Ahead of the carriage, the Knight Captain's gray horse let out a panicked whinny and bucked. The captain stiffened. A cold sweat broke across the back of his neck. His hand slammed onto the hilt of his sword, half-drawing the blade.
The elite guards surrounding the carriage stopped dead in their tracks. They gripped their halberds, scanning the dirt street. The air around them had suddenly turned thick and freezing, pricking the hair on their arms like the second before a lightning strike.
Silas blinked. He let out a slow breath and lowered his chin.
The heavy, suffocating pressure vanished. The street was just a loud, dusty market again.
The guards exchanged confused glances. The Princess slowly sank back into her velvet seat, rubbing her chest. The Knight Captain frowned, his grip loosening on his sword as he forced his horse to calm down.
Silas turned his collar up against the wind and quietly slipped away through the crowd.
The heavy wooden gates of Corvin closed behind the royal procession. The dirt road ahead stretched out toward the inner territory.
The Knight Captain held up a hand. The elite guards stopped marching. He turned his gray horse around and trotted back to the black carriage. He tapped his armored knuckle against the wooden frame.
The small glass window slid open. The Princess looked out. Her face was still pale, and she was gripping a silk handkerchief tightly in her lap.
"Are you alright, Your Highness?" the Captain asked. His voice was low, keeping the conversation away from the regular guards.
"I am fine, Elias," she said, taking a shaky breath. "What was that back there?"
Elias frowned. He looked back over his shoulder at the high stone walls of the city. "It was pure killing intent. And it was very strong. I have only felt pressure like that once and it was from my father."
^_____^
...
Silas stuck to the narrow dirt alleys behind the butcher shops. The smell of rotting bones and wet earth masked his passing. He kept his head down, but his skin still prickled, cold sweat clinging to his neck.
He stopped in the shadow of a slanted roof. He held out his right hand, pointing his index finger at a clump of dirty straw near his boot. He stared at it. He dug his nails into his palm, trying to force out that same heavy, freezing weight he had felt in the market. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.
The straw didn't move. Not a fraction of an inch.
Silas dropped his hand. He took a slow breath, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders.
When he reached his house, the front door was hanging open, swaying on a cracked hinge. The living room was dark and freezing. He didn't light a candle.
He walked straight into his bedroom, dropped to his knees, and dragged a canvas bag from under the bed. He shoved in three thick shirts, wool socks, and a pair of heavy pants. In the kitchen, he wrapped a block of hard cheese and a chunk of dried meat in wax paper, burying them at the bottom of the bag.
Next, he knelt by his small wooden desk. He pulled out the bottom drawer, wedged his knife under the wood, and popped out the false bottom. A heavy leather pouch sat inside. It took two hands to lift. Eighty gold pieces clinked dully. He shoved the heavy pouch into his bag and pulled the straps tight.
He walked back into the moonlit living room. He reached into his coat and pulled out the small cloth pouch the guards had given him. He turned it over.
Clink.
Five silver coins scattered across the wooden table. The pale light caught the edges of the metal. Silas stared at them. He reached out and gathered them up, squeezing his fist so tight the metal edges dug deep into his skin.
"Five silver," he whispered. The sound barely carried over the wind blowing through the broken window.
He didn't put the silver in the bag with the gold. He dropped the coins into his front coat pocket.
He slung the canvas bag over his shoulder and walked out the door. He left it open.
Avoiding the main gates. Instead, he walked along the eastern trade wall until he found the storage yard. He crouched behind a stack of empty crates. He watched the top of the stone wall.
A guard carrying a lantern walked past, the light bobbing away into the distance. Silas didn't move. He counted under his breath.
"...sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy."
He scrambled up the rough wood of the crates. He grabbed the top edge of the stone wall, hauled himself over, and hung by his fingers for a second before letting go. He hit the soft dirt outside the city, rolling to absorb the impact.
He stood up and dusted off his knees.
The dirt road stretched east, disappearing into the dark. The capital. Silas adjusted the strap of his bag, turned his back on Corvin, and started walking.
...
Silas walked in the dark for an hour. The only sound was his boots hitting the hard dirt. The moon sat high, casting pale light over the empty fields on either side of the road.
He slowed his pace. A dark shape sat by the side of the road ahead, resting on a large flat stone.
Silas stopped. He kept his distance, staying near the center of the path.
It was a man. He looked to be in his late forties. He had sharp, hollow cheeks and messy black hair. He wore a simple, faded brown coat. He wasn't holding a weapon. He just sat there, resting his elbows on his knees, looking directly at Silas.
Silas stopped walking. The man on the rock didn't move.
Silas gripped the strap of his canvas bag. He took a slow step backward.
A sharp ache hit Silas in the chest. It wasn't a physical blow, but it felt like a heavy stone dropping onto his lungs. He gasped. His vision blurred.
A wet cough forced its way up his throat. Silas opened his mouth. Warm liquid spilled over his bottom lip and dripped down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was dark red in the moonlight. Blood.
The man stood up from the rock. He stepped onto the dirt road.
Silas tried to breathe, but the air felt too thick. He looked at the man walking slowly toward him. The man's right hand was covered in wet, dark blood. He was holding a raw, dark mass of muscle.
It twitched.
Thump. Thump.