Something With a Prince

Chapter Fifteen: Silver Lake

Tallethea

We lost them in the thick of the woods, using our horses to our best advantage for speed and crossing the river into a denser terrain. The ripening sun was swollen in the neck of the mountains, perched behind rows of trees, and sending glittering streaks into my eyes. Heavy scents of pine threatened to give me a headache but was dampened by the perfume of the forest floor and what was left of my adrenaline. Sweeping my eyes across the horizon, the woods hummed and yet, no creature could be stirred into the road. Birds occasionally chittered, dusting the pollen from the treetops, dropping seeds and leaves into our hair. I took a deep breath, tossing my head back and rolling out my shoulders. We were alive.

Then why do I feel like I have just attended my own funeral?

Every day of my training prepared me for the event of battle. I have been trained for sneak attacks, heists, highway-robbers, even survival in the wilderness, but nothing, no drills or screaming commanders, prepared me for death. The smell of it and how it burns up your insides. How it stalks after you when you've escaped it like a mountain lion. Before death was an eventuality, a universally acknowledged "someday." Now it was a predator, a face I couldn't help but see...a simple mistake away from permanence.

My mouth went sour. Helpless. You were helpless and you gave up. Did you even check for Lansing or listen for him? How were you going to get out of that? I wasn't. I would have been killed, and if I were unlucky, I would have been sold. Lansing would have been taken to Slerian and put to death. You failed. You jeopardized the one thing you were meant to protect.

Lansing was wading along beside me head down and eyes mindlessly scrolling along the bottoms of trees and pathways. Early light in its pink and blue hues pierced through the canopy, mocking the dark circles forming under his golden eyes. I felt a resentment bubble up in my chest, gripping at my heart like a burning hand. Soon I realized this was based on the situation we had just been in, and, for once, not because of him. Because Lansing tried to protect me. He had risen to an impossible fight, sword drawn and voice steady, all while a dagger laced my throat like a necklace. I could picture his shadow, rising slowly with hand outstretched. Yet, to think of him protecting me was bittersweet. In fact, it turned my gut and bruised my pride... but it also created a foreign kind of softness for him in my mind. Pivoting my torso to examine the prince fully, the word I was looking for arrived like a cannonball in my brain: appreciation. I appreciate him. This, of course, sent me into a nauseous fit and all sentimental feelings vanished into thin air.

Lansing looked up, and our eyes met. He appeared startled to find me staring at him, but as his lips parted to speak, I moved my eyes forward to the scout. The prince remained quiet.

Monson rode a little ahead of Lansing and I, granting me a view of his back and shoulders, which were significantly more relaxed than mine despite rescuing us. The tunic he wore was a deep green with brown roping embroidered at the shoulders and across the waist. At first glance he looked unarmed, there were no signs of weapons on his person whatsoever. However, upon the second glance, with a little help from the sunlight, the hilt of a knife glinted at the ankle of his boot. The other subtle betrayal was at the base of his spine, where instead of a curve, a point of a sword made its appearance. He must have a specially designed sheath for such expert concealment. I owed him my life and once we arrived at the checkpoint, I would have nobody. You will have Lansing.

Lansing. The one who got us in the mess in the first place.

Looking at him again, I felt an unwelcome heat creep into my cheeks. He was watching the forest with slightly squinted eyes, and a muscle kept twisting in the back of his jaw. Lansing wore the same tunic as Monson, feeling that his princely attire would be a bit of a giveaway, but it looked different on him. The dark green fabric flared across his shoulders and tapered snugly near the base of his ribs, the cording wrapping against his sides like seams as black buttons glinted at the front. His undershirt was white and rolled up to his elbows. Together, the vest and shirt looked sharp against the black fabric of his pants, which were dusted with dirt from fighting. Even in this, even after a fight, he had the audacity to look...perfect. Like the stupid effortless prince everyone kept claiming he was. I didn't dare look at my own appearance, knowing the outcome would be less than flattering. Instead, my eyes snagged on his saddle bag where the corner of a book was peeking out. I attempted to see the title, but it was completely obstructed.