The palace gates clanged shut behind them with a hollow finality. The sound echoed in the cool morning air, and Althea couldn’t help but glance back over her shoulder one last time. The towering stone walls of the palace loomed against the pale sky, distant and uncaring.

They were past the gates now. There was no going back.

And he hadn’t come to say goodbye.

Her hands tightened on the reins, cold leather biting into her palms. She had known, deep down, that he wouldn’t. But knowing didn’t make it sting any less.

The rope connecting her horse to Catria’s gave a firm, unrelenting tug, and the mare under her shifted forward with a soft snort. Althea clenched her jaw, holding the reins taut just long enough to resist.

Catria’s stallion kept moving, pulling the rope tighter, inch by inch, until it strained between the two horses. The pressure on her horse’s bridle grew sharper, forcing the mare to obey.

The knight didn’t look back, didn’t say a word.

It’s like I don’t even exist.

The thought struck Althea with an unexpected bitterness, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep it from spilling over.

She clicked her tongue, urging the mare forward with a reluctant nudge. The rope slackened, but the knot in her chest remained, twisting tighter with every step that carried her farther from home.

Home. As if it had ever truly been that.

The road stretched before them, empty and winding, lined by frost-covered fields that glimmered dully under the rising sun. Clouds hung low in the sky, heavy and gray, as though the heavens themselves were holding their breath.

The silence between them stretched even longer. Each hoofbeat thudded against the frozen dirt, the rhythm slow and steady, like an inexorable march toward oblivion. Althea pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, but the cold crept in anyway—sharp and unforgiving, like the words her father had left unsaid.

Althea stared at the back of Catria’s head, every quiet step of the journey scraping against her nerves. The knight’s presence was suffocating—too silent, too steady.

She’s not even trying to talk to me. Does she think I’m not worth the effort?

Althea’s jaw tightened. She hated this. Hated the rope, hated the cold, hated the weight of everything she’d left behind pressing against her ribs. And most of all, she hated the fact that she could already feel how long this journey was going to be.

Three months. Three months tied to this woman, riding behind her like a dog on a leash.

Her fingers twitched on the reins. She needed to say something—anything—to break the silence, if only to remind herself that she still had a voice.

“So,” Althea said, her voice cutting sharply through the stillness, “are you planning to ignore me the entire way to Rithmar, or do you occasionally talk to the people you’re dragging off to their doom?”

Catria didn’t respond right away. She guided her stallion around a bend in the road, her movements smooth and precise, as if Althea hadn’t spoken at all.

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The rope between them pulled taut again.

Althea clenched her teeth. “Did you hear me, or does that armor making you deaf?”

“I heard you.” Catria’s voice was low and steady, as if she were stating a fact, not responding to a provocation.

Althea gripped the reins tighter, a hot thread of irritation coiling in her chest. “And?”

“There’s nothing that needs saying,” Catria replied simply.

Althea let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, is that how this works? You drag me halfway across the continent, and we spend the whole journey in complete silence?”

“I’d prefer silence,” Catria said, her tone unchanging, “so I have no objection.”

The calm, dispassionate answer sent a flare of anger through Althea, sharp and unexpected. She urged her horse forward until her knee brushed against Catria’s stirrup, closing the space between them with deliberate defiance. Catria adjusted the reins, a subtle flick of her wrist, as if reminding Althea that she noticed everything—no matter how small.

“And what happens if I don’t prefer silence?” Althea challenged.

Catria glanced at her for the first time since they’d set out. The movement was slight—just the barest turn of her head—but it was enough for Althea to catch the cool, steady weight of the knight’s gaze.

“You’ll manage,” Catria said quietly.

Althea’s jaw tightened, her hands flexing around the reins. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll be very unhappy for a very long time.” There was no malice in the words, no trace of amusement—just a calm, measured truth.

The simplicity of the answer was infuriating.

Althea’s mare shifted beneath her, restless, as she leaned forward slightly in the saddle, her eyes narrowing. “What if I ran?” she muttered, half to herself.

Catria’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’d catch you.” The certainty in her voice was absolute, as if there were no other possible outcome.

Althea snorted. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“I am.” The knight’s unshakeable confidence made Althea’s blood simmer. She stared at Catria, searching for any sign of arrogance or smugness in the woman’s expression, but there was nothing—just calm, unyielding certainty.

It was worse than arrogance. It was indifference.

Althea leaned back with a frustrated huff. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever let anyone escape, have you?”

“No.” The answer was so blunt, so final, that Althea didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing the retort that threatened to rise. Silence fell between them again, thick and heavy, broken only by the rhythmic clop of hooves.

Althea leaned forward slightly in the saddle, her frustration bubbling closer to the surface. “You think that rope between us means you’re in control?”

“I am in control,” Catria replied evenly.

The simplicity of the statements made Althea want to scream. There was no malice in the knight’s words, no smugness—just a cold, undeniable truth.

Althea dug her heels lightly into her mare, forcing the horse to close the distance between them until her knee brushed against Catria again. “And what happens if I decide not to play along?” she asked, her voice laced with defiance.

Catria turned her head slightly, just enough for Althea to catch the edge of her profile. “You’ll play along,” she said quietly. “Because you don’t have a choice.”

“I could run,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

“You could try,” Catria said, without missing a beat.

Althea narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think I could outrun you?”

Catria’s lips curved slightly, a hint of amusement flickering at the edge of her otherwise expressionless face. “No.” The audacity of the answer—calm, assured, and completely unbothered—sent a sharp surge of irritation through Althea’s chest.

She leaned back in her saddle, biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from snapping back. Catria’s coolness was maddening. No matter what Althea said, the knight’s composure never wavered, as if nothing she could do or say would make the slightest difference.

“Do you enjoy this?” Althea muttered under her breath. “Dragging people off like prisoners?”

Catria didn’t answer right away. For a moment, the only sound was the steady thud of hooves on frozen dirt.

Finally, the knight said, “I don’t enjoy anything.” There was no sarcasm in her voice.

Althea blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. She had been expecting a sharp retort, something smug or dismissive. But the calm emptiness in Catria’s words unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

“Well,” Althea muttered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “That makes two of us.”

They fell into silence again, the rope between them swaying gently with the rhythm of their horses. The frost-covered fields stretched on around them, endless and gray, as the weak morning sun climbed higher into the sky.

Catria rode with the same steady precision, never faltering, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

And Althea, despite her best efforts, found herself watching the knight more than she intended—studying the small shifts of her shoulders, the way her hands rested loosely on the reins, the unyielding stillness in her posture.

She hated how calm the knight was. Hated how in control she seemed. But more than anything, she hated the flicker of reassurance it gave her—like a rope she didn’t want to cling to but couldn’t help grasping.

She shook the thought away before it could take root, clenching her hands tighter around the reins.

This was going to be a very, very long journey.