Chapter 3: Ambush in the Night
The camp was chaos.
Flames burst into the night sky as oil lanterns shattered. Horses screamed and guards scrambled to form a defense, but the bandits were fast—too fast. They came from the trees like ghosts, blades flashing, faces masked.
Vileal didn't look back. His boots pounded across the grass as he neared the royal tent.
The guards stationed outside were already down—one unconscious, the other bleeding out. He dropped low, rolled under the half-open flap, and rose inside with his sword drawn.
Empty.
The tent was torn. Curtains ripped, pillows scattered, and one velvet slipper tossed near the bedding. But no sign of the princess.
His stomach sank.
He burst out the other side of the tent just in time to see a group of cloaked figures dragging a bound woman toward the woods. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulder. She struggled—kicking, thrashing—but was shoved into a carriage waiting at the treeline.
"Princess Selene!" Vileal roared.
One of the bandits turned, startled.
Vileal didn't wait. He charged with the force of a bull, slicing through the man with one clean motion. Another came at him—he ducked, parried, stabbed. The rest scattered as he approached, fear flickering in their eyes.
He wasn't fighting with thought anymore. He moved like instinct, like wind through a burning field—unrelenting, furious, sharp.
Blood sprayed. Screams followed. But the carriage had already started moving, horses kicking up dirt as it barreled toward the cliffside path.
"No," Vileal whispered, breath ragged. "You won't take her."
He sheathed his sword, took three running steps, and leapt off the cliff.
Wind tore at his coat as he soared downward—arms extended, eyes fixed on the moving carriage below.
He landed hard on the roof with a thud that shook the wood.
Inside, the bandits shouted. One climbed out through the window to see what happened.
Vileal was waiting. He grabbed the man by the collar and slammed his head against the frame—once, twice, then tossed the body off the side.
Another tried to swing out with a dagger—Vileal ducked, pulled his short sword, and ran it through the man's chest.
The driver panicked. Vileal leapt forward, landed behind him, and shoved the blade into the man's spine. The horses veered, and the carriage swerved violently before slowing.
He jumped down, opened the carriage door, and stepped inside.
It was dark. Quiet.
He knelt.
"Princess?" he called softly.
A soft rustle. Then—fingers around his ankle. A small, shaking hand.
He froze.
"Are you the princess?" he asked, carefully gripping the hand.
There was a gasp. He reached up and pulled the mask off the prisoner's face.
Long, tangled black hair spilled out. A face like frost and fire, stained with tears. Wild like a cornered animal. But unmistakably beautiful.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She stared at him.
Then she shouted, voice cracking. "Why did you come for me?! I didn't want to be saved!"
He blinked.
"I was running away," she sobbed, fists clenched. "I don't want to be married off like a trophy—I was trying to escape! Why did you ruin it?!"
Vileal froze.
Everything shifted.
He had risked his life—leapt off a cliff—to save her. But she hadn't wanted to be saved. Not from danger—but from her fate.
"I… I see," he said quietly.
She looked away, ashamed. Still crying.
Vileal sheathed his blade and bent down. Without a word, he turned and offered his back.
"What are you doing?" she asked, confused.
"If you still want to run," he said, voice firm, "I'll take you somewhere safe."
"You're… helping me?" Her voice cracked.
"I'm your knight," he said. "No matter what."
And with that, he carried her into the night—running into the unknown.