The night air in the Blackwood was sharp enough to cut skin.
They had been walking for three hours since covering themselves in the river sludge. The initial adrenaline that had fueled Elara's escape was gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. Her teeth chattered so violently that the sound seemed to echo through the silent trees.
"Ciro," she stammered, her voice barely audible. "I... I need to stop."
Ciro checked the position of the moon through the skeletal branches. They had gained some elevation, moving up a rocky ridge where the ground was too hard to leave deep footprints. It was safer here, but colder.
He looked at Elara. She was stumbling. Her lips were no longer blue; they were pale white. The mud on her skin had dried into a cracking, grey crust. She was entering the dangerous stages of hypothermia.
"We stop here," Ciro decided.
He spotted a large, ancient oak tree that had fallen years ago. Its massive root system had been torn from the earth, creating a small, sheltered hollow beneath the trunk. It was barely a cave, more like a shallow grave, but it was out of the wind.
Ciro guided Elara into the hollow. The ground was covered in dead leaves and pine needles.
"Sit," he commanded gently.
Elara collapsed onto the leaves, curling into a tight ball. She was shivering uncontrollably now, her eyes unfocused.
"Fire?" she whispered hopefully.
Ciro shook his head, his expression grim. "No fire. The hounds would smell the smoke from miles away. And the light would be a beacon."
Elara let out a small, broken sob. "It's so cold."
Ciro knew he had to act fast. He stripped off his leather belt and his boots. He gathered as many dry leaves as he could, piling them around Elara like a nest.
Then, he sat down behind her.
"Come here," Ciro said.
He pulled her back against his chest, wrapping his arms and legs around her small frame. He pulled the damp wool tunic he had given her tighter, creating a cocoon.
Elara stiffened for a second—propriety was a hard habit to break—but then her survival instinct took over. She melted into him, desperate for any scrap of warmth.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, her head resting on his shoulder. The smell of swamp mud was overpowering, but to her, he smelled like safety. "I am useless to you here. I am just a burden."
Ciro rested his chin on the top of her muddy head. He could feel her shivering subsiding slowly as his body heat leeched into hers.
"You are not a burden, Elara," Ciro said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "You are the mission. Without you, I am just a killer without a cause. You keep me human."
"A killer..." Elara repeated the word. She turned her head slightly, looking at his hands wrapped around her waist. Hands that had killed the Captain of the Guard just hours ago. "Does it... does it bother you? Killing them?"
Ciro looked out into the dark forest. He remembered the feeling of his blade slicing through Marcus's neck. He remembered the hundreds before that.
"The sheep fears the wolf," Ciro whispered. "But the shepherd uses the wolf to kill the foxes. I do what I must to keep you safe. If that stains my soul, so be it."
He tightened his grip. "Sleep, Elara. I will watch."
Exhaustion finally claimed her. Her breathing evened out, and her body went limp in his arms.
Ciro did not sleep. He kept his eyes open, staring into the blackness.
Hours passed. The wind died down.
Then, he saw it.
Far down in the valley below, a tiny flicker of orange light appeared. Then another. And another. A line of torches moving through the trees like a snake of fire.
They were moving fast. Much faster than Ciro had calculated.
He narrowed his eyes. The leader of that hunting party wasn't just following tracks; he was predicting them.
Ciro pressed his back against the rough bark of the fallen tree, holding the sleeping Princess tighter.
Come then, he thought silently, challenging the darkness. But you will not find sheep up here.
The Wolf waited.