Chapter 2: The Silent Escort
The sun dipped low as the royal caravan moved slowly across the forest road. Dust curled behind the wheels of the carriages, and armored horses marched in careful rhythm. The air was tense, not with threat—but with silence.
Vileal rode beside the second carriage, eyes scanning the trees. He'd ridden this formation before—frontline guard, never more than ten paces from the princess's carriage. It was a position of high trust, but also high risk. Bandits and rebel factions were known to stalk diplomatic routes like this one.
Yet the threat he sensed most didn't come from the trees.
It came from inside the carriage.
Princess Selene hadn't said a word since the journey began. The guards whispered that she despised men. That her tongue was sharper than any sword. That her heart was colder than the northern lakes.
Vileal wasn't one for rumors, but it was hard to ignore the way she looked at him earlier. Like he was beneath her attention. Like she wanted him gone.
But he wasn't here for her approval. He was here to protect her. No matter what.
The days passed in long, slow strides. They moved from river trails to woodland passes. At every resting point, Vileal checked the perimeter. Ate in silence. Slept with one eye open.
Occasionally, his eyes would drift to the royal tent. It stood apart from the others—an elegant structure with silver-threaded fabric and a single orchid crest on the front.
He never saw her exit. Never heard her voice.
Only once, late at night, did he glimpse her—standing alone by the riverbank, her back to the camp. She held something in her hand. A folded letter? A pendant? He couldn't tell.
Then she turned, caught him watching, and disappeared into the shadows.
The next morning, the tension was worse.
It wasn't until the fifth night that Samuel called Vileal aside during a watch rotation.
"She's like that with everyone," Sam muttered, sipping from a tin cup. "Her mother died young. The king tried to raise her with armor instead of arms. Made her strong—but made her wary."
Vileal didn't respond.
Samuel nudged his shoulder. "Don't take it personally. Just do your job. Protect her. That's all that matters."
Vileal nodded.
And that night, he didn't sleep.
Something felt off. A cold wind blew through the trees, and the campfire cracked low. His instincts—sharpened through years of battle—twitched with unease.
Then he saw it.
Shadows moving beyond the treeline. Too many for hunting wolves. Too fast for ordinary travelers.
Bandits.
Vileal rose without a sound, hand on his sword. He turned to wake Samuel—but the commander was already running.
"The king's tent!" Samuel shouted. "Go to the princess—protect her! Whether you live or die, do not let them take her!"
The order rang clear through the night.
Vileal didn't hesitate.
He sprinted toward the royal tent, sword drawn, eyes sharp. The camp exploded into chaos—flames, screams, metal clashing with metal.
But his focus never wavered.
He would protect her.
No matter what.