Wilder

Protect Lydia. Protect Lydia. Protect Lydia. The mantra beat against Wilder's mind, keeping time to the pounding of Windchaser's strides as they raced from the palace.

Protect Lydia.

The mantra sharpened his senses. The grains of sand brushing against his face and winding through his hair. The wind whistling in his ears. The leather reins gripped in his hands. The salt of the sea in his mouth. The moonlight scattering shadows on the road.

The world around him harshly vivid. Most vivid of it all: her.

Her body pressed against his back. Her arms wrapped around his waist. Her hands clutching his shirt over his stomach. Her ragged breathing. Her emotions sending tremors through her.

Protect Lydia. Protect Lydia. Wilder squeezed his legs into Windchaser's side, urging the horse faster. Lights burned in the city, beacons in the night, but Wilder drove the horse away from the main road. He didn't know what lay in the city, who could be searching for Lydia, or where they would find safety.

Instead, he directed them down a twisting road that led away from the city and the palace. Towering trees arched over the path, darkening the world, but Wilder knew this road, knew each curve and dip like he knew the many shades of brown in Lydia's eyes.

Trust no one. Protect Lydia. The last words his father had shouted to him before yelling at his men to follow him as he cut through the palace attackers.

Did his father survive? Had he managed to cut down the intruders? They'd come out of nowhere, one second the ballroom rang with laughter and merriment, the next a scream pierced the air and everything exploded into chaos. Terror had struck Wilder as he saw the red line of blood on the King's neck and realized he couldn't see Lydia anywhere.

Wilder let out a shuddering breath, shoving the memory away, aware that if he lost himself in it, he'd fail his father's final command. Lydia shifted behind him and Wilder held to the feeling of her, letting it renew his focus. The jungle around them grew denser, rubbery leaves crowding out the star splashed sky. For the sake of the horse, Wilder slowed their pace, he didn't know how long they could make it if Windchaser was injured.

Around him, the world murmured, the scratch of claws as animals scurried across the ground, the hush of trees brushing fingers tips, the shrieks of birds calling to one another.

Through it all, Wilder listened, listened for the echo of hoofbeats, voices of men, signs of pursuit. He didn't hear any, but that didn't stop him from tensing at every sound or swaying shadow. Didn't stop his heart from trying to escape his chest.

At a cluster of rocks, Wilder cut away from the road, taking them down a barely seen path that slithered through the trees. When one second there lay only jungle, the next the ruins of a castle appeared. Sandstone pillars jutted up from the ground like dark sentinels. Crumbling walls showed echoes of rooms. Windchaser's hoofs clattered on the stone floor, the sound out of rhythm as he hit patches of weeds.

In the remains of what had once been the throne room, Wilder tugged the horse to a stop. Here the moon shone again, showing two walls that still stood and a ring of stones with leftover ashes set near the corner. Stones Wilder had found and placed with his father when they'd come out here to train.

Lydia lifted her head, peering around them.  But if Wilder's choice in hideout made an impact on her, she didn't say. After Wilder jumped down, he reached for Lydia, who accepted his help woodenly. Pain twisted in Wilder's chest at the shock in Lydia's eyes. Not knowing what to say or if there was anything he could say to help, Wilder settled Lydia with her back to one of the walls. She moved without protest, and when seated stared at nothing.

After a second of watching her, Wilder retrieved a blanket from his pack for her, tended to the horse then gathered broken branches for a fire. Despite the heat that scorched the world during the day, the night held a chill that would only grow colder.

As Wilder crouched before the tent of sticks, he looked up at Lydia. She sat hugging herself, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her silken, green dress that left one shoulder and arm bare pooled around her, wrinkled and torn.

When she'd walked into the ballroom with her family that night, Wilder felt like he couldn't breathe. With her raven hair falling over her shoulder in loose curls, satin dark skin, coffee eyes bright, and dressed in a gown that moved with her, she didn't look anything like the vagabond in shirt and trousers that ran through the palace halls with him. She looked like the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

Now she sat beside him, with her hair tangled, eyes dull, and dress ruined, like a memory that's altered with time. She traced a finger over the four silver woven bands inked into her arm. A sign of her royal heritage and rank as the fourth child.

But now that mark meant nothing, she was an orphan. He might be an orphan.

Wilder felt his hands shake as he tried to strike the flint, but the sparks wouldn't come. Frustration built up inside him as he clenched the flint willing a spark to appear. The temperature kept dropping and Lydia wore nothing that would protect her from the cold, he needed to get the blasted fire started.

After a minute of no results and his hands still trembling, he wanted to hurl the flint against the wall and scream at the night. But before he gave in to his frustration, a spark jumped from the flint into the pile of twigs. Wilder breathed the flame into life, easing back as the flame grew and crackled.

The glow played on Lydia's face as she stared at the fire. Unhooking his bow and quiver from his back, Wilder laid them next to him, always within reach. He didn't remove his knife from his belt and his sword rested against his saddlebags. Saddles bags supplied with two days rations and a change of clothes.

The things he'd packed for his journey to the army camp where he'd train for a year. Now it wouldn't be enough to last them a day. How could he protect Lydia when he didn't know the enemy, what they wanted, or where they would be? The West Isles didn't feel safe, but getting out meant finding a ship, which meant heading into the city. How did he get her safely to the port when everyone knew what Princess Lydia looked like?

Before Wilder could land on a plan, Lydia turned her head away from him to someone who wasn't there.

"Reen-"

In the firelight, Wilder watched as the reality of loss slammed into her. Tears built in her eyes and she looked as if someone had sliced her open. A sob broke from her lips. An invisible knife pierced Wilder's heart as Lydia crawled into his lap, face buried in his chest as tears spilled out.

He froze. He'd never held her before. The kiss he'd given her earlier had been a reckless decision spurred on his leaving and years of wanting. But now...now she leaned against him seeking comfort.

He held her to him, tightening his grip with every gasp of breath she took. As tears soaked his shirt, Wilder felt his heart cracking for her, for the royal family, and for his father who he might never see again.

Grief filled his eyes and he hid his face in Lydia's hair, so even the moon couldn't witness his pain.

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"Yup this is a lucky cricket."

(Not sure it is for this chapter)

Well Royals, that was...something. How are you doing emotionally? Thinkingally? 🏹⚔️🛡

Wilder, it's going to be okay...So maybe not but boy you got to be strong.

*glares*

Fair enough. I'll let you be.

Reader question from ErinFowl204 : What were you thinking??? Did you not understand the power of your words?? Have you forgotten how much we get swept and caught up in your writing?? ... So my question is, can we trust you again?

Author answer: Have you ever not had reason to trust me?...Okay, thinking about it I don't have a great track record. So my answer is this, have I ever given you a book that wasn't worth reading? That's my answer.

Real quick before you ride off to the next chapter how do you say 'Author answer' in your language? (Also tell me what language it is)

Vote, comment, follow because I decree it!