The forest at night was a different world.
The air hung damp and heavy, the scent of wet moss clinging to every breath. Guinevere picked her way through the undergrowth, her cloak snagging on brambles, her boots sinking into the soft earth.

She had no real sense of where she was going — only that she needed to be far from the village, from JJ's piercing questions and Libbet's watchful eyes.

A twig snapped behind her.

She froze, turning slowly, but saw only the pale shimmer of moonlight between the trees. She took another step... and something moved.

A figure stepped out from behind a birch, tall and lean, his cloak a deep crimson that seemed to drink in the moonlight. He had hair the color of embers, falling in loose waves around a face so sharply handsome it almost startled her. His frame was thin, but his presence filled the space between them.

"Well, well," he said, his voice smooth, edged with amusement. "The White Princess herself, wandering the woods alone. I was beginning to think the stories were exaggerated."

Guinevere's pulse jumped. "Who are you?"

He gave a small, elegant bow. "Some call me the Red Monk. But for you, Gwen, 'Finn' will do." His eyes — a strange, coppery-gold — caught hers, holding them. "And before you ask, yes... I know you. Or rather, I was sent to find you."

"By who?"

His smirk deepened. "The Dark Prince. He's been very eager to meet you."

Her chest tightened. "And if I refuse to go?"

He stepped closer, his movements almost lazy, but there was no mistaking the coiled strength in them. "Then I carry you. You're lighter than you look." His gaze flicked over her, unapologetic. "Though I have to admit, you're even prettier than I imagined."

She swallowed, feeling heat rise to her cheeks despite herself. There was danger in his words, but also a charm that wrapped around her like a silken thread.

Before she could speak, he closed the space between them, his hand curling gently but firmly around her wrist. "Don't worry, Princess," he murmured. "I promise you'll enjoy the journey... if you let me make it interesting."

And just like that, she realized — to her own alarm — that her heart was racing for more reasons than fear.

Finn's grip was warm, his fingers deceptively slender but unyielding.

He led her through the moonlit forest as though he knew every root, every shadow. She tried to tug her wrist free once, just to test him — and found his strength startling. For someone so thin, his hold felt like iron wrapped in silk.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.

"To the one who sent me," he replied smoothly, glancing back at her with that teasing half-smile. "But don't worry, we've got a bit of a walk. Plenty of time for you to get used to my company."

"I don't want to get used to your company."

"That's a shame," he said, tilting his head in mock disappointment. "I was rather hoping you'd fall for me before we reached camp."

She rolled her eyes, but her pulse betrayed her, quickening at his words. "You're awfully confident for someone who just admitted he's kidnapping me."

"I prefer to think of it as rescuing," Finn said lightly. "Besides, the Dark Prince has a... fondness for rare treasures. And you, Princess, are the rarest of them all."

She hesitated. "Why does he want me?"

Finn's gaze softened just a fraction, his voice dropping to something more intimate. "Because you're not like the rest of them. And because..." He paused as though deciding whether to say more, then gave a faint shrug. "Because you're his by right."

Something in the way he said it made her heart twist — half in dread, half in a strange, unwelcome curiosity.

They walked on in silence for a while, the forest growing darker and quieter the deeper they went. When she stumbled over a hidden root, his arm was suddenly around her waist, catching her with surprising gentleness.

"Careful," he murmured, his breath brushing her ear. "Can't have you breaking before I deliver you."

And though she told herself it was only the night air, her cheeks burned all the same.

They broke through the treeline into a clearing lit by dozens of low, flickering torches.

Tents of deep black canvas ringed the space, their seams stitched in silver thread that caught the firelight. In the center stood a pavilion taller than the rest, draped in banners of crimson and obsidian — the mark of the Dark Prince.

Guinevere's steps slowed instinctively. The air here felt heavier, as though the shadows themselves were listening.

Finn noticed, of course. "Don't be shy," he teased, giving her wrist a gentle tug. "He's been waiting for you a long time."

Her eyes swept the camp. Men and women in dark armor moved like clockwork between the fires, their faces hidden beneath masks. Some glanced her way, and she felt the weight of their stares.

Finn's smirk returned as he leaned down slightly. "They're looking because you're beautiful. And because they know you're not just anyone."

"That's not comforting," she muttered.

"It wasn't meant to be," he said, his tone dipping into something almost wicked.

They reached the entrance to the pavilion, two guards stepping aside at Finn's approach. Before he could lead her inside, he stopped, turning to face her fully for the first time since they'd met.

"You'll see many things in there, Princess," he murmured, his voice dropping low. "Things meant to scare you, tempt you... maybe even break you. But remember something—" His copper-gold eyes caught the torchlight, glinting with mischief. "I'm the one who brought you here. Which means, in a way, you're mine first."

Her breath caught, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs.

And then, with that same infuriating mix of charm and control, he pulled the pavilion's flap aside and guided her into the Dark Prince's domain.

The inside of the pavilion was warm, heavy with the scent of burning myrrh and cedar. Silken drapes hung from the ceiling, shifting gently in the draft, their colors deep reds and blacks that seemed to drink in the firelight.

At the far end, seated upon a carved throne of blackwood inlaid with gold, was the Dark Prince.

He was younger than she expected — perhaps only a few years older than Finn — but there was nothing boyish in him. His posture was perfect, his gaze sharp and calculating. His hair was dark as midnight, falling in soft waves to his shoulders, and a circlet of silver rested lightly on his brow.

The moment his eyes met hers, Guinevere felt a strange pull deep in her chest, as though some invisible thread had been tugged taut.

Finn slowed, but did not release her wrist, keeping her close as he approached the throne. "My lord," he said with a half-bow that somehow still looked casual, "I've brought you your White Princess, as promised."

The Dark Prince's gaze slid briefly to Finn, a flicker of something like amusement passing between them. "You've done well," he said, his voice smooth as polished stone. Then his attention returned fully to Guinevere.