Lysandra moved through the trees like a shadow, her newfound power humming beneath her skin. The darkness no longer resisted her; it welcomed her, folding around her like an old friend.
Aldric's men had spread out, searching, their torches flickering in the night. They thought they were the hunters.
They were wrong.
She pressed her palm against the nearest tree, feeling the whispers of the forest around her. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat of the men echoed in her mind like ripples in a pond.
Her lips curled.
Time to strike.
A Silent Execution
One of the soldiers stepped too far from the others. A fatal mistake.
Lysandra dropped down from the branches above, landing with unnatural silence. Before he could even react, she clamped a hand over his mouth.
Shadows coiled around his limbs.
His struggles weakened. His breath hitched—then stopped.
She lowered his body to the ground without a sound.
One down.
She turned, her eyes gleaming in the dark.
Who's next?
Aldric's Plan
Farther ahead, the remaining soldiers clustered together, murmuring. Lysandra stilled, listening.
"…the prince's orders were clear."
Prince?
Lysandra's heart stuttered.
Aldric was a powerful noble, but he wasn't a prince. Which prince were they talking about?
"…she's not just some runaway," one of them muttered. "They say she carries the god's mark."
The group fell silent.
Lysandra's pulse quickened. They knew.
She had underestimated them.
The prince—whoever he was—was hunting her.
A slow, burning anger coiled in her chest.
Let them come.
She would show them why the gods had chosen her.
Why the shadows belonged to her.
She faded into the darkness once more, the whispers of the night guiding her next move.