The shout, "Stop! You there with the cloak!" was like a spear in Ashlyn's back.
For a single, heart-stopping moment, she froze, her body rigid, her mind went blank with terror. They've seen me. It's over.
The guard's heavy, hobnailed boots echoed on the cobblestones, impossibly loud, pounding with the rhythm of her own frantic heart. He was getting closer.
She did not turn. She did not obey. She ran.
Her soft shoes, designed for carpeted halls, slipped and skidded on the uneven, grimy stones. The heavy wool cloak she had used for concealment was now a deadly liability, a thick, tangling weight that caught the wind and tangled around her legs. She could hear the man chasing her, his breathing a low, steady grunt, his footsteps getting closer.
Thud. thud. thud thud.
She was a noblewoman. She was not meant to run but she had to.
