The moon was a cold, clinical lamp, bleaching the world into stark relief. Hilda's hand was a vise around Gisela's, their fingers locked into a single, trembling instrument of flight. They did not look back. Their hearts hammered against their ribs like frantic birds, a wild counterpoint to the brutal percussion of their flight—the snap of frozen twigs, the crush of leaves—that betrayed them to the waiting silence.
They wove through a colonnade of ancient trees, sentinels whose shadows pooled deep enough to drown in. The wind carved through Gisela's cloak with personal malice, snapping the heavy wool like a sail. The fabric, meant for hiding, had become a trap—snagging on thorns, tangling between her knees. It carried the proof of their panic: the ragged, sobbing draw of breath, the desperate rustle of wool, the relentless crash of their passage.
The forest was no sanctuary. It was a vast, dark audience to their desperation.
---
A maid knelt, her forehead pressed to the stone before the throne. "Your Majesty… the Queen… she is not in her chambers."
Henry regarded her, his posture one of indolent control. A short sigh escaped him. Then, a slow, devilish smirk settled on his lips, devoid of all warmth.
"She never learns," he said, his voice a cold, quiet blade in the still air.
He turned his gaze slightly toward the Captain of the Guard standing in the shadow of a pillar. His command was clear, and absolute.
"Find her. And when you do, bring her before me." A pause, his eyes sharp. "On her knees."
---
Henry watched from the high window, a silhouette against the torch-lit courtyard below. Messengers darted like flushed game between barracks and gatehouse. He took a slow sip of wine, crystal catching the firelight.
"She will not have gone far," he murmured, more to himself. "The gates were sealed before the ninth bell. River traffic was halted at dusk." A faint smile touched his lips as he watched the efficient scramble of his men. "She has nowhere to go but the ground. And I own the ground."
---
"We're close, Gisela," Hilda whispered, the words a ragged puff of steam. A fragile smile broke through her exhaustion. "The postern gate is just through this thicket. Then… you'll be free."
They ran, but it was no longer a run—it was a stumbling, heavy-footed trudge. Every muscle screamed; the air sawed in and out of Gisela's lungs like broken glass. The first surge of terror was spent, leaving only a deep, trembling fatigue.
Then Gisela heard it.
A sharp snap in the darkness to their left.
The sound was a cold needle in her ear. It registered not as wood, but as metal—the definitive, suffocating click of a belt buckle fastened in finality. The memory hit her like a physical blow. She froze, one hand clutching Hilda's arm.
"Stop," she breathed, a strangled gasp.
"What is it?" Hilda hissed, eyes scanning the impenetrable shadow.
Gisela's heart drummed frantically against her ribs. The forest seemed to lean in, every rustle a whisper of his name. "It's nothing. Just… an animal," she forced out. She sagged against the rough bark of an oak, her legs giving way. "We must stop. Just for a moment. I need to rest."
The forest held its breath. "We cannot rest here, my Queen . Not in the open," Hilda pleaded, her voice a desperate whisper. "The King's men will be sweeping the woods by now. If they find us… for me, it will be the block."
Gisela did not seem to hear. A leaden exhaustion had cemented her to the earth. It was more than fatigue—it was as if the very stones of the palace had sown hooks in her soul, and with each step the chain grew tauter, threatening to snap her back.
"I said we will rest." The words left her lips not as a plea, but as an edict—flat, cold, heavy with the ghost of her former authority. She did not look at Hilda. Her gaze fixed on the distant, invisible spire of the palace. "You will wait here. By my side. That is an order."
The command hung in the frigid air. For a moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths.
Gisela drew a shuddering breath, steeling herself to move. But as she opened her mouth, a profound wrongness swept through her.
It began as a sudden, deep chill that bloomed from within her bones. A sharp pain banded her temples, followed by a wave of nauseating heat. Sweat sprang from her skin, beading on her brow—a clammy betrayal in the freezing air.
It was here.
"The… vague," Gisela gasped, her voice fraying to a whisper as her knees buckled. She slid down the rough bark in a slow, helpless collapse onto the frozen loam.
"No—not now!" Hilda's whisper was pure panic. She dropped beside her, sliding a shoulder under Gisela's arm and heaving. "You must! I will carry you!"
A new sound cut the woods—not a single horse, but the synchronized tread of a mounted patrol. A faint neigh carried on the wind. The sound moved, weaving through the trees, growing clearer, closer with each hammering heartbeat.
Gisela's head lolled. The world swam in a haze of pain and heat. The pursuit, the chain, the fire in her blood—it was a chorus of anguish demanding surrender.
"I can't," she breathed, the words a ghost of sound. "Maybe… we just let it end."
Then the drumbeat of hooves swelled, consuming the night. Shadows solidified into horses and men, their torchlight washing the trees in a hostile, flickering glow. A horse snorted, close enough to smell its sweat.
Hilda dragged Gisela forward, an arm locked around her waist, her other hand gripping a fistful of cloak. They stumbled, a desperate, conjoined creature. But Gisela was a sinking weight, her strength pouring out. Every step was a battle against a world that seemed to thicken and hold them back.
A sharp command rang out.
The pursuit halted. The sudden quiet was worse than the noise.
A single rider dismounted.
"Enough," the Commander's voice cut through the cold, flat and final. He strode toward them, his silhouette blotting out the torchlight. "This ends now. The King will not overlook this."
As he spoke, Gisela's legs gave way completely. She fell to the frozen ground, a heap of wool and trembling limbs, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pulls.