Hours seemed to have passed since the hunt had begun and Charlotte was in agony from all her falls. Her thin boots no longer stopped the feel of the twigs and stones scattered along the floor, and her breaths escaped in ragged pants. She didn’t stop running.

Running meant she’d live a few minutes longer. If she escaped from him, freedom would be in her grasp. If he caught her—the worms would soon have a friend.

Twigs broke, shadows stalked her through the sparse forest, and the beast lurked in its darkness.

The sounds followed where she ran, her feet slipping across the mud as rain lashed against her numb skin. She stumbled forwards and caught her fall on a tree, scraping her palms across the bark in the process. Breaths brushed against her ear. Head snapping around, her wide eyes flickered over her empty surroundings. She gritted her teeth, pushed away from the trunk, and began to run again.

Every tree looked the same; blobs of dull browns and greys that passed in a blink.

The ground vanished beneath her feet. It returned with a slam, and she fell to her hands and knees. Charlotte scrambled to a stand and ran.

Everything hurt. At the same time, everything felt numb. She’d have cried if she had the energy to. Curled beneath a bush and allowed the cold to take her if she didn’t want to live. Or thrown herself off a cliff if it meant she controlled how she went. Yet, she wasn’t ready to die. Living, somehow, still appealed to her.

 

Night clung to the forest like a dense fog. Stars light struggled to break through overhead branches and morphed trees into silhouettes, and more than once, she shrieked after crashing into one—believing, for a moment, it’d been a human she’d stumbled into instead.

Her fingers brushed over and banged against tree stumps, and branches and bark caught beneath her nails as she reached forwards to try and navigate through the forest. She continued to run. Twigs, stones, and branches poked through the holes in her clothing and prodded her raw skin.

To the left she ran.

Caws came from behind.

She switched directions again.

Left. Right. Right again. Left. Around and around she fled; ignoring the pain created by cuts she’d gained through her many falls.

The drizzle grew heavier. Dark consumed the little light which broke through the branches, and in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Cold fingers brushed the back of her neck. She whirled around, trying to smack it away. It met air instead. Glancing around, she saw nothing but trees. Blood rushed to her ears. Charlotte began to run. Her aching feet weighed her down whilst she navigated through the forest. Sometimes, when she fell, she thought she was falling in places she’d been before; and more than once, they caught beneath a root and she fell to the ground, smacking her chin in the process and scraping her palms. With each fall, the pain increased. Her vision blurred and tears built in her eyes.

Her head collided with the back of her hands as she fell once again, and she bit her tongue. Iron filled her mouth. Her teeth chattered together. She pushed herself onto her forearms with a groan.

“Found you.” Fingers grabbed her hair. They pulled. She felt hairs snap and Charlotte screamed. Yanks against her scalp created more pain and blocked her words. Hands trailing along the floor, she flailed around and tried to grab items brushing against her fingertips. Dirt was all she found.

“Quiet Twolt!” Her muffled cries replied to him. Harsh objects poked holes into her flimsy clothing, and the blisters on the bottom of her feet, from running in oversized sweaty boots, left her sobbing in pain. A crack filled the air. The imprint of a hand marred her cheek red.

“I said quiet!”

Her actions stilled. Sobs wracked her hunched over body

A loud slap echoed through the air. She pressed a trembling hand to her tingling cheek, squeezed her eyes closed and pushed herself to a slow stand. Another yank sent her sprawling to the floor. Pain seared her scalp. Her boots dug into the ground and the toe of the boots stabbed into the mud and stones to no avail. She reached out blindly and grabbed at her hair and the bony hand, trying to pry it free, to no avail.

He dragged her along the ground. She felt her body jar to the right as they switched direction. Her elbow collided with a tree and a fresh wave of pain ran over her body. Charlotte grabbed the nearest tree—a skinny one that looked ready to fall—and locked her arms and legs around its trunk. Her teeth bit down against her tongue as the man pulled harder.

“Insolent! Boorish!” The tension on her head vanished. Her shoulders sagged. Relief rushed through her body. “I’ll cut off your hands!” Her body locked in place. Metal grated against another surface and her head snapped around. She didn’t see the blade enter her vision, only realising his threat was real as the cold blade touched her wrists. She flinched, released her hold on the tree, and bit her lip to hold in her cry as her body collided to the floor with a thud. The hand returned into her hair as the stench of onion, which came from the man, grew stronger with him standing by her head again. Metal clunked—the sword returning to its sheath. She heard him step nearer. A boot collided with her stomach. Charlotte doubled over, curling into a ball on the floor. Another blow slammed against her stomach. Then another and another, over and over he kicked her stomach. Sometimes the kick veered directions and landed on her hands instead. Whimpers clogged her throat and her eyes squeezed close.

The kicking stopped. She peered through her lashes and flinched, and the silhouette stepped out of her line of sight. Sobs hiccupped through her throat and tears marred the scene in front of her.

“Quiet Twolt,” he yelled. Another kick sent her rolling over onto her side. Calloused fingers pinched the back of her neck. The ground met her face. Mud filled her mouth. It stung her eyes. Pain flared across her skull as over and over the ground met her face. Her trembling arms managed to lift her body slightly. She tried to crawl away. A foot slammed against her back and pushed her into the ground. Shrieks tore from her throat. Tears rolled down her cheeks and still, the slamming continued.

Her surroundings merged into a blob of colour and white noise. Mint and barley grew stronger. Footsteps neared. Twigs cracked. The onion stench vanished to the new smells.

Charlotte heard a grunt as the hand and foot disappeared from where they’d been. Lifting her head, her swimming vision struggled to focus on the newest arrival. At the shoulders, the silhouette was wide. They were tall too. Tall enough to have to duck beneath drooping branches. Carlson. She recognised his heavy breathing as he crouched beside her. His gentle hand touched the back of her neck and she flinched away.

“Easy Tiny.” Tears built in her eyes. She rolled onto her back. Twigs snapped beneath her weight. “Calm.” Carlson’s face entered her vision. Mud streaked his skin and deep bags lined his hazel eyes filled with worry. Her gaze flickered to the frail man behind him, held back by Carlson’s palm held upright. He looked to be all bones; bones wrapped in extravagant packaging formed from elegant clothes and a simple dome hat. Carlson poked her shoulder. Her anguished cry brought a smile to the frail man’s thin lips.

Sighing, Carlson lifted her off the ground and balanced her on her feet. She whimpered. She lurched forwards—her legs crumbling beneath her weight. His arm latched around her waist and held her upright.

“Is she broken?” The nasally voiced man asked. Carlson didn’t reply. The ground swayed. She scrunched her eyes close, whimpering as he hoisted her up, over his shoulder. When they reopened, she stared at his sweat soaked back. Her trembling fingers struggled to clung onto his shoulders and his grip around her waist tightened as he began to walk. She couldn’t lift her head. Nor did she want to, knowing (from the tips of his pointed shoes entering and leaving her vision,) that she’d have to look at the cruel man.

The uneven path often left Carlson jolting her and struggling to hold her steady. They wobbled and swayed from side to side. More than once her breath was stolen by pain. Whimpers and muffled sniffles were all she could manage, and she cringed as she heard the man’s cruel snickers.

“Does the Twolt have a boo boo? Does she want her father?” He sneered. Charlotte tried to glare his way through her hair falling in front of her face to no avail. “I must have hurt your feelings,” he snickered, “too bad nobody cares. Not even your father! He has no interest in you still Twolt! But shall I send a crow his way anyway? Perhaps he’ll have a moment of weakness and pity you.” Snickers morphed into chortles. She turned her face away. Droplets clung to her lashes. From the drizzle or her own tears she couldn’t say. Nor could she say whether she was tense from anger or the pain.

“Calm Tiny,” Carlson whispered, his fingers digging into her rips, causing her to flinch. “Whestleton, play nice,” he continued, his voice louder.

“Not a chance. She wasted both of our time!” Whestleton stepped into view; his grey eyes hidden in shadows caused by his furrowed brows. He met her gaze. A slow sneer formed, revealing crooked teeth and his hand snapped forwards, pulling Carlson to a stop as he grabbed her by her chin. His bony fingers dug into her skin. She wiggled and squirmed, trying to yank her face free. Carlson’s grip tightened around her waist. He twisted away, yanking her face free and marched onwards.

“Creep,” the knight muttered as his brash actions created more pain for her. Her head swam. The world begun to dim. Silhouettes lost the little focus they held and blurred into blobs of grey.

​

***

​

When her vision next cleared up, her surroundings had changed.  Looking up, she noticed Whestleton had grown silent, his eyes glazed over and his face expressionless. Behind him the forest was now at a distance, brought to life by the crows hopping from branch to branch, and she heard the sloshing of water as they waded through the marsh. Her vision blurred again. This time, when it next cleared, no longer could she see water underfoot. Mud and ruined letters marked the land of her shacks island.

Carlson lifted her off his shoulder. Her back collided with the ground. Charlotte groaned and lifted a heavy arm to shield her eyes. Retreating footsteps were heard. When they returned, a second pair joined them. She lowered her arm.

Flickering candlelight, from within the shack, illuminated the surroundings in a warm glow, highlighting the sharp jaw of the long bony face which leaned into her view. The light set his face in harsh shadows and emphasised his sharp nose and drooping eyes.

“You’ve given up Twolt?”

Charlotte turned away. Her features twisted into disgust, and she rolled onto her side, hiding her wooden hand beneath her body in the process—as if hiding it would stop the insults relating to it. Whestleton snorted at the action. His foot pressed down on her right shoulder. Screams tore from her throat and tears trailed from the corners of her eyes. The man cackled. The weight shifted with the changing of his feet and he stamped down on her stomach. Charlotte shrieked. White dots filtered into her vision. The same satin covered foot stamped down again. The man snorted as she writhed along the floor. Her hands clawed at his ankle. She pushed and shoved. The hard tip of his shoe struck her ribs. She gasped for breaths.

“How dare you waste my time with your futile attempt to escape! What gave you the right to think you could disobey me and live!” With each screeched sentence, another kick struck her ribs. She curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her stomach. “Filth should stay where it’s placed!” The wooden heels of the shoes scraped her artificial hand and sparks flew. “Trash should not be allowed to breathe our air! To make us run around. To believe it has free will!” Over and over blows slammed against her body. Her body cried out in agony.

“Release her!” The kicking stopped. Peering through wet lashes, she watched Carlson pull Whestleton back by his shoulder. The man shrugged himself free, spun, and smacked the knight across his cheek.

“You dare lay a hand on me! I am the Kings adviser! Gifted with a new name! Whestleton is a man of the past, who you laid a hand upon is Hemlock, the Kings most loyal man! Untouchable by you! I shall slay you where you stand for daring to touch me,” his bellows echoed across the marsh and spooked the few wild birds who dared to stay near the staring crows. They scattered in a flurry. “I will have your head for letting her escape too! The stocks will have you yet!”

“She was located in the opposite direction to where she ran. I couldn’t have predicted that.”

Snorts from the adviser replied to Carlson and he rolled his eyes. “I will have both your heads,” he muttered.

“Let her up Whestleton.”

The weight on her stomach vanished for a second. It returned with a slam. Kicks struck her stomach and arms again. Her teeth clattered together. They caught her tongue. Blood filled her mouth. Whimpers were all she could muster.

“Enough!” Metal grated metal as a sword was drawn from its sheath. Whestleton’s kicks halted. Her sobs didn’t. “Let her up.”

Charlotte dared a glance towards the two men. Her sobs hiccupped to a stop. Whestleton’s foot vanished from her stomach. He shrank back with Carlson’s blade pressed to his throat, following the action, glinting in the candlelight.

“Say please.”

“What?”

His foot collided against her bruised ribs. Unable to muffle the sound, she sobbed in pain. “I said, say please.”

The sword wavered. Carlson’s scowl deepened. Silence fell.

The toe of his shoe scraped along her injured stomach. Mud added to her already filthy outfit and her cuts stung.

 “I said,” Whestleton stamped down, forcing a whimper from her throat, “say please,” the tip of his toe dug into her stomach. Her hoarse throat blocked anymore cries.

“Please…”

“Full sentences now Chimmy.”

Their eyes locked over her body.

“Please… Let her go.”

“You forgot my name.”

Carlson glared and said, “let her go Whestleton.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” the adviser shook his head and wagged a finger. “Wrong name.”

She heard Carlson sigh. “Let her go, Hemlock.” He said through ground teeth.

Whestleton lifted his foot and Charlotte gasped for breaths. She rolled onto her stomach and quickly crawled to Carlson. “Now, was that so hard?” He asked as the knight helped her to her feet. “You both made this harder than it should have been.” He shook his head and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his fingers across the satin. “To believe by now we all could have been laughing over glasses of rum, staying warm by the fire rather than running through trees.” He snorted. She stared at the man as his lips twisted into a smile and he laughed. Cackles filled the air. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Who am I kidding?” The laughter died down. “Nuisances,” he said and pulled out a pocket watch; its clicking open added the sound of falling sand to the silent night with only the rains gentle taps joining in. “For the last five hours,” the watch closed with a loud click, “we’ve ran through the forest. And for what? Nothing! For future reference, if you try to escape, do it well or you’d needn't bother at all Twolt.”

“Can’t blame her for running. The last time she saw you, you promised your next encounter would be the day she dies.”

“You are failing to hide your fondness for the Twolt, Chimmy.”

Charlotte’s body swayed and Carlson caught her before she could fall. His eyes flickered over her in silent question and she nodded.

“Now, onto business.” Whestleton drew their attention, “contrary to what I said, the situation has changed and the Twolt at last may have used for the King.” Her eyes grew wide and Carlson’s actions of brushing down her clothing from the twigs and leaves, stilled. “Clearly, she received the letters we sent,” he rubbed one of the envelopes further into the mud. “Why wasn’t a reply sent?”

“She’s from the Backwater. Do you believe they learnt how to read there?”

Whestleton groaned, reached for an inside pocket, and pulled out a copy of the letter. “Mute and unable to read,” he muttered with a shake of his head, “the Twolt truly is nothing but a stain on his highness.” Unfurling the letter, he peered over the edge and glared. “Tell me her ears work at least.”

“They do.”

The adviser nodded and lifted the sheet.

“George the Third, blessed by the grace of God, King of Piore, hereby delivers these words to his beloved subject.” Charlotte’s eyes widened and she tightened her grip on Carlson’s arm. “The Stain and Twolt, Charlotte Elizabeth King, is to win Prince Kyro Tremaine’s heart, heir to the Camolis Kingdom, in Piore’s name.” Her mouth fell open. Her brows furrowed together. Glancing up, she saw a carefully placed emotionless mask covering the knight’s face. He patted her hand and her shoulders fell.

“Summoning to the palace is imminent. Fulfilling the crowns demands will grant Charlotte King her freedom and she shall be claimed by the King, allowed to walk the lands as a free woman. After thus, she shall be gifted a husband.” A question formed on her tongue. It went unsaid as Carlson pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head.

“Failure to comply or to fulfil the crowns expectations will lead to her execution.” She fell still. Chills trembled through her body and Whestleton glanced over the parchment with gleeful eyes. She turned away first and fixed her gaze on the ground. “By the King himself. Signed with his own hand.”

With the decree finished, silence fell. Her nails dug into her arms as she wrapped them around herself. Certain sentences replayed through her mind. Yet, one word echoed within her mind most.

Freedom.

It was within her grasp.

She heard the letter crinkle as he refolded it and returned it to his pocket and in the flickering candlelight, his face showed nothing but joy—the cruel kind often shown at the price of someone’s suffering.

“I understand you simpletons may misunderstand such formal decrees so allow me to simplify it for your brains.” He took a step forward and she froze, her eyes locking on his face. “You’re ordered to win Prince Kyro’s heart and wed him. Failure isn’t allowed.” Another step forward was taken. “Once you two wed, you’ll return to Piore and listed as an official daughter on our records and in the history books.” He closed the distance with another step. Charlotte scrambled backwards. “We both know that this offer… is the best a Twolt and a Stain can hope to receive.” Once more, with his step forwards, she moved back a step. “Once listed as his daughter, the king shall provide a better, more fitting husband for you and you may return home. Maybe… your mother will remember you after all this time?” Her retreating came to a stumbling stop. She hissed as her back slammed against the shack’s walls and Whestleton loomed over her. A bony hand snatched out, gripping her face in his grip.

“Whestleton…” In the flickering light, she saw Carlson lift his blade and rest it on the adviser’s shoulder. The grip didn’t lessen.

“Either way,” he spat, unfazed, “if you refuse to try to win his heart or fail, the king will finally kill you like he should have done years ago.” Her nose creased. His garlic breath killed the little sense of smell she retained, and she raised a hand to pinch her nose. He glared at the action. “Are we clear?” She nodded frantically. His second hand rose, brushing across her cheek and she flinched. “Good.” Eyes flickering over her face, he hesitated before leaning back. “Perhaps if you survive, your father will be gracious enough to allow you to be my wife.” She froze. He shoved her face out of his hand, pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his fingers. “Now, let’s talk business,” he said, lips twisting into a smile as he turned away. With his back towards her, Charlotte slid down the wall, gasping for breath, feeling far colder than she had in years.

Freedom no longer sounded so great after all.