THEY DID NOT slow down until they were so far from the palace that they could scarce see it. Though it would've been ideal to place as much distance between themselves and the palace as possible, the horses remained their main limitation. The animals had tired easily after having galloped for so long. Eventually, they had slowed to a steady trot.

       Trepidation.

       That was the only word that could accurately describe just what Ladislas felt. It crept up inside of him when he looked over at his brothers and saw Raolet's knuckles turning white as he clutched for dear life onto the painting—the only piece of their dead siblings that they had left. It prowled into his bones like a gentle beast when he saw Ixidor's eyes roll back into his head, only for him to shake the lightheadedness off—as though he would've passed out only if he could afford to.

       Trepidation was thick in the cool night air. Trepidation was tangible on Ladislas's fingertips and acerbic on his tongue. But trepidation, cruel as it was, was just about the only thing that kept him sane—and awake.

The smell of sweat mingled with the metallic fetor of blood—Ixidor's. His shirt was soaked with it as well. Every so often, he would gag and spit crimson liquid to the side. He appeared just about ready to pass out, swaying in his saddle while using every bit of remaining strength to clutch Kyrios to his chest.

       Just before they headed for the trees, Ladislas turned his gaze to the obsidian sky. It was veiled thinly with a few tufts of cloud, but most allowed the milky speckles to shimmer across the black canvas that encompassed the world. The stars themselves appeared to be cartwheeling before the prince's eyes, their brilliant and eerie pallor pulsating. However, he knew it was only because it was his head—and not the stars—that was spinning.

Silhouetted against the firmament was the crescent moon. When Ladislas blinked, filaments of silver moonlight ran down the scene. Each glistering heavenly body was like a spool of thread that unwound and rewound with each breath.

       His eyes were misty with unshed tears, dewdrops of anguish. The ones he had shed had slipped into the folds of his shirt and down the delicate dips of his collarbones. He thought to himself that yes, it would be fine if he died right then and there, and he would forgive God, if there was a God, for letting him die; for his last sight would have been a beautiful one, and his last moment would have been with those he loved.

       And then, just like that, the sky was gone and replaced with foliage, and he had not died. He was suddenly uncertain of whether or not that was a good thing.

The forest was dark and cold, but it was alive. Ladislas could not see much but he could hear everything: the hoots of owls, the screeches of bats from all corners, and on the trees, leaves and branches quivering and rustling in the wind.

Against the side of his face, he felt the beat of a moth's wings—the butterflies of the night, as he liked to refer to them.

       He involuntarily drew Kharmion closer to him to ensure she stayed warm. However, when he did so, he instantly felt better. Less cold, less alone, but also something more. Something like bravery. He looked down at the baby with wonder, his lips parting. Everything Roswina had said about the triplets was true. With each passing minute, Ladislas believed this more and more strongly.

       The brothers hadn't uttered a single word for what felt like hours. Perhaps it really had been hours of the younger princes' horses tailing Raolet's on a path to nowhere. When Ixidor broke the long bout of silence, the sound of his voice raised the hairs on the back of Ladislas's neck.

       "Raolet," he rasped, causing Raolet to whirl around and look at him. "If he has died, you may already be king."

       "Well do you really want to return and find out, and risk getting executed?" the eldest demanded gruffly. "He has no love, Ixidor. No mercy. Just look at what he's done to you! He wouldn't hesitate to have us killed—and that includes the babies. We can't go b—"

       "I know that," Ixidor snapped, "but what exactly are we supposed to do? We are currently walking completely blindly through a forest in the dead of night, led by nothing but three dumb horses."

       "What do we do, Raolet?" Ladislas asked desperately, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "We have absolutely no provisions, and—and how are we supposed to feed them? They need wet nurses. And Ixidor's hurt badly. He needs rest."

"I'm fine, Lad," Ixidor told him gently, but the swollen cheeks and bleeding mouth did nothing to help his case.

"No, you're not," Ladislas said adamantly. "If we don't clean your wounds, you'll die. And I can't—I can't handle that. I can't lose..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. He couldn't lose Ixidor, he couldn't lose another loved one.

"Yes," Raolet said, immersed in his own thoughts, "right. If we headed due west from the palace, that means that this must be the Forest of Tolphonia. Right? Yes, that's it. In that case, I believe... we are now travelling northwest. If I am remembering correctly... there is a village on the other side of this forest. Quaristoria."

By then, the eldest was speaking with more certainty and conviction, filling Ladislas with optimism.

"Once we reach Quaristoria, we can find something to clean your wounds, Ixidor. We will also need some weapons, should we have any unfortunate encounters. I have some extra gold on my person, which means that we can pay wet nurses and possibly, if there is enough, get some food for ourselves. If we don't have enough, we'll—we'll catch a rabbit, for all I care."

"Catch a rabbit?" Ixidor scoffed.

"Yes."

       "Perhaps a beaver would be better. I've heard from my ogre friends and they claim they much prefer beaver meat over rabbit meat."

       "Ixidor, I swear to God..." Raolet hissed through gritted teeth.

       "And after that?" Ladislas prodded, interrupting them. His horse stepped on a twig and he jumped slightly in his saddle at the noise, then shook his head profusely. "What are we to do after that? Where are we to go? Where will we stay? We can't possibly remain in that village forever. Surely, if the king is alive, he'll send someone looking for us. We must devise some sort of plan."

       "Might we be able to simply disguise ourselves as commoners?" Ixidor suggested, clutching at his side. "Become commoners?"

       A sigh fell from Raolet's lips. "It's a big risk to take. I don't think that'll be enough to hide us. We need protection. Armed soldiers. Everything that the palace has to protect itself is what we would need to be protected from it."

       "Wait," Ladislas said, an idea dawning on him. "What if we go to Uncle Zorion in Grimaldura?"

       Raolet brought his horse to an abrupt halt. "Did I—did I hear you correctly?"

The other two princes came to a stop beside their older brother.

"I know it sounds absurd," Ladislas continued, "but we would be under the protection of another king! Besides, our father and Zorion are nothing alike. Grimaldura and Naryllitsa have been on the brink of war for decades and—perhaps we could tell our uncle that we'll help him seize control of Naryllitsa if he gives us sanctuary."

"So you're suggesting," Raolet said, raising his eyebrows, "that we start a war?"

"Oh, well, I don't know." As he noted the stern look on his brother's face, he quickly added, "It was just an idea. I'm sure you'll figure something else out, I—"

"No," said Raolet, "that's actually not a bad one. But we still have plenty of time to think. We ought to continue riding if we want to make it by morning."

They rode off into the ominous unknown and fell into silence once more.

       By the time they reached the clearing, it was morning.

       Having been enveloped in the darkness for so long, Ladislas had not realized how bad Ixidor's wounds were. Bruises had blossomed from his cheekbones to his neck, and there were definitely more beneath his clothes. He had dried blood trailing from his mouth and nose—which looked unusually crooked—to his chest. He appeared to be on the constant brink of unconsciousness. Nevertheless, he continued to insist that he was fine and would go on until they reached their destination.

The Forest of Tolphonia was much less intimidating in the sunlight. In fact, it was quite serene to see golden rays filtering through the foliage and birds flitting from branch to branch.

What the princes saw when they finally emerged from the trees, parched and exhausted, was a valley. It was lush and verdant, with rolling, grassy hills. When Ladislas squinted, he could make out the village—tranquil and surrounded by dandelions braided into overgrown grass—in the distance.

       Then, two figures on horseback disturbed the scene. Ladislas gasped, fear clutching at his chest as he prepared to turn his horse around and leave. He cast a terrified look at his brothers.

But as he continued to watch, one of the figures pulled off their helmet and flowing black hair spilled out onto her ironclad shoulders—it was a girl. Ladislas's gaze then moved to the second figure, and his heart nearly exploded.

It was a boy with blond hair.

A knight.