Married To Darkness

"I know," Alaric growled. He grabbed his bow, but instead of aiming for chests, he aimed for the ground at their feet. "Don’t aim for the heart! Take their legs, their shoulders, or the trees beside them! We need to break their line and get to the clearing!"

The air was filled with the sound of snapping branches and the rhythmic thud of arrows. It was a nightmare come to life—the very people who had been laughing and betting an hour ago were now a silent, predatory pack. Alaric pulled Salviana closer, shielding her body with his own as they began a desperate, fighting retreat into the dark heart of the Wilds.

"The lone figure," Salviana whispered, looking back at the carvings in her mind. "Alaric, who was the one standing in the corner?"

Alaric didn’t answer. He was too busy dodging a bolt aimed for his throat, his mind already racing to find the "eye" that had turned his family into monsters.

"We have to find the person controlling them," Salviana urged, her voice trembling as she gripped Alaric’s arm. But before the words could fully leave her lips, the air around them curdled.

The rhythmic protection of their perimeter shattered. Sebastian and Simon, the men who had sworn their lives to Alaric, the men who had just been a wall of steel between them and the mob, suddenly went rigid. Their movements became jerky, mechanical, as if invisible strings had been pulled tight. Their eyes clouded over with that same milky, sightless film.

In one synchronized, horrifying motion, they pivoted. Their bows, already drawn to protect their Prince, were now aimed directly at his heart.

Salviana saw it first—the slight shift in Simon’s elbow, the cold glint of the arrowhead—and her instinct overrode her fear. She lunged forward, her small frame moving to shield Alaric, to be the barrier he had always been for her.

"No!" Alaric’s roar was primal.

He was a blur of shadows and desperation. He didn’t just move; he exploded. He caught Salviana by the waist, spinning her behind his massive frame in a violent, protective arc. He would never, in this life or the next, allow her to bleed for him.

Thwack.

The arrow, loosed by his own knight, buried itself deep into Alaric’s shoulder. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even stumble. He absorbed the impact with a guttural grunt, his jaw locked so tight the bone looked ready to snap.

"OMG, Alaric!" Salviana cried, her hands flying to the dark wood of the shaft protruding from his leather coat. "Come on, please! We have to go!"

"Don’t touch it," he hissed, his voice a jagged rasp of pain and adrenaline. "Hold onto me. Do not let go!"

He didn’t wait for her to climb. He swept her up, clutching her against his chest with his good arm, and whistled for Soar. The black stallion, sensing the life-or-death shift in the air, thundered forward, scattering the possessed guards.

Alaric threw her onto the saddle and vaulted up behind her. He didn’t sit her properly—there was no time. He pulled her flush against his chest, her back against his heartbeat, his large hands gripping the reins around her like a cage of iron.

"Go!" he commanded, digging his heels into Soar’s flanks.

The black stallion let out a defiant neigh and leaped into a gallop, his hooves churning the forest floor into a spray of dirt and moss. Behind them, the silent mob—their family, the knights, the guests—began to run. They didn’t shout, they didn’t call for them to stop. They simply ran with an unnatural, tireless speed, their eyes fixed on the two figures fleeing into the dark.

Arrows whistled past their heads, thudding into the trees like a swarm of angry hornets. Alaric leaned over Salviana, his massive body a living shield, his blood soaking into the chocolate-brown leather of her outfit.

"Stay down!" he growled into her ear, his breath hot and ragged.

They tore through the brush, branches clawing at them like skeletal fingers. The forest was no longer a hunting ground; it was a labyrinth of shadows where every tree could hide another traitor.

Salviana clung to his waist, her face pressed against the silver embroidery of his coat. She could feel the rhythmic pulse of his blood and the terrifying heat of his rage. The "stick figures" from her carving were behind them, a twenty-man army of ghosts, but it was the lone figure from the corner of the wood—the one watching from the shadows—that she feared the most.

"We aren’t going back to the camp," Alaric shouted over the wind. "We can’t trust anyone. We head for the high ridges!"

He pushed Soar harder, the black horse "soaring" through the gloom, a streak of midnight ink escaping a nightmare.

The whispers that had once been a distant vibration were now a cacophony—a thousand overlapping voices chanting that undecipherable, rhythmic sentence until the very air felt like it was bruising.

"The best thing to do is to look for the eye!" Salviana cried out over the thunder of hooves, her voice strained but certain. She gripped the pommel of the saddle, her knuckles white. "Alaric, the carving! The eye is the center! We have to find where it’s watching from!"

Alaric didn’t answer immediately; his breath was a series of ragged, wet snarls. The arrow in his shoulder shifted with every gallop of Soar, sent a fresh jolt of agony through his frame, but his grip on the reins remained a vice. He was losing blood, the dark stain spreading across the silver embroidery of his coat, yet his focus remained entirely on the woman tucked against his chest.

"We’ll find it," Alaric ground out, his eyes flashing with a desperate, ink-black light. "But they keep making us go round the place" he gritted out.

Swoosh—thud!

Another arrow buried itself in the high back of the leather saddle, inches from Salviana’s hip. Behind them, the sounds of the possessed royals and knights were getting louder. They weren’t just running anymore; they were moving with a supernatural, predatory grace, leaping over fallen logs and pushing through briars without a single cry of pain.