'Stay in the carriage.'

  I'm torn from the garden of my dreams as I wake violently to the door slamming shut, my heart hammering, my breath shallow.

  The carriage rocks as a thud echoes outside--something heavy slamming into it.

  I blink away my sleepy daze, eyes adjusting to the darkness as I stare across the carriage at Rael.

  "What's-" My words are cut short when I notice his absence. Only his sword resides on the cushion.

  A gurgled scream erupts outside. Not a human scream. Something wet and raw and dying.

  My pulse quickens.

  I grip my seat, nails digging into the black fabric as I stare at the sword. Another sickening gurgle comes from just beyond the door and a shadow flits past the window--fast, lethal.

  What if it's Rael?

  What if he's dying out there because he doesn't have a weapon?

  I lunge for it. The hilt is foreign in my grip, heavier than I expected.

  My heart pounds. He's out there. Unarmed.

  My escort. My ticket to a safe passage to Varethia.

  A snarl--inhuman and guttural cuts through the air, and before I can even stop myself, I'm standing and racing for the door.

  I shove the wood open and step out.

  Darkness coats the forest in a thick black blanket, only a small hint of orange dusk cuts through the trees as I snap my head toward the commotion.

  The moment my feet hit the ground, I see hell.

  It is nothing like the firey pits of my childhood fears. No. Hell is a wooded clearing soaked in blood. Hell is the gleam of sharp teeth in the night.

  Hell is standing in front of me.

  I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream, stumbling back a step as the smell of iron hangs thick in the air.

  Bodies. Twisted and broken and torn open.

  And standing in the center of it all--the King's Blade.

  He moves through them like a shadow, too fast, too precise. A blackened figure lunges--Rael sidesteps, swiping his hand toward the stranger's stomach. A wet rip. The figure collapses.

  And then I see it.

  The corpse.

  Its throat a gaping hole.

  The sword nearly falls from my grip. I cannot move--cannot tear my eyes away.

  Claws, curved and cruel, extend from his fingers and slash through flesh like hot butter.

  Another silhouette leaps at him from behind. But it's no use. Rael turns, catching the figure by the wrist.

  A sickening crunch echoes through the night.

  The scream never fully forms before Rael drives his claws into the man's chest.

  He doesn't even pause before he rips them free.

  Blood spatters, steaming in the twilight.

  I can't breathe.

  Rael looks up.

  His eyes find mine.

  I freeze.

  There is nothing human in his face.

  His chest rises and falls, breath heavy, stained red. Pointed teeth glint in the dying light. His hands drip with what used to be a person.

  His gaze flickers to the thing I am holding.

  The sword.

  A strange expression flashes across his face—something between confusion and anger.

  His voice slashes through the clearing. "I told you to stay inside."

  I drop the sword. It thuds against the dirt. My feet are moving before I register it, my body stumbling sideways, back into the carriage.

  I slam the door shut.

  The world presses in.

  My breath rasps in my throat. My fingers tremble against my lap.

  The sword was useless.

  Rael never needed it.

  I wonder how it started? I wonder if the coachman spotted--

  Where is the coachman?

  The thought pierces through the haze.

  I whip toward the window, squinting through the darkness to scan the woodline—no sign of movement.

  He was there when we left. He had to be—

  I slowly open the door open, carefully leaning out toward the front—searching.

  Something slams into me, pinning me between the door and the frame. All the air is forced from my lungs as the impact crushes my ribs. Everything turns white, blinding.

  I choke out a gasp as the door bounces off of me and I can move once more.

  That voice—low, inhuman—snarls again.

  "Inside!"

  I barely register the order over my heart in my ears.

  Then—silence.

  Not real silence. The wind still moves through the trees. Blood is still dripping. But the screams are gone.

  The bodies have stopped moving.

  I shrink back into the carriage, pulse roaring, fingers shaking. The door creaks open.

  Rael steps inside.

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  I forget how to breathe again.

  His armor is coated a bright scarlet. Not just the metal—his face, his hands, his hair, midnight-dark strands sticking to his cheek where blood has splattered. His eyes glow in the dim light—piercing, molten, unnatural. His lips part, breath heavy, and I see his teeth.

  Too sharp. Too stained red.

  The scent of death follows him inside.

  Monster.

  I press against the seat, eyes wide. My body knows a predator when it sees one.

  He's a monster.

  He tilts his head, those glowing red eyes tracking my every movement. A sliver of dusk breaking through the window catches the slick curve of his claws.

  I can't stop staring at them. Dripping. Stained. Ruined.

  His sword is still on the ground outside. Unused. Unneeded.

  He speaks. "Are you hurt?"

  I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

  "Princess."

  His voice drags me back to myself but I cannot regain my composure.

  He notices, probably adding it to his list of inconveniences.

  His gaze flickers to my side, where pain still lingers from the impact. But I don't answer him.

  I can't.

  The carriage is too small. The air smells of iron and carnage. I stumble for the door furthest from him, shoving it open, lungs burning.

  The moment my feet hit the ground, my stomach heaves.

  I don't make it far before I trip on my skirts and fall to my knees, retching.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  But the scent of blood won't leave my throat. The memory of it pooling on the ground—gurgling from the man's ripped-out throat—won't fade.

  The world tilts and I brace my hand against a tree, forcing myself to look back.

  Five bodies. No, six.

  Twisted, broken, lifeless.

  A butchered battlefield.

  Rael did this. With his bare hands. With his teeth.

  I shudder, swallowing down bile—

  A flicker of movement near the corpses.

  A figure crouched among the dead.

  At first, I think it's another wounded stranger, struggling to rise. But then a serpentine tongue flicks out, dragging over clawed fingers.

  I freeze.

  It moves slowly, deliberately, licking the blood from its hands like a beast savoring a meal.

  My vision narrows, tunneling in on it.

  The figure lifts its head. Glowing yellow eyes. A grin slick with red.

  Not the King's Blade.

  My knees buckle.

  The last thing I hear before the world slips away is Rael... cursing.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Sunlight trickles through emerald leaves as laughter rings through the air--my brother's laughter, light and carefree as he chases after a butterfly between the rosebushes. The scent of morning dew clings to the grass as his blond, curly hair bobs up and down with each stride, and for a fleeting moment, I feel safe.

  For a split second, I am home.

  But then the golden light fades. Shadows slither through the garden, snaking around the hedges like vicious vipers.

  The laughter dies.

  The roses blacken and wither.

  A metallic scent taints the air, sharp and suffocating and--

  A sharp prod to my shoulder yanks me from the dream.

  "Mother," I whimper, "I had the worst--"

  The words die on my lips as I find Rael standing over me, silhouette nearly bleeding into the dark world around him.

  Cold dirt seeps through the fabric of my dress and I shiver. Not entirely sure if it is from the chill or the memories rushing back to me all at once--the fight, the bodies, the other creature.

  A gasp slips past my lips as I try to scramble to my feet. The world tilts, my head spinning as my fingers grapple for the earth, closing around something rough and solid--a stick. I stumble to my feet, gripping it tightly and holding it between us like a sword, instincts drowning out any logic.

  Rael releases an annoyed sigh, though he doesn't move. "Ah yes. A stick." He states flatly. "My one weakness."

  I don't answer, swaying on my feet as I squint through the darkness at him. My head throbs, but I refuse to stand down.

  "Are you planning to duel me?" He questions humorously.

  I ignore him, scanning the clearing in search of the other figure. I know I saw it. Blood-slicked claws, golden eyes, fanged grin. It was right there.

  "Where is it?" I demand, my voice hoarse.

  "What?"

  "That," I swallow, throat dry, "that thing."

  Rael glances over his shoulder, sighing. "Handled."

  The single word does little to ease my panic, but before I can press further, another thought surges forward.

  "The coachman, where is he?" I breathe, my stomach twisting at the thought of what may have happened to him. Maybe that thing had devoured him too, licked his blood from its fingers.

  I shudder, shifting on my feet as my eyes dance around the darkness.

  "He's busy." Rael flicks his head toward the trees, I barely register the shadowy movement but I follow the gesture. In the distance, a torchlight flickers and a shadow moves about--someone crouched low, digging into the earth with a glinting shovel. Dirt scatters as the figure straightens slightly.

  My grip only tightens on the stick and I look back at Rael as the realization sinks into my stomach like a stone in a pond.

  He's burying them. The bodies.

  My throat burns with bile once more, but I force it back down.

  "Princess," he murmurs, drawing my attention back to the present. Even in the blackened night, his red eyes seem to glow with an unnatural light, like embers stirring beneath ash. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark, finding his midnight hair falling in loose strands over his brow. He hasn't cleaned himself off yet, the smell of iron and salt hanging in the air between us.

  He takes a slow step toward me.

  I take an equal step back.

  "Put that down before you embarrass yourself."

  I barely hear him over the ringing in my ears. The world feels smaller, the shadows darker. Everything feels like a dream, like a nightmare I am to wake up from in mere moments.

  "I-" My voice falters, unsure of what I was trying to say and my fingers ache around the stick.

  Rael only sighs, his tone bordering on lazy amusement. "Do you intend to fend me off with a twig all night, or will you let me set up camp?"

  I don't register his question. "Your sword," my voice betrays my fear, "you didn't even use it..." my words trail off into nothing, swallowed by the vast quiet of the forest. Moonlight cuts through the clouds above, a gossamer beam illuminating where we stand.

  Across from me, Rael stills. The faintest glow lingers in his eyes as he watches me. Then, slow, deliberate--he smiles. "I was hungry."

  Ice twists down my spine.

  The way he states it. That smooth, careless ease. As if it's nothing--disembowling people with one hand. As if it's normal.

  I blink at him, trying to see any shift in his steeled expression. The ruby eyes, the sharp edges of his face, the faint, amused curve of his lips. But the image warps as I remember what he truly is.

  Predator.

  Blood. So much blood.

  Monster.

  Dripping from his fingers. Smearing across his face.

  Demon.

  Tearing them apart. With his hands. With his teeth.

  The night presses in around us as my pulse throbs in my throat. I wonder if he hears it. I wonder if he can smell my fear poisoning the air between us.

  But then, he moves without another word, walking a short distance before crouching near a fallen log. Moonlight dances atop his head like a glimmering crown.

  I watch, unable to release the stick, as he gathers dry branches, snapping them with ease.

  Like he did with their arms.

  I swallow hard.

  He said he was hungry.

  I don't wish to understand what he meant.

  A soft hiss of flint clashing with steel cuts through the night and the flicker of flame catches my eye. Soon, fire catches, casting jagged shadows across his face as he feeds it, the glow licking over his knuckles.

  "We'll set up camp here for the night, there shouldn't be any more issues with... thieves."

  I shouldn't go near him, but the cold creeps in and settles in my bones and my limbs are stiff with exhaustion.

  I hesitate for a moment, then, stiffly, move toward the warmth.

  I sit as far from him as possible, staring at the growing fire as it crackles and stretches warmth into the bitter air. My shoulders loosen just a fraction and I let out a slow breath, losing myself in the flames, focusing on the normalcy of them.

  When I was young, sleepless nights led me to the warmth of the fireplace in my father's study. I would curl up on the ornate rug and bathe in the flickering glow with my favorite book nestled in my arms. I always kept it atop the hearth in preparations for nights before the fire and I would read the worn pages until my eyelids grew heavy, until the words blurred into dreams. By morning, I'd wake in my father's arms as he carried me back to my bed-chamber, my book still clutched against my chest.

  I never knew those nights would become memories before I had the chance to cherish them.

  A shift of movement catches my eye and I glance up just as something dark lands beside me.

  A cloak. Thick, velvety, and heavier than any I own.

  Rael doesn't look at me as he tosses another branch into the fire.

  A peace offering.

  Or a mockery of my humanity.

  I don't move for it until his voice finally breaks the silence. "Use it."

  I blink at him, debating if I should interrogate him with all of the burning questions storming in my mind but a shudder wracks my frame and my eyes flit over to the cloak, its dark folds unmoving beside me.

  I don't move. The weight of everything sitting heavy on my chest, pressing against my ribs like an iron brand. My fingers curl in my lap. "I don't need it."

  Rael scoffs. "Then leave it. Freeze, if you'd rather."

  I grit my teeth, heat rising to my face from the sharp edge in his tone. "As if you would care."

  He casts a brief glance at me, his eyes unreadable before they fixate back on the flames. "I don't." He pauses. "But I'd rather not have to carry a corpse to the palace."

  His words unnerve me though there is no true cruelty in them. Just the truth. Just the same uncaring mask he wears.

  I stare at him for a moment longer, then finally--slowly--I reach for the cloak and slip it over my shoulders. The weight of it is grounding and the warmth seeping from it dulls the chill that has wrapped around my bones.

  I study him carefully. "Why do you have this?" I've heard in whispers that demons are hot-blooded creatures. That the flames of hell themself course through their blackened veins.

  His lips twitch into the hint of a smirk. "You think I don't get cold?"

  I don't answer. I don't know what I think.

  Instead, I burrow deeper into the cloak, letting the fire's warmth and the scent of leather and metal lingering on the fabric settle around me.

  And for the first time since the ambush, my hands stop shaking.