The biting wind was my only companion as I pushed through the trees, each rustle of leaves a taunting whisper of the assassins hot on my heels. I needed them to follow me, not the dwindling few who still rode with me. It was a simple calculation: one prince, expendable, versus the last vestiges of a weary fighting force. And it worked. The sound of hooves faded behind me, replaced by the relentless, singular pursuit of my would-be killers.
I remember a dizzying blur of trees, the burn of exertion in my lungs, and the sickeningly familiar spray of my own blood against the rough bark. Then, nothing.
A Fleeting Respite
The first thing I registered was the dull ache that permeated every inch of my body, a constant, throbbing bass note beneath a symphony of smaller pains. My eyes fluttered open to a rough, canvas ceiling. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something vaguely antiseptic, a welcome change from the charnel stench of the battlefield. I was lying on a makeshift bed, straw rustling beneath a thin blanket. A small, unfamiliar room in what felt like a humble village dwelling.
A soft click of the door, and a figure entered. A girl, perhaps my age, slender and unassuming, with kind, observant eyes that quickly took in my battered state. She carried a wooden tray with a steaming bowl. Her steps were hesitant, almost reverent, as she approached.
Her gaze landed on the tattered remains of my tunic, the crimson stains unmistakable. Her eyes widened, and a gasp, barely audible, escaped her lips. She immediately dropped into a low, deferential curtsy, her voice a hushed whisper.
"Your… Your Highness," she stammered, her gaze fixed on the floor. "Forgive my intrusion. I did not realize… are you quite alright?"
"As alright as one can be after a delightful jaunt through an assassin's ambush," I rasped, my voice rough. The sarcasm felt flat, even to my own ears. My mind, though weary, was sharp enough. She had seen the royal crest, however mangled. There was no point in pretense.
She straightened slightly, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. "Your wounds… they look dangerous, Your Highness."
"I assure you, I know exactly how dangerous they are," I replied, my tone sharper than intended. A fresh wave of dizziness washed over me. I needed a proper healer, not just a concerned villager. When I reached the Imperial Capital, assuming I actually made it there, I'd find one.
"Leave me be for a while," I commanded, my voice betraying my exhaustion. "I need to rest."
She hesitated, her gaze lingering on my face for a moment, before offering another shallow curtsy. "As Your Highness commands." She turned and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving me once more to the oppressive silence and the escalating throbbing in my side.
I closed my eyes, seeking oblivion. The pain ebbed and flowed, but the darkness beckoned, pulling me down into its comforting depths. Whether it was sleep or something closer to unconsciousness, I didn't know, or care.
A Rude Awakening
The next sensation was a searing, agonizing pain. My eyes immediately shot open, and a choked cry escaped my throat. The girl, the same one who had left me earlier, was bent over me. Her small, delicate hands, unexpectedly strong, were pressing down on a gash in my side, a rough, damp cloth held tight against it. Blood, fresh and startlingly red, bloomed on the white linen.
"What in the blazes are you doing?!" I bellowed, my voice cracking. My hand shot out, trying to push her away, but a wave of nausea buckled my arm.
She didn't flinch, her focus unwavering. "Your Highness! You were bleeding out! Your wounds are deep. I heard you groaning. If I hadn't… it would have been very dangerous for you!" Her voice was firm, though her face was pale with concentration. "I'm surprised you were even conscious."
She reached for a small, leather pouch on the bedside table, pulling out a strange, pungent paste. The village remedies, no doubt. My mind, despite the pain, raced. How long had I been out? How close were the assassins? And how could she, a mere civilian, have dared to touch a prince?
Her movements were surprisingly deft as she applied the paste, and then began to tightly bind my side with fresh, clean bandages. The pain was still immense, but a strange coolness began to spread, dulling the sharper edges.
"My name is Evelyn, Your Highness," she said, not looking up from her work. Her voice was quiet, almost apologetic now. "My family are… practitioners of traditional medicine. I merely wished to help."
I lay there, breathing heavily, my mind reeling. This girl, Evelyn, had just seen me at my most vulnerable. And she had acted, not out of fear or deference, but from a simple desire to aid. It was a foreign concept to me, a prince whose every interaction was steeped in formality and hidden agendas. The audacity, the sheer… humanity of it, was disarming.
My pain began to recede, replaced by a dull throb. Evelyn finished the binding, her hands moving with a practiced ease that belied her youth. She looked up, her clear eyes meeting mine, a hint of defiance in their depths.
"You really shouldn't shout when you're losing blood, Your Highness," she said, a small, tired smile touching her lips. "It's quite unhelpful."
A strange warmth spread through my side, not from the simple paste she'd applied, but from the unexpected, almost audacious, act of kindness. My initial anger had dissipated, replaced by a grudging respect, or perhaps simply a weary surprise. She hadn't cowered, hadn't fawned. She had simply… acted.
"Can you bring some food?" I asked, the words feeling foreign, alien to a tongue more accustomed to commands and battle cries. My stomach, forgotten for days, growled in protest.
She nodded, a faint flush on her cheeks. As she turned to leave, a thought struck me. "And don't tell anyone about me," I added, my voice low and firm. "Not any villager. Not any family member. Understand?"
She paused at the door, turning to meet my gaze. Her eyes held a deep, quiet understanding. "As Your Highness commands," she replied, her voice soft but unwavering. Then, she was gone, leaving me in the silence once more.
The relief of having my wounds seen to was immense, though the pain remained a dull, insistent throb. My mind, no longer clouded by acute agony, began to churn again, assessing my situation. I was in a small, remote village, judging by the rustic feel of the room and the quiet. That was good. Secrecy was paramount. The assassins wouldn't expect me to be so close, so… exposed. They'd assume I was trying to reach a fortress, a larger town.
The door creaked open again, and Evelyn returned, carrying a wooden tray. On it was a simple, steaming bowl of what looked like vegetable stew, and a hunk of crusty bread. The aroma alone was enough to make my mouth water. She set the tray down carefully on a small, rickety table beside the bed, then pulled up a wooden stool, sitting down quietly.
"It's just a simple stew, Your Highness," she said, her voice a little shy now. "But it's warm."
I eyed the bowl. It was just a simple stew, but it smelled like heaven. I carefully pushed myself upright, wincing as my muscles protested. Evelyn immediately moved, reaching out a hand as if to steady me, but then drew back, remembering herself. A tiny, almost imperceptible frown touched her lips.
I picked up the spoon, my hand shaking slightly. The first mouthful was pure bliss, warm and nourishing. It had been days since I'd eaten anything substantial, living on stale rations and the adrenaline of battle.
"Thank you," I murmured, the words feeling clumsy, unfamiliar on my tongue. I rarely thanked anyone. It wasn't part of my world.
She simply nodded, her gaze fixed on the bowl in my hands. A comfortable silence settled between us, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of my spoon against the ceramic. I ate slowly, savoring each bite, feeling strength gradually seep back into my limbs.
When the bowl was empty, I leaned back, a genuine sense of relief washing over me. "What is this village called?" I asked, my voice still a little rough, but clearer now.
Evelyn looked up, surprised by the question. "It is called Meadowbrook, Your Highness. It's quite small."
Without a word, she gently pushed aside the blanket, her touch surprisingly delicate as she examined the bandage. "The paste will help with the pain, Your Highness, but the deeper wounds will need more time to heal," she explained, her voice professional, almost clinical, as she unfastened the wrap. "And you have many bruises. You must rest. Truly rest, if you want to heal quickly."