Chapter Seven: The Stranger’s Shadow
1188 Words
Sunrise hadn’t even bothered to show up properly before Evelyn Anthena’s world decided to fall apart again. She sat crammed in the back of a carriage that looked like it’d been borrowed from a nightmare: wood splintering, iron bolts groaning, the whole thing smelling like stale sweat, musty leather, and the kind of cold that bites right through to your bones. Honestly, the air was so thick she could’ve chewed it.
Her wrists ached, skin chafed raw where the shackles had been. She flexed her fingers, wincing, and tried to press herself farther into the corner, as if the darkness would swallow her up and she could just, I don’t know, vanish. Not much luck there. Her cloak was more holes than fabric, dust clinging to it like it was personal. The only thing that felt real was the pendant hanging around her neck her mother’s last gift, a stubborn little glint of gold that refused to be forgotten.
Yeah, she clung to it. What else was left? Out the window, the world was a smear of trees, rooftops, and the sky slowly bruising to night. Inside, it was dead silent except for the wheels grinding over every rut, and the sound of her own heart thumping like it was trying to escape her chest.
Her mind was a mess. She kept thinking about Thomas stupid, brave Thomas who’d laughed in the face of the guards and whispered stories through the darkness. She’d seen him last three days ago. Chains. Blood. He’d been yanked away, sold off to someone else. Was he alive? Had he lost the spark in his eyes, or did he still dream about freedom? God, the not knowing was a special kind of torture.
Suddenly, the carriage jerked to a halt. The door flung open with a screech, and in strode a man who looked like trouble had put on a cloak and decided to walk upright. He was tall, all sharp edges and shadows, eyes glinting silver in the gloom. He didn’t look at her like she was a broken thing, not exactly. More like a puzzle he was deciding whether to smash or solve.
“You’re awake,” he said. His voice was rough, gravelly, but not cruel. At least, not yet.
Evelyn didn’t flinch. She was done flinching. “Where am I?” Her words came out flat, almost bored. Let him make the first move.
“Safe. For now.” There was something almost humorous in the way he said it, as if he knew “safe” was relative.
She snorted. “Safe from what? The wolves or the nightmares?”
He shrugged one shoulder, pulling a battered flask from his belt. “From the people who want you dead. Drink.” He passed it over, and she, desperate for anything to warm her up, took a gulp. The liquid burned like fury down her throat. She coughed, eyes watering, but felt her insides thaw a little.
“Who are you?” she demanded, voice sharper now.
He studied her, one eyebrow raised as if weighing whether she was worth the trouble. “Someone with reasons to keep you alive. Someone with enemies who’d rather see you gone.”
Cryptic. Of course. Evelyn bit back a dozen retorts. The weight of everything the loss, the fear, the exhaustion suddenly slammed into her, and she had to fight just to keep her eyes open.
“You’ll need your strength,” the stranger muttered. “The world’s not done coming for you yet.”
She closed her eyes, leaning back against the hard wall as the carriage started with a jolt. The night outside pressed in, thick as velvet, and Evelyn drifted into a sleep haunted by chains and the echo of Thomas’s voice calling her name.
Elsewhere miles and worlds away, really Queen Isadora stalked the palace halls like a ghost with a vendetta. She was the kind of beautiful that made people nervous: all sharp cheekbones and cold eyes, her gown trailing like spilled ink across marble floors. Power clung to her, thick as perfume. She’d erased Evelyn’s name from every scroll and song, scrubbed her memory from the kingdom like a stain. Still, she felt it the ache where the crown sat heavy, and the constant itch of fear.
Her son, Prince Dorian, trailed after her like a shadow that hadn’t quite made peace with being attached. He looked the part golden hair, perfect posture, the whole royal package but his eyes gave him away. There was doubt there, a flicker that made Isadora’s teeth clench.
In the council chamber, the air buzzed with tension. Lords and ladies whispered behind gloved hands, spinning rumors so fast they barely had time to catch their own lies. Uprising in the north. The lost princess, still alive. Unrest brewing like a storm cloud nobody wanted to name.
Isadora didn’t bother with subtlety. Her voice cut through the noise, sharp as broken glass. “The princess is dead. Anyone who says otherwise is a traitor. I expect traitors to be dealt with. Quickly.”
The room fell silent. Oh, they nodded, muttered agreement, but you could smell the fear. It clung to them, thick and sour. They were terrified not just of her, but of the truth crawling around in the shadows. Evelyn’s name was a ghost, and even dead, it haunted them.
Back at the stranger’s keep a drafty old fortress that looked like it’d been carved out of nightmares Evelyn slept fitfully, tangled in blankets that smelled of smoke and iron. Her dreams were a mess: chains rattling, Thomas’s face swimming in and out of focus, whispers that sounded a lot like her mother’s voice but twisted with warning.
She jerked awake, breath coming in sharp bursts, and found the stranger sitting by the fire, watching her over the rim of a chipped mug. He looked tired, but alert like a wolf who’d learned to never quite sleep.
“You’re far from home,” he said, voice softer than she expected.
“Yeah,” she croaked, rubbing her eyes. “No kidding.”
He didn’t smile, exactly, but there was a glimmer of something respect, maybe. “Tomorrow, we leave. There are people who want to silence you before you can even stand.”
Evelyn’s fingers curled around her pendant. She forced a smile, all teeth and defiance. “Let them try.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost proud. “You’ve got fire. Good. You’re going to need it.”
Night pressed on, thick and restless. In the palace, Isadora sharpened her knives and plotted. In the keep, Evelyn stared at the ceiling, her mind racing with plans and fears she didn’t dare speak aloud.
Somewhere out there, Thomas might still be alive. Somewhere, people whispered her name in the dark, daring to hope.
The kingdom was holding its breath, caught between a queen’s iron fist and a girl with nothing left to lose but her life and maybe, just maybe, her heart.
The storm hadn’t broken yet. But everyone could feel it coming.
- Writer
