The fire crackled, small embers dancing into the air like flickering stars. The sky above was turning indigo, the final streaks of sunset fading beyond the tree line. The woods were quiet, hushed with the promise of nightfall.
Draco stepped into the clearing, arms full of dry sticks. He walked over to the fire pit and dropped them in, the flames greedily licking the new fuel and flaring brighter. The orange light played across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the curve of his serious mouth.
Across the camp, Fredrick stood by the river, letting the horses drink. He moved with quiet precision, checking their reins, his boots sinking slightly into the damp riverbank. Beside the fire, Steven sat cross-legged, sharpening the head of one of his arrows with a whetstone, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone echoing in the stillness.
"We'll need food," Draco said, brushing off his hands as he approached Steven. "I heard these woods have brilliant wild hares. Might be a good test of your speed."
Steven didn't say much—he rarely did. Instead, he gave Draco a faint smile. A simple tilt of the corner of his lips, confident and knowing.
He was a large man, broad-shouldered and tall, the kind who could blend in with shadows and then strike with frightening precision. He wore a cotton shirt with puffed sleeves, tucked beneath a leather vest. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscled arms marked with faded scars—some old, some not. His trousers were a deep brown, worn from travel, tucked into tall, heavy boots caked with forest dirt. His skin was a rich honey brown, and his hair fell longer at the back, untamed and slightly wild, adding to his intimidating aura.
Draco narrowed his eyes slightly at Steven's expression. "I hope nightfall doesn't blur your vision," he said dryly, "I'd hate to find you chasing shadows."
Steven stood, sliding the arrow into its quiver. "I'll meet you in an hour," he said simply, his deep voice smooth and grounded.
He turned and walked toward the trees without hesitation,
Fredrick returned just as Steven disappeared into the thickets. He didn't comment, just gave a brief glance in the direction Steven had gone, then turned back to the horses. Letting them graze freely near the brush, he knelt and began filling their water pouches with river water, setting them aside. Then he started setting up the small cooking stove they carried with them, his movements practiced and efficient.
Draco pulled a stick from the edge of the fire, flames licking the end as he stepped away from the camp. "I saw some herbs nearby when we passed that ridge," he called out. "We'll need them for the soup. Something to restore our energy—we won't be able to rest tomorrow at all."
Fredrick nodded, focused on the fire as he built the structure for the cooking pot. Once the frame was set, he hung the pot over the flames, then pulled out a small crystal of salt and tossed it into the boiling water with a soft hiss.
Mae sat by the same tree she had been dumped against in a sack not long ago. The night had fallen, and with the sun gone, a creeping cold began to settle across the ground. She rubbed her arms, the chill biting through the thin fabric of her sleeves.
Lora still hadn't returned.
It had been a while now, longer than it should've been, and Mae was starting to feel uneasy. The men near the broken carriage didn't seem to care. They worked on the wheel in silence, not once glancing toward the woods.
Mae stood up, brushing off the grass from her skirt and walked a few steps toward them. "Hey!" she called out. "Lora's missing. She hasn't come back yet."
One of the men glanced over his shoulder lazily. "She'll come. You stay by the tree. We'll leave as soon as the carriage is fixed."
That was it. No concern. No urgency. Mae blinked at him in disbelief.
"What kind of response was that?" she muttered to herself, turning away. Her anxiety twisted into something sharper—anger. Her chest felt tight, not from hunger now but from the fear of being left alone, again.
After glancing over her shoulder one last time, Mae took a deep breath. "If they won't go looking for her, then I will," she whispered. Quietly, she slipped into the forest.
The trees grew thicker with every step. The moonlight barely reached the ground, and Mae instantly regretted not bringing a torch.
"Great. Just great," she mumbled, stumbling over a root. "Why did I think this was a good idea?"
As she adjusted the strap of her bag, a soft glow caught her eye. Something inside was faintly glowing.
She stopped and fumbled with the flap, pushing past folded fabric and pulling out the uniglass. Its frame shimmered faintly in the dark. "Was it always glowing?" she asked herself. Maybe she just hadn't noticed before, too distracted by, well—everything.
Still, a light source was a light source.
Mae raised it in her hand and called out softly, "Lora? Are you out there? Can you hear me?"
The uniglass helped her see a few steps ahead, but it wasn't enough to cut through the night. "What if she collapsed? What if she's hurt?" Mae bit her lip. The idea of turning back gnawed at her. She looked at the uniglass again, frustrated. "Ugh. This isn't enough."
Then, she lifted it looking through the glass not sure what she wanted to achieve through it.
The moment it touched her face, the forest changed. The darkness peeled back. It was still night, but it looked like dusk now—everything tinted in soft twilight hues. She could see clearly.
"Night vision?" Mae gasped, blinking in surprise. "This thing actually works?"
For a second, she was just proud. "This might be the only good thing I bought in my old life," she whispered with a small grin, holding the uniglass like it was made of gold. She slipped it back onto her eye and began moving again, deeper into the woods.
Mae wandered, calling softly, unaware of the danger she was walking into. The forest might have looked calm through the glass, but it was known among locals as a bandit's hideout. Strangers didn't usually leave with all their belongings—or their lives.
Steven, moved like a shadow through the trees. He had been tracking a hare for the last half an hour, bow raised, arrow drawn, feet silent on the forest floor. His sharp eyes locked onto movement in the distance—a flash of fur among the roots.
He steadied his breath. But just as he prepared to shoot—
"Agh! Freaking roots!"
A loud shriek tore through the forest. The arrow launching out of his hand because of the sudden noise hitting the hare right in the chest. Birds shot out of the trees in a panic, flapping madly into the sky.
Steven went silent for a moment not particularly pleased with the hunt as if, his hand reached back, in the next moment his next arrow was already strung. His ears perked, body tensed. That scream had sounded too human, too desperate. He narrowed his eyes, thinking of the stories about the woods—bandits luring travelers by pretending to be wounded. Some were traps. Some were deadly.
He couldn't risk it—not while the crown prince was nearby.
Steven crept toward the sound, quiet and focused. He gently pushed aside the low branches, eyes sharp, arrow aimed, ready to shoot the second he saw any movement.
He didn't know it yet.
But the "trap" he was heading toward… was Mae.