spins, dizzy and disoriented, and sees four of them emerge from the darkness. They wear blue and gold armor, Vorathiel sigils glinting in the moonlight. Swords drawn. Eyes hungry.

Alina backs up. Her foot catches a root. She nearly falls.

“Nowhere left to run, Lady Alina,” one sneers, stepping closer, silver blade gleaming.

She raises her hands, summoning what little strength remains. Frost begins to form at her fingertips, a faint shimmer of ice on the ground.

But it’s weak.

Too weak.

They laugh.

“Aren’t you supposed to be powerful?” one taunts. “The strongest Xalveria in generations? Now look at you.”

She grits her teeth and pushes harder, willing her body to respond, but her legs quake beneath her.

“Stay back,” she rasps. Her voice is barely audible.

They ignore her.

One lunges forward, sword raised high.

But before it can land, a sound slices through the forest—a snap of movement too fast, too sharp.

The soldier falters, turning toward the noise. “What was that?”

“We’re not alone,” another mutters, scanning the shadows.

Then Alina smells it—two new scents. Unfamiliar. Sharp. One of them stands out to her… raw, wild, and strangely alluring, but not one she’s ever known.

The trees ripple.

Two figures burst from the shadows like ghosts.

The first man is massive, towering, with long, curly dark hair whipping behind him. He wields a broadsword the size of a small tree, and moves with brute force. He slashes through the nearest soldier with one clean blow. The body splits in two before it hits the ground.

The second man is taller, more agile. His jet-black hair is slick with sweat, his movements fluid and elegant. His blade cuts through the second soldier’s throat with terrifying precision.

The remaining two barely raise their weapons before they’re cut down—one impaled through the chest by the larger man, the other disarmed, thrown to the ground, and finished with a brutal strike from the tall one’s dagger.

It’s over in seconds.

Alina stands frozen, trembling, unsure whether she’s been saved or hunted.

The two men face her. Their weapons drip crimson in the moonlight.

“Who…” she croaks, voice catching. “Who are you?”

The taller man steps forward.

He’s striking—hazel eyes gleaming beneath thick brows, jaw sharp, mouth set. His gaze roves over her—not cruel, but assessing.

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice deep and smooth.

Something about it pulls at her. Not safety. Not comfort. Just… attention.

The larger man approaches as well, swinging his sword over his shoulder. His dark eyes narrow as he studies her.

“She’s losing too much blood,” he mutters. “We don’t have much time.”

Alina’s hand drops from her wound. Blood gushes freely.

Her lips part. She tries to speak. To demand answers.

But the forest spins. Her legs give out.

She’s falling.

The hazel-eyed man catches her before she hits the ground. His hands are large, calloused—yet gentle.

“Hey,” he says quickly, voice quieter now, careful. “Stay with me.”

Alina blinks up at him. Her body is shaking. Her skin slick with blood. Her breath catches as their eyes meet.

For a moment, they simply stare at each other.

Tension coils in the air between them. Not trust—something sharper. She wants to pull away. To scream. To collapse.

“Why…?” she tries to ask.

But the words never finish.

Darkness closes in like a wave.

The last thing she hears is his voice, firm and urgent.

“We need to move. Now.”

And then—nothing.