The carriage creaked along the dirt road, wheels crunching over pebbles and dry leaves.
Unlike the last trip where Elizabeth drove the horses herself, this time a palace soldier handled the reins. Two armored Kingsguard rode on horseback at each flank, their cloaks fluttering in the late afternoon wind.
Inside, Elizabeth had dozed off beside her son. Her head rested lightly against the wooden frame, her breath calm and even. Eustass leaned by the window, chin in hand, eyes sharp and restless.
He couldn't stop replaying everything that had happened at the palace.
The whispers.
The poison.
Dwayne's downfall.
The execution.
One move after another, a chain of chaos he had orchestrated. But even after all of that, the real question gnawed at him like a parasite.
Who actually wanted him and his mother dead?
It wasn't fully Ser Dwayne. Sure, the knight had been knee-deep in treason, selling kingdom secrets and plotting like a rat in the shadows. But his execution hadn't answered the why. Why target Kairus? Why Elizabeth? What threat did they pose to anyone?
If I missed something, if I pulled the trigger too fast… could I have changed something I wasn't supposed to?
The thought made him bite the inside of his cheek.
He was so deep in thought that when the horses suddenly shrieked and reared, the jolt nearly knocked him against the seat.
Elizabeth's eyes snapped open.
"What's going on?" she whispered, voice still heavy with sleep.
Before Eustass could answer, a Kingsguard's face appeared by the window. His tone was calm but edged with urgency.
"My Lady, Prince—stay inside. Bandits ahead. We'll handle this."
And just like that, he was gone.
Outside, steel clashed and angry shouts erupted.
Eustass pressed against the window, watching as the three soldiers engaged a swarm of ragged men with blades, clubs, and axes. There weren't just "a couple" of bandits. There were at least twenty.
And though the Kingsguard were trained killers, outnumbered steel against steel was never a fair fight.
Elizabeth clutched her son's sleeve.
"Eustass… we can't go out there. It's too dangerous."
He shook his head, jaw set.
"It's even more dangerous staying in here. If the guards fall, we're sitting ducks."
"But—"
"Mother." His voice was low, steady, almost scarily calm. "If we don't move now, we're done for."
Her lips parted, fear clouding her eyes. But the fire in her son's gaze—so much older than his ten years—made her chest tighten. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded.
Together, they slipped from the carriage's side, crouching low and moving into the trees. The chaos of battle masked their quiet escape, though Elizabeth's hands trembled the entire time.
They crouched behind a thick oak, peering out.
The Kingsguard fought like lions, blades flashing, shields cracking against bodies. For every bandit they cut down, two more pressed in. Already their armor was streaked with blood, and not all of it belonged to their enemies.
Elizabeth covered her mouth, horror on her face.
Eustass's mind spun. Three men against twenty… no matter how skilled, they'd fall. And if they fell, the bandits would find him and his mother.
His eyes darted, scanning the ground. That's when he saw it—one of the fallen bandits, an arrow still clutched in his hand.
A bow lay just a few feet away.
Perfect.
Without warning, Eustass slipped from the tree, crawling low across the dirt. Elizabeth's heart dropped as she reached out—
"Eustass!" she hissed, but her voice died in her throat. If she shouted, they'd be caught.
Her son moved with chilling precision, weaving between corpses until his small fingers snatched up the bow. Then he scurried back, face smudged with dirt but eyes burning with resolve.
Elizabeth grabbed him the moment he returned.
"Are you insane?! You don't even know how to use that thing!"
Eustass shoved the bow into her hands.
"Then you use it."
Her eyes went wide.
"What?! No—I can't—I've never—"
"You don't have to kill anyone." His voice dropped lower, firm. "Just trust me."
Elizabeth stared at the weapon, hands trembling around it. She had never even touched one before. The thought of letting an arrow fly at another human made bile rise in her throat.
"No… I can't do this, Eustass. I won't kill someone." Her voice cracked.
Eustass's expression softened for the briefest moment. He leaned close, whispering near her ear.
"You won't. I promise."
He moved behind her, small hands guiding her arms, adjusting her stance. She knelt on the ground, bowstring taut, tears prickling her lashes.
"I can't," she whispered again, her voice breaking.
"You can," Eustass whispered back. His tone was calm, analytical, almost detached, but underneath it was a strange warmth. "Just hold steady. Let me do the aiming."
His mind spun like gears in a machine. Every second stretched into equations.
The wind pushed east—roughly twelve knots. Tilt left, just a fraction. Gravity would drag the arrow down over distance—raise the bow one degree higher.
The bandits kept moving, blades flashing. But to Eustass, their movements weren't chaos—they were patterns. Predictable. He'll lunge in two seconds. That one will stagger when he lands. He saw it all before it happened.
Inside his head, the targets lined up like a surgeon mapping an operation.
The glenohumeral joint—shoulder socket. One hit, and his sword arm's gone.
The vastus lateralis—outer thigh. Take it, and he drops like dead weight.
The flexor carpi radialis—forearm tendon. He won't even hold a dagger after that.
Arrows there wouldn't take lives. They'd end fights.
He wrapped his fingers around hers, steadying the bowstring. His voice was low, firm.
"When I say 'release'… just let go."
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, silent tears sliding down her face.
Eustass narrowed his gaze, locked on a bandit rushing toward a Kingsguard's blind spot. His breathing slowed, his heartbeat steady.
Now.
"Shoot."
The string snapped.
The arrow flew.
It struck the bandit's thigh with a sickening thud. He screamed, collapsing instantly, weapon dropping from his grip.
Elizabeth gasped, opening her eyes. Her hands shook violently, but the sight stunned her—he wasn't dead. Just down.
Eustass's lips curved into the faintest smirk.
"See? I told you. We're not here to kill. Just to win."
Another bandit closed in on one of the soldiers, blade raised.
Eustass adjusted her hands again.
"Draw… hold… now."
Another arrow sang. This time, it slammed into a man's shoulder, spinning him backward with a cry.
The Kingsguard seized the moment, finishing him off.
Elizabeth's chest heaved. Her body was trembling so badly she could barely keep the bow steady. But Eustass's voice was always there, guiding her, sharpening her fear into something else.
"You're doing great. Just one more."
Her eyes glistened with tears, but she nodded faintly.
Arrow after arrow flew. Each one struck where Eustass wanted—crippling, disabling, never killing. One by one, the tide shifted.
The Kingsguard, bleeding and battered, stole glances at the treeline where the arrows came from. They didn't know who was helping them, but the effect was clear: the bandits were breaking.
By the time half their number was down, the rest began to scatter into the woods.
The three guards stood, panting, blades dripping, bodies cut and bruised.
Elizabeth collapsed to her knees, bow slipping from her hands. Her shoulders shook, silent sobs breaking loose.
Eustass crouched beside her, his small hand resting on hers.
"You did it, Mother. You saved us."
She looked at him through tears, searching his face. How could a ten-year-old be so calm, so calculating, so unshaken by the bloodshed?
And yet, when she looked closer, she saw something flicker in his eyes. Not innocence—something colder. Sharper.
Almost… frightening.
The boy didn't blink once during the entire fight.
He was already thinking of the next move.
Eustass stood, gazing at the battlefield. The bandits groaned where they lay, crippled but alive. The Kingsguard gathered themselves, staring in awe at the sudden turn of the fight.
But Eustass's eyes weren't on them.
His mind whispered the same thought it had back at the palace.
This isn't over. Someone wanted me dead. And Ser Dwayne was just a pawn.
He clenched his fists, staring at the treeline where the surviving bandits had fled.
Then he whispered under his breath, cold and certain:
"They'll regret ever coming for me."