Grimholt lingered in the shadows, eyes fixed on the palace doors until they swallowed her whole. Adora's performance to the guards was praiseworthy, and they had ushered her inside to a crowd of frantic nannies and maids. He exhaled slowly, the scent of her perfume still clinging to his collar like a secret. With reluctant hands, he tightened the saddle straps.
"Wait! Stop," a voice called out.
He reached instinctively for the cutlass. There was no time for poetry. Only steel against shadow. He scanned the dark wood, finding a shadowy figure hiding there among the timbers.
"What do you want?" He practically growled, brandishing the sword.
The figure stepped into moonlight—hood low, skirts torn, but chin raised like a noble.
"Please," she said. Her voice trembled, but not with fear. "Take me with you."