She stumbled to her feet and fled blindly into the forest, dirt and leaf litter clinging to her skirts as she scrambled up a steep slope. Twigs tore at her hair and clothing, tangling her in every step. Then she looked up—and froze. Above her, on a cliff edge, stood more than a dozen men, torches held aloft. Their flames flickered like hungry eyes, silhouetting the soldiers against the night sky.

A burst of panic spurred her forward. She veered to the right, half-sliding down an icy ledge into a narrow gorge—her only route of escape. Recklessly, she picked her way along the slick spine of rock, gaze fixed on the valley below. Without warning, her foot slipped on the treacherous ice. She fell hard with a startled cry, tumbling down the steep incline. Sharp rocks raked her ribs and tore gashes in her side before her body thudded against unyielding ground, the impact forcing the breath from her lungs in a ragged sob.

Gasping, she lifted her head. To one side, she saw the remains of a small chapel—barely more than a crumbling façade and a few ancient pillars. Nothing there would hide her from pursuers. She pressed her palm to the stabbing pain in her side, tried to stand, but her legs refused her. A cry of despair tore from her throat as she sank to her knees in the snow.

This is it, she thought.

Icy wind stung her cheeks. She bowed her head, clutching her father's ring. "Please, Father," she whispered. "Give me strength..."

But her prayer was met with the shouts of men and the baying of hounds. The light of torches fell across her face. Rough hands seized her, dragging her to her knees before Dorin. His fist struck her jaw, the taste of blood flooding her mouth.

"You'll die for what you did," he snarled, eyes burning with triumphant rage.

Before he could strike again, the thunder of hoofbeats shattered the hush. Dorin's men turned, swords half-drawn, as a cloaked rider slid from his horse. He offered a gentle pat to the beast's neck, then straightened, stepping into the torchlight and pushing back his hood.

It was the Prince.

An uneasy hush fell over the clearing, as though every man had forgotten how to breathe. One by one, Dorin's soldiers dropped to their knees, dragging Katherine down with them—terrified that any show of defiance might damn them all. Even Dorin knelt, bowing his head, exposing the pale stretch of his neck as though braced for an executioner's blade.

The Prince drew his sword and approached, stopping just before Dorin. He studied the young nobleman for a long moment, then rested the blade's point in the snow and leaned his right hand on a curved quillon.

"I didn't expect to find you here, my lord," he remarked, his tone calm and almost polite. "What business do you have in this desolate place, and with such a retinue?"

Dorin hesitated, swallowing hard. "Your Majesty," he said hoarsely, "this woman attacked me—she blinded me in one eye. I've come to see her punished for her crime."

At that, the Prince raised the tip of his sword beneath Dorin's chin, compelling him to tilt his face into the torchlight. "I see," he said softly, observing the raw wound before lowering the blade a fraction. "So you intend to exact your vengeance?"

"It is my right," Dorin said stiffly. "I mean to see justice done, Your Grace."

"Indeed," the Prince replied, withdrawing his blade and resting it casually upon its point, as though it were no more than a walking stick. "It is your right. A right I wish to purchase from you."

A tense silence followed. Dorin's mouth opened, but at first no sound emerged. "I—I'm not sure I understand, Your Majesty."

"I wish to acquire the girl," the Prince said simply. His voice was still smooth, yet there was a quiet authority behind it—an unspoken warning not to refuse.

A flicker of fury twisted Dorin's features. He clenched his hands into trembling fists. "But, Your Grace...she's worthless—a slave known only for insolence and disobedience."

The Prince arched a brow. "And do you say this out of concern for your sovereign or out of anger that she thwarted your advances?" A hint of frost crept into his tone, a clear sign his patience was finite.

Dorin's face blanched. "I speak only to serve the Crown, Your Grace. My sole desire is to act in your best interest."

The Prince's lips curved in a cold, thin smile. "Ah. A loyal servant. Then surely you won't deny your Prince this small favor?"

Dorin let out a shaky breath. "I live only to serve you, Your Grace," he murmured, dropping his gaze again.

"Excellent." The Prince slid his sword back into its scabbard, then turned to Katherine. He studied her briefly and, with an unexpectedly gallant gesture, offered his hand. Trembling, she placed her fingers in his, allowing him to help her up. Though his next words were directed at Dorin, his eyes never left her face.

"Name your price, or I will set one for you."

Dorin shifted uneasily, still kneeling. "I—I can't speak for my father, Your Grace. She belongs to the Baron..."

Without a word, the Prince pulled a small pouch from his cloak and tossed it at Dorin's feet. After a moment's hesitation, Dorin snatched it up, peering inside. His one good eye widened at the contents—three rubies, each as big as a quail's egg, each a fortune unto itself.

"Your Grace...this is—" Dorin began in awe.

"Payment for your eye," the Prince said coolly, "and for the slave."

Katherine's stomach twisted at the word slave. Yet she held her tongue, feeling his gaze flick over her, daring her to speak. When she said nothing, he unclasped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. She closed her eyes, gripping the thick folds of cloth as though they might protect her from the horrors of the night. Beneath its faint scent of leather and smoke, she caught an exotic, undefinable perfume.

Then a wave of dizziness crashed over her. Her side throbbed with a sudden, blinding pain. She touched her hand beneath her ribs, fingers coming away warm and sticky with blood. Confusion clouded her mind as the memories returned in a disjointed rush: the pursuit through the forest, the sharp rocks slicing into her body, the frantic terror that had drowned out all sensation until now.

Her vision went red at the edges. She felt her knees begin to give. Suddenly he was behind her, one arm banded around her waist, steadying her against his chest. She heaved, retching violently. Nothing came but bile, searing her throat. Tears blurred her eyes.

Still, his grip held firm. He gathered her limp form into his arms like a child. She wanted to struggle, to scream her defiance, but she could only press a trembling hand against his leather tunic in weak protest. He murmured something gently, though the words made no sense to her, then swung her up onto his horse and mounted behind her. Unable to resist the black fog creeping over her mind, she slumped against him, surrendering to half-conscious oblivion.

Time lost all meaning. Hooves thundered beneath her, and she drifted in and out of delirium, only half-aware of torches and voices, of gates and watchtowers. When at last she forced her eyes open, the looming walls of Sighișoara's fortress filled her vision, dark silhouettes in the glow of countless torches. A crowd—so many voices—surrounded them.

She felt the Prince dismount, felt him lift her again, carrying her through the gates and across the courtyard. Nobles and servants dropped into bows, parted in reverence, or stood whispering at the sight of their sovereign bearing a battered, blood-soaked stranger in his arms. He said nothing, only strode purposefully inside, down winding corridors and up broad staircases until they reached a well-lit chamber fragrant with braziers and lamp oil.

She was laid carefully on a bed. She heard hushed voices, felt people moving around her, glimpsed flickers of light and shadow. Someone's skirts rustled near her ear, and then she heard a soft, familiar voice.

"Katherine," it whispered, and she turned her head.

"Rose," she managed. Gentle fingers stroked her cheek, brushing damp hair aside.

"It's all right," Rose murmured. "You're safe. Just stay with me, all right? Don't drift off."

But Katherine couldn't fight it anymore. She closed her eyes, letting the darkness swallow her. In feverish dreams, she relived the chase through the woods, the wild panic, the memory of her father's execution superimposed on fragments of childhood happiness. She saw herself as a little girl, riding with him through sunny fields. Then, without warning, she was back in that snowy courtyard, watching him kneel for the executioner's blade. She tried to scream as the sword fell, but no sound emerged.

Hands seized her, pulling her away to the ruined chapel. The Prince was there, beckoning with a slow unfurl of his fingers. Snowflakes whirled around his hand, coalescing into her father's ring. She reached for it, only to see the emerald and gold crumble into dust, the tiny motes drifting away on the cold night air.

And then even the dream dissolved into blackness.