CHAPTER 74: KEEPING PACE

The procession rolled out not long after, the clatter of hooves and creak of leather harnesses breaking the hush that still lingered over the mist-veiled fields. Banners stirred in the pale wind, the morning air sharp with the scent of dew and steel.

At the head of the convoy rode Levan, composed and as silent as a statue he might as well have been carved from. Behind him, however, silence had long since surrendered.

Flanked by her assigned guards, Ilaria rode with the cheerful ease of someone wholly unaware that she was upsetting the natural order of a military formation.

Her voice carried light and clear through the cool air, animated with the sort of confidence possessed only by those who had never once in their lives been told to stop talking.

"I’m telling you," she said, gesturing with a gloved hand as if she were sitting before a classroom rather than an armoured escort, "the kitchens here are generous with butter, but Caelwyn’s macarons have that cloudy texture. It’s all about the folding. Do you fold, Sir Maelon?"

The knight at her left visibly tensed, clearing his throat with the panic of a man unprepared for a royal interrogation. "I... suppose I’ve folded laundry, Your Highness?"

"That’s not the same," she declared, scandalized.

To the horror and eventual resignation of the knights nearby, the princess began rummaging through her satchel. With great ceremony, she produced a small cloth bundle, unwrapping it as though unveiling treasure.

Inside lay a neat stack of delicate pastel macarons, soft and gleaming in the morning light. She pressed two into Maelon’s armoured hands, the scent of sugar and almonds briefly cutting through the morning chill. "Here. You’ll understand when you taste it."

Up ahead, Levan’s composure faltered. He had decided early on that whatever his wife was chattering about, he would remain blissfully ignorant. But at the faintly audible crunch and the unmistakable scent of sugar and almonds drifting on the wind, his ears pricked despite himself.

She brought sweets with her??

On Ilaria’s other side, Sir Alonzo shifted, torn between duty and the tantalizing promise of pastry. Ilaria noticed instantly, of course she did, and gasped as though catching him in a crime.

"Don’t think you’ll escape me," she said quickly, and promptly pressed one into his gauntleted palm. "Here, one for you too. Fair share~"

Alonzo accepted, eyes wide, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like thank you as he looked at the macaron like the princess had just given him a treasure.

Meanwhile, at the front, the crown prince was having what could only be described as a slow, silent meltdown.

With every burst of laughter behind him, every polite "Your Highness" punctuated by the crunch of pastry, the muscle along Levan’s jaw ticked harder. He did not turn, he would not, but the knights directly flanking him were wise enough to keep their eyes front and mouths shut.

"Your husband looks upset," Alonzo murmured between bites, his tone a mix of admiration and fear.

Ilaria leaned conspiratorially between them, her voice dropping just enough to barely carry to the prince’s ears. "That’s just his face," she said, smiling sweetly. "Don’t worry, I’ll sweeten him up eventually."

Sir Maelon nearly choked on his macaron.

The sound of muffled coughing echoed through the line. And Levan exhaled slowly through his nose, a breath that could have frozen rivers. He was still as composed as ever, but his hands tightened briefly on the reins.

It was going to be a very long journey.

~×~

The ride stretched on for nearly two hours, the rhythmic thud of hooves and soft jingle of bridles mingling with the occasional burst of laughter from the rear. The banter and Ilaria’s relentless campaign of sugared bribery filled most of the morning, much to Levan’s silent torment.

He had expected her to tire after the first hour, perhaps to grow restless or complain about the saddle, the cold, or the endless trail of misted plains. Yet she was livelier than he had anticipated, her voice carrying like a bright bell in the gray air, her laughter cutting clean through the monotony of marching steel.

But as the convoy reached the outskirts of the northern ward, the mood began to change.

The road narrowed, winding between frost-hardened fields and skeletal trees that whispered in the wind. The air grew sharper, biting at the edges of breath as clouds gathered low and heavy, bruising the horizon with the promise of rain or worse.

Levan lifted his gaze skyward. The sun was already veiled behind a sheet of dull silver, its light cold and thin. The scent of wet earth and pine clung to the air. Even the horses seemed to sense the shift that their snorts become quieter now, steps slower, as if bracing against what was to come.

The north was different, always had been. The wind here carried a weight to it, old and watchful, brushing against his cheek like the memory of something half-forgotten. Behind him, the laughter had dimmed at last, swallowed by the vast, brooding silence of the northern wilds.

He straightened in his saddle, gloved fingers tightening on the reins as he watched the storm clouds rolling in from the far hills.

"We’ll need to make camp before dusk," he stated, eyes still on the horizon as he turned slightly toward Harken, who rode beside him. "Once we’ve seen to the village, we set out at once. If we make good time, we’ll reach the forest edge before dusk, I don’t intend for the storm to catch us on open ground."

Harken nodded grimly, the wind tugging at the crest of his cloak. "Understood, Your Highness. The scouts reported smoke still rising from the northern edge. It may not be safe to stay too close tonight."

Levan’s gaze followed the faint gray smudge in the distance, where the outline of the ruined village was just beginning to emerge through the mist. "Two days to Deyliric Expanse," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Three, if the roads are washed out or the men get slowed by the storm."

He exhaled, a thin cloud forming in the cold air. "We can’t afford delays."

The wind grew sharper as they descended into the valley, carrying with it the faint, acrid sting of smoke. Even before the village came into view, the air had turned heavier, fouled by something metallic and burned.

When they arrived, the scent hit first, smoke and blood mingling sharp in the air. Houses stood half-collapsed, their timbers raked with claw marks deep as knives. The ground was scorched in patches, as if something had torn through the earth and burned everything in its path.

The scene that awaited them was grim. Several of Hydra Knights were already stationed among the wreckage, their armours marked with soot and ash.

Caelwyn healers moved between the wounded, their crest-stitched cloaks stained crimson as they worked. Despite the efforts, the devastation was unmistakable.

As Levan and his convoy entered the main road, heads turned. The remaining guards straightened, saluting despite exhaustion. The Captain of the stationed unit broke away from a cluster of men and strode forward, his expression strained but resolute.

"Your Highness," he greeted, bowing low, breath visible in the cold air. "We managed to contain the fires, but the northern quarter was completely lost. There are wounded still unaccounted for."

Levan dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots striking the dirt with a muted thud. His gaze swept across the ruin. "Report in full," he ordered. "And double the sentries on the ridge. No one in or out until the source is traced."

The Captain nodded as he began listing the damage in clipped tones. His voice, calm but edged with grim reports, faded into the background when Ilaria finally caught sight of what lay beyond.

She had heard stories of raids and the occasional reports of beast attacks. It almost seemed unreal on the paper and illustrations. But here... the reality bled through every breath she took.

The air reeked of smoke and iron. Ash clung to the charred beams of what once had been homes, and somewhere behind the nearest ruin, a woman’s wail broke through the cold stillness.

Ilaria slowed her horse without meaning to. Her hands felt suddenly small against the reins.

Her gaze caught on a familiar mark. The silver-threaded crest of Caelwyn embroidered on the robes of two healers kneeling beside a wounded man. Her people. The sight should have comforted her, but it did not. The blue of the crest, bright and proud in the court halls, was dulled here, mottled with soot and blood.

One of the healers, a young woman she thought she might have seen once in the castle infirmary, looked up just long enough to meet her gaze. There was a flicker of recognition there, followed swiftly by a silent bow of the head before the healer returned to her work.

It struck her then, how utterly out of place she was. Her cloak too fine, her gloves too clean... making her heart twist painfully.

Ilaria swallowed hard and finally dismounted with the help of sir Maelon, her boots crunching against the ash-streaked earth. Her throat felt tight as she approached the nearest healer.

"Your Highness!" The woman, startled at the sight of her, immediately rising to her feet and bowing low despite the blood smeared on her sleeves. "Princess Ilaria of Caelwyn..." she said breathlessly, eyes wide.

"Please, don’t—" Ilaria quickly said, stopping her. "There’s no need for that right now. Go on, help him."

The healer hesitated, torn between duty and instinct, then dropped back to her knees beside the wounded man. Her hands moved deftly, pressing cloth against a wound that refused to close. A faint shimmer flickered beneath her palms as she murmured a low incantation.

Ilaria slowly crouched beside her, the smell of iron and herbs thick in her nose. "How many are there?" She asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

The woman paused only long enough to glance up. "Too many, princess," she said quietly, her hands still working. "The first wave hit before dawn. We managed to pull most survivors into the square, but—" Her words faltered as a pained cry came from another side of the street.

Ilaria’s throat closed up. "And the rest?"

"Still searching. Some... we may not find."

For a moment, Ilaria could only stare at the healer’s trembling hands which were steady despite exhaustion; stained despite care. She wanted to say something, anything to ease the heaviness in her chest, but all that came out was a soft, "Thank you. Please keep going."

The healer only nodded, eyes flicking briefly toward the princess before returning to her work.

By then, Ilaria could hardly hear the voices around her as everything blurred into a dull hum in her ears. She turned slowly, taking in the sight before her. Rows of villagers sat or lay along the ashen road, faces pale beneath streaks of soot, hands pressed to blood-soaked bandages, their eyes glazed with pain or shock.

For a heartbeat, Ilaria could only stand there. She wanted to move, but she could not, her resolve caught between horror and disbelief.

She had never seen suffering laid bare like this, only heard of it in reports written with measured words and tidy margins, and knights talking about it in the passing. The smell, the sounds, the way people trembled and clung to life... it was nothing like the stories told in safe, golden halls. It felt too raw.

Suddenly, a cry tore through the quiet. A sharp, ragged sound of pain that snapped her back into herself.

Her eyes darted down to where a young man lay only a few paces away, one arm smeared with blood and the obvious blackened mark of the Blithe, his breathing uneven. Without thinking, Ilaria’s feet carried her forward. She knelt beside him, skirts pooling in the dirt, trembling fingers hovering uncertainly before she pressed them to his arm.

"Hold on," she whispered, voice unsteady. "You’ll be alright, just— just hold on."

She drew in a shaky breath, closed her eyes, and let instinct take over. A faint glow pulsed beneath her palms, soft and silver, fragile as candlelight, and warmth seeped through the air, chasing the chill away.

The man’s breath eased, the harsh rattle in his chest settling into something steadier.

Around her, a few of the startled Caelwyn healers and Hydra Knights paused before bowing their heads in brief reverence. It was not common for a princess to knelt in the dirt beside them.

But Ilaria did not notice. Her focus never wavered. When another cry sounded further down the road, she lifted her head, wiped the soot from her cheek with the back of her glove and moved again. This time without hesitation.