Penelope was stunned into absolute paralysis.
She saw Vincent charging toward her, a mask of pure horror on his face, but before her mind could process the threat, he collided with her.
The next second, his strong arms encircled her waist, lifting her entirely off her feet as he threw his weight sideways. He sent them both crashing violently to the earth, twisting mid-air to ensure his own body took the fall.
The air rushed from Penelope’s lungs as they hit the ground.
The figure in the overgrown thicket, having realized he had missed the only shot that he got, had abandoned the bow and took off running into the dark forest.
"Your Lordship–"
Martha’s voice pitched into a sharp gasp as she rushed forward, her eyes wide with horror as she pointed to Vincent’s shoulder.
The arrow had whipped past them with lethal velocity: though it hadn’t impaled him, the steel tip had savagely scraped his shoulder, tearing through his shirt and leaving a glaring, bloody gash.
The sound of Martha’s shocked voice finally snapped Penelope from the trance that had held her captive. Shaken and disoriented, she realized she was still pinned beneath Vincent’s protective embrace. Her hands pressed against his chest as she managed to push herself into a sitting position.
Her gaze flicked down, and she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she saw the dark stain rapidly blooming across his sleeve.
"You’re bleeding–"
Vincent couldn’t care less about his own injuries. The burning sting in his shoulder was nothing compared to the frantic terror still screaming in his veins. He instantly grabbed Penelope by the shoulders, his hands trembling slightly as his gaze swept over her face, her torso, desperate to ensure she hadn’t been touched by the lethal steel.
"Are you alright?" He demanded, his voice raw and breathless. "Are you hurt, anywhere? Speak to , Penny."
"You’re the one who’s hurt!" Penelope pointed out, her voice cracking as a deep, suffocating worry blossod across her features.
Her attention shifted past his shoulder to the ancient tree behind them. There, embedded deep into the bark, the black-fletch shaft of the arrow was still vibrating.
Soone had intended to kill her.
And Vincent had thrown his own body into the path of the blade to save her.
Before she could process the weight of it, Elias erged from the dark tree line, holding a crude hunting bow and a quiver of mismatched arrows.
"The cowardly wretch has fled into the ravine," he reported, presenting the weapons to his master. "They abandoned their equipnt in their haste."
Vincent forced himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp, agonizing protest from his shoulder. Without a single word,he snatched the bow and arrow from Elias’s grip, striding toward his destrier with a lethal, terrifying focus.
He swung himself into the saddle before either woman could even think to stop him.
"Elias, guard them with your life," Vincent commanded, his eyes reflecting the cold, dangerous light of the moon.
"I will be back."
Penelope scrambled to her feet, her heart hamring against her ribs. "Vincent, wait! Where are you going?"
But her plea was swallowed by the thundering beats of hooves. Vincent had already spurred his mount, plunging headfirst into the pitch-black forest to hunt down the assassin who dared to target his wife.
*****
The assassin desperately tore through the suffocating darkness of the forest, his breath rattling like dry leaves in his throat.
Branches whipped across his feet, drawing thin beads of blood, but he dared not slow his pace.
He had bungled the contract.
The Marquis had thrown himself right into the trajectory, a variable the client had never accounted for.
After sprinting a mile into the jagged terrain of the ravine, the assassin finally collapsed against the trunk of a massive, ancient oak. He paused, his chest heaving violently as he strained his ears against the silence of the wood. There was no sound of soone coming after him, or the crashing of boots through the undergrowth.
A sharp, ragged exhale of relief escaped his lips. He had made it to the dense thicket. In this pitch-black labyrinth, anyone coming after him was simply wasting their precious ti.
He was safe.
THWACK!
The violent vibration rattled through the solid oak above his head, missing the assassin’s forehead by an inch.
He froze, his heart leaping into his throat. He looked up, his eyes widening in sheer terror as he stared at a crude, black-fletched arrow embedded deep into the bark.
His own arrow.
A shadow materialized from the darkness ahead of him.
Not from behind, but ahead.
The assassin’s instinct to flee reasserted itself. He spun on his heel and bolted to the left, but a thunderous crash of foliage shattered the night. The massive silhouette of a destrier burst through the canopy, cutting off his path.
Vincent didn’t track like a common huntsman, and the assassin was starting to realize how much he had underestimated the Marquis of Aelgard.
Vincent hadn’t followed the assassin’s chaotic trail through the brush. Instead, he had anticipated the terrain, utilizing his knowledge of tactical bottlenecks to herd his prey straight into a natural dead-end. Such tasks were risky, and he had gladly taken them.
The assassin scrambled backward, drawing a concealed dagger, but he never stood a chance against a seasoned warlord.
Before the rogue could even raise the blade, Vincent leaned down from his saddle, his uninjured arm moving with the speed and precision of a striking viper. He gripped the collar of the assassin’s tunic and hoisted him completely off his feet, throwing the man forcefully into the dirt.
The assassin hit the ground hard, the wind knocked completely from his lungs. Before he could recover, the heavy, iron-shod boot of the Marquis slamd onto his chest, pinning him to the earth with crushing weight.
Vincent lood over him like a specter of death, his bleeding shoulder entirely forgotten, whilst his eyes glinted with a terrifying, homicidal calm.
"Who sent you?" Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a death sentence.
"Don’t kill , please!" the assassin pleaded, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, pathetic terror.
But the whimpering plea only infuriated Vincent further. A dark, dangerous heat surged beneath his skin.
This sniveling wretch had dared to level a lethal weapon at his Penelope, had dared to compromise her safety, and now begged for the very rcy he refused to grant her.
Vincent’s boot pressed down harder, the iron heel grinding into the man’s breastbone until he choked on a gasp.
"You value your life, don’t you?" uttered Vincent. "Then you had best pray your answers please ."
*****
Back at the ancient boundary wall, the atmosphere was thick with a suffocating anxiety. Penelope paced the small clearing, her hands tightly clasped together, her eyes fixed on the dark, impenetrable tree line where Vincent had vanished into.
"My Lady, please, sit down," Martha urged softly. "His Lordship is a seasoned commander. He’ll be fine."
Before Penelope could voice the knot of dread tightening in her throat, the rhythmic, heavy thud of hooves echoed from the brush.
Through the veil of shadows, Vincent erged on horseback. He looked entirely unfazed by the darkness, his silhouette imposing and severe against the moonlight. And tied tightly to the saddle horn by a rough length of hemp rope, being dragged ruthlessly through the dirt and brambles, was the bruised and battered assassin.
With a sharp tug of the reins, Vincent brought his destrier to a halt. He untied the knot and cast the rope aside, letting the assassin collapse in a heap at Elias’s feet like a sack of discarded grain.
Vincent dismounted in a single, fluid motion, his cold gaze sweeping over the scene until it landed on Penelope. The homicidal fury in his eyes softened, if only a fraction, the mont he confird she was still untouched.
"Elias," Vincent commanded, his voice deadpan and laced with a terrifying quiet. "Bind him to the carriage wheels. He is going to tell us exactly who bought his loyalty, or he will not live to see the dawn."
Suddenly, Vincent closed his eyes shut.
A violent wave of vertigo crashed over him, making the moonlit clearing spin out of control. His vision went completely blurry and dizzy, and his knees buckled beneath his weight.
Before he could collapse heavily onto the cold stone, Penelope reached his side imdiately.
She caught him, her hands gripping his uninjured shoulder and waist, using her own strength to ease him down as his towering fra sagged against her.
"Vince!" her voice cracked, raw with a panic she could no longer suppress.
"What... what is happening?" He murmured to himself, unable to make sense of why his system was suddenly failing him.
On the ground, the battered assassin looked equally taken aback before he managed to spew a wet, raspy laugh, spitting a mouthful of dark blood into the dirt. "Y-you cannot kill ," he wheezed, a wretched, triumphant grin splitting his bruised face. "If you kill ... he dies too."
Hearing this, Elias shot the assassin a lethal glare, his hand instantly grabbing the assassin by his collar.
"What madness are you talking about, peasant?"
"The arrow... it was laced with poison," the assassin revealed, his tone entirely devoid of remorse as he relished the sudden shift in power. He looked directly at Penelope’s pale face. "And it looks like the toxin has begun its cruel work on his veins. I am the only one who knows the ingredients for the cure. If you kill , you all lose your precious Marquis as well."
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