Guinevere didn't know any better to stay silent. Slowly they walked around in silence. "You know we could stop and take a break." He turned to look at her, smirking. Gwen couldn't have imagined the one person who could possibly created this kidnapping would be Bedivere. The golden haired boy, with chest-tongued straight.
They stopped near a cluster of birch trees, their pale bark catching the weak morning light. The air smelled of damp earth, and somewhere in the distance, a raven called.

Guinevere kept her distance, her eyes fixed on the forest floor.
"I still don't understand," she murmured, her voice steady but low. "Why you?"

Bedivere crouched by a fallen log, idly peeling a strip of moss from the bark. His smirk lingered, but there was something unreadable in his gaze.
"Because I was the only one who could get close enough," he said, as if it were obvious. "No one suspects the golden-haired knight. No one asks questions when I offer to escort the king's ward."

She swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in her stomach.
"And you expect me to believe you've done this... what? For coin?"

He rose slowly, stepping toward her until the shadows of the trees fell across his face.
"Not for coin, Gwen. For survival. Mine — and maybe yours, if you're clever."

Her pulse quickened. "Survival from what?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping so low it was almost a whisper.

"From the ones already hunting you. I just got to you first."

For a moment, they stared at each other, the forest holding its breath. Then Bedivere stepped back, turning toward the narrow game trail ahead.

"Come on," he said lightly, though the edge in his tone remained. "We don't want them catching up."

Against her better judgment, Guinevere followed — her mind racing with questions she wasn't sure she wanted answered.

The path narrowed until brambles scraped at her skirts. Guinevere tried to keep her breathing steady, but each step seemed to sink her deeper into the unknown. She didn't know whether to fear what was ahead or the man walking a pace in front of her.

Every so often, Bedivere would glance over his shoulder — not at her, but at the forest beyond, as though expecting a shadow to peel itself from the trees.

"Who are they?" she asked finally, her voice sharp enough to make him slow.

He didn't stop. "Names won't matter to you. Not if they catch us."

"That isn't an answer."

"No," he said, and she hated the calm in his tone. "It isn't."

The wind picked up, whispering through the birch leaves like restless spirits. Somewhere behind them, a branch snapped. Guinevere froze, her gaze darting to the undergrowth. Bedivere's hand went instantly to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

"Keep walking," he ordered, his voice low but urgent now.

"What if—"

"Gwen." He met her eyes just long enough for her to see the truth in them — he was afraid. "Move."

She obeyed, quickening her pace as the sound of footsteps began to follow.

The figure's head tilted a fraction more, and then—without warning—turned directly toward their hiding place.

Bedivere moved before Guinevere could breathe. His arm shot out, pulling her deeper into the undergrowth, forcing them through a tangle of branches that clawed at their skin. "Run," he hissed, the word sharp enough to cut.

She stumbled after him, the forest blurring into streaks of green and white. Behind them came the unmistakable sound of pursuit — this time faster, closer, purposeful. Twigs snapped under heavy boots, and the metallic ring of a blade leaving its sheath sliced through the morning air.

"Who is it?" she gasped, her voice ragged with panic.

"Not someone you want to meet," he shot back, glancing over his shoulder. For an instant, she caught the flicker of something she hadn't seen before — not just fear, but recognition.

The ground dipped suddenly, and Bedivere grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. They slid down into a gully where the air was cooler and damp with the smell of moss. He pressed her against the earth, crouching low beside her.

"Stay down," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "No matter what you hear."

Above them, footsteps slowed. A shadow crossed the lip of the gully.

The shadow lingered, stretching long against the slope as if it meant to pin them in place.

Then a voice, low and almost conversational, drifted down.
"Sir Bedivere. You've been difficult to find."

Guinevere's breath caught. Whoever it was knew his name — and said it with the familiarity of an old grudge. Bedivere's shoulders went rigid, but he didn't rise.

"You're wasting your time," he called back, his tone cold. "She's under my protection now."

A laugh followed — not loud, but sharp enough to make Guinevere's skin prickle. "Protection? Is that what you call kidnapping these days?"

Bedivere moved then, standing in one fluid motion and drawing his dagger. The man at the top of the slope stepped into view, hood falling back to reveal a face marked with a pale scar that ran from temple to jaw. His eyes were the flat, grey of weathered steel, and they fixed on Guinevere like a predator sighting prey.

"She comes with me," the man said simply. "Alive, if you hand her over. Otherwise..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but the unsheathed sword in his hand made the meaning clear.

Bedivere shifted his stance, putting himself squarely between her and the stranger. "You'll have to go through me."

The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Gladly."

Guinevere's pulse hammered in her ears. The sound of steel on steel, the guttural shouts, the ragged breaths — it all blurred into one raw, pounding rhythm of fear.

Bedivere met her eyes for the briefest instant, and in that look was something unspoken: Go.

Her body moved before her mind caught up. She turned and tore through the undergrowth, branches whipping her face, skirts tangling around her legs. The forest swallowed her in shadows and the scent of damp earth, but behind her she could still hear the clash of weapons, Bedivere's grunts, and the stranger's low, lethal growl.

Then — silence.

She stumbled to a halt, chest heaving, straining to hear anything beyond the pounding of her own heart. No footsteps. No voices. Only the whisper of the wind through the birches.

"Bedivere?" she called softly, hating how her voice trembled.

No answer.

A cold dread sank into her bones. She turned in a slow circle, but the trees looked the same in every direction — pale trunks, dark shadows, endless paths that led nowhere.

Somewhere far off, a raven called again, its cry harsh and final.

She realized, with a sudden and crushing clarity, that she was alone.

A/N: haha I'm done with all chapters so u guys could read this books is done.