Chapter 9: A Storm on the Road
The ride north began in silence.
Cherion sat inside his carriage, arms folded, trying not to look as stiff as he felt. The curtains were pulled back just enough for him to sneak a look, and every so often he leaned closer to the window, watching what was happening outside. In front of him, another carriage rattled along the uneven path. That one belonged to Zarius. Even from this far, Cherion could tell by the way the guards rode it wasn’t just any carriage.
A line of soldiers followed behind on horseback, their armor flashing here and there whenever sunlight managed to break through the forest canopy. Wolves padded along too, men in their shifted forms, silver-gray and black, watching the trees with ears pinned forward. It was a scene Cherion had only read about before. And now he was part of it.
Not that he felt like a grand participant in some fated journey. No. He felt like a decorative parcel. Wrapped up, ribboned, and ready to be handed off.
His fingers tapped his knee. "So this is it," he muttered, not that anyone could hear. The driver was up front, and Cherion was alone inside.
His gaze drifted back to the window. At the front, Zarius’s carriage rolled on, its polished dark wood catching the light in quick. Cherion squinted at it, lips quirking. Does he sit there like a statue, too? Or does he cough the whole ride, rattling the wood panels? The thought almost made him laugh, but it turned into a sigh instead.
Because the longer he sat there, the more his mind circled back to the same question. Should I run?
It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? But then again, wasn’t everything ridiculous now? He wasn’t the real Cherion of this world. He owed nothing to this marriage, Zarius, or to anyone. That’s when the thought struck him, slip away at the next village, vanish into the crowd, start over somewhere no one knew his name. He could manage, supposedly.
Except then came the other voice, the colder one, reminding him what happened to this world’s Cherion in the novel when he resisted fate. It hadn’t ended prettily. In fact, it had ended with him dead. And this Cherion wasn’t especially eager to test whether fiction still played by its rules.
Still, the thought gnawed. What if? What if? What if?
The forest thickened outside. Cherion’s eyelids felt heavy, his head aching with too much thinking when suddenly the carriage jolted hard to one side.
Horses screamed.
Cherion grabbed the seat with both hands, eyes wide. The entire carriage shuddered, wood groaning under strain. Then came the sharp clang of steel striking steel, and shouts from outside.
"What...." He lurched to the window, peeking out. His breath caught. Shapes moved fast between the trees, dark figures clashing against the guards. Wolves snarled, men roared, and in between he caught glimpses of blades flashing.
One of the guards barked toward him, voice taut. "Stay inside! Lord Cherion, don’t leave the carriage!"
Cherion nodded frantically, though no one could see him, his pulse hammering. Assassins? Really? He had half-joked about fate being cruel, but this was absurd. He pressed himself into the corner of the seat, listening as chaos tore apart the forest air.
But then the carriage jerked violently again, one wheel bouncing off something hard, and Cherion nearly bit his tongue. The sudden tilt convinced him more than any words could. He couldn’t just sit here like a packaged doll waiting to be stabbed through the wrapping.
"Staying inside, sure," he muttered, pushing the door open with trembling fingers. "But not sitting still."
The moment he stepped down, the world tilted into madness. Guards battled strangers in black, wolves leapt at throats, the crunch of bone and the rip of flesh filled the air. The smell hit him next, blood and wet earth, sharp and metallic, as if the ground itself had been fed iron.
Cherion staggered, his boots slipping on mud. "Oh gods," he whispered. "Oh gods oh gods..."
One of the attackers spotted him. Eyes like cold glass fixed on him, and the man charged. Cherion froze, his body refusing to cooperate. Every thought fled his mind but one. This is it. This is where I die.
A blade swung toward him...
𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺
And met another blade with a shriek of metal.
The force of the clash sent sparks flying, and in front of Cherion now stood Zarius.
The Alpha moved with startling speed, his dark cloak flaring as he turned his body, pushing the assassin back with sheer force. The coughing, the pale face, all of it was suddenly forgotten. He was no sick man now. He was an Alpha, tall and relentless, his golden eyes burning like fire catching on steel.
"Stay behind me," he said with a low voice.
Cherion nodded so fast he nearly sprained his neck, stumbling backward. His heart rattled against his ribs. So much for running away. The universe really said, Sit tight, you’re not going anywhere.
The fight unfolded in a blur. Zarius’s sword moved with a precision that made Cherion’s stomach knot. Every blow he dealt landed hard and sure, no wasted movement or hesitation. He fought like someone who’d been raised on violence, every strike clean and merciless. And yet even in the middle of it, Cherion caught a faint hitch in his breath, a quick clutch at his chest before he straightened again.
Still, it was like watching a storm tear apart fragile boats.
Cherion pressed himself against the side of the carriage, breath shallow. He tried to keep small, to not get noticed. He didn’t belong in this scene. He was the wrong character on the wrong page.
But the page refused to let him slip out.
One assassin darted toward him, blade flashing dangerously close. Cherion flinched, hands raising instinctively. Before the blade could actually cut, Zarius yanked him back, his grip like iron clamped around Cherion’s arm. Their faces brushed close for a split second, gold eyes flaring with something feral, something wild and then Zarius turned, cutting the man down without pause.
Blood sprayed. A warm, metallic spatter across Cherion’s face.
He froze. Then very slowly, he lifted a hand, wiped the smear from his skin, and stared at the red streak on his fingers. His stomach flipped. "Oh," he said faintly. "Exactly what I needed today. A free blood facial."
When the last attacker fell, silence staggered in like a wounded beast. Only the pant of exhausted horses and the faint rustle of leaves filled the air. Bodies were scattered across the dirt, dark shapes slumped and still.
Zarius straightened, sword dripping, his chest lifting faintly with each breath, though his face gave away almost nothing. He didn’t look back at Cherion. He simply wiped his sword clean as though this had been nothing more than routine.
Cherion pressed himself against the carriage, shaking, the tacky smear of blood drying on his cheek. "Thank you for saving me, Zar-Alpha Zarius."
The Alpha finally glanced at him, just once, before turning and walking away, giving orders to his men as if Cherion were already forgotten.
He wiped his face again, grimaced at the smear, and muttered under his breath, "North. Sure. Couldn’t possibly get worse."