Fated to the fallen prince-Chapter 15: The Lost Caravan

The whispers of the marshes faded as the group emerged onto firmer ground. The sun had risen high, burning off the mist and revealing a landscape of rolling hills patched with wildflowers and scattered rocks. Alix Teardom walked at the front now, the restored tablet a constant hum against her back. The survivors trailed behind—Lira limping but determined, the others carrying bundles of salvaged goods from the village. Donstram Donovan brought up the rear, eyes on the horizon for any sign of pursuit.

The betrayal had left them all quieter. No one spoke of Tomas. His body had been left where it fell, the purse untouched beside him. A warning for any who might follow.

By midday the path joined a wider road, rutted from wagon wheels. Fresh tracks marked the dirt—deep, recent. Donstram knelt, fingers tracing the grooves.

"Caravan," he said. "Not long ahead. Ten wagons at least."

Alix scanned the road. "Merchants?"

"Likely." He stood. "We could pass them quietly. Or ask for aid."

The group needed rest. Food. Bandages. Lira’s wound was stable, but infection loomed.

"We ask," Alix decided. "But carefully."

They followed the tracks for another hour before the caravan came into view. It was stopped in a shallow valley, wagons circled like a makeshift fort. Smoke rose from a central fire. Figures moved around it—merchants in colorful robes, guards in mismatched armor. But something was wrong. Bodies lay scattered. Blood stained the grass.

Ambush aftermath.

Donstram signaled the group to halt. "Stay here. We’ll scout."

He and Alix approached carefully, shadows cloaking their steps. As they neared, a guard spotted them. "Who goes there?" 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Donstram lowered his hood. "Travelers. We mean no harm."

The guard eyed them warily but waved them closer. The caravan was a mess: overturned wagons, arrows embedded in wood, dead bandits strewn about. Survivors huddled around the fire, tending wounds. A burly man with a bandaged arm stood to greet them.

"Name’s Harlan," he said. "Caravan master. We were hit an hour ago. Bandits. Took half our goods, killed six of us."

Alix’s gaze swept the scene. "The king’s men?"

Harlan spat. "No. Just opportunists. The roads are lawless since the decrees started. You heard about the witch and the prince?"

Donstram kept his expression neutral. "We have."

Harlan grunted. "Bounty hunters everywhere. But we’re just traders. Some of us have... ties to old magic folk. Blackthorn sympathizers."

Alix’s eyes sharpened. "Then you know who we are."

Harlan looked closer. Recognition dawned. "By the gods. The curse breakers themselves."

Murmurs rippled through the survivors. Some backed away. Others stepped forward.

"We need help," Alix said. "Bandages. Food. A place to rest. In return, we’ll help you move on. Protect you to the next town."

Harlan hesitated. "The king will hunt anyone who aids you."

Donstram met his gaze. "The king is already hunting. Join us, or hide. Your choice."

Harlan glanced at his people. Nodded. "One night. Then we part ways."

The group integrated quickly. Lira’s wound was cleaned and rebandaged by a caravan healer. Food was shared—stew thick with roots and dried meat. Stories were exchanged around the fire. The merchants spoke of unrest in the capital: riots, whispers of rebellion, strange shadows stirring in the old ruins.

Alix sat beside Donstram, their thighs touching. The bond carried his quiet vigilance, the way he scanned every face for betrayal.

When night fell, watches were set. Alix and Donstram took first shift, walking the perimeter.

"You think they’ll turn on us?" he asked.

"Harlan seems genuine." She paused. "But Tomas did too."

He nodded. "We sleep with one eye open."

The camp quieted. The stars wheeled overhead. Donstram pulled Alix into the shadow of a wagon. "Come here."

She went willingly. His arms came around her, strong and sure. She tilted her head up. He kissed her—slow at first, then deeper. His hands slid down her back, pulling her flush against him.

The bond warmed. Desire flickered, low and insistent.

"Not here," she whispered against his mouth.

He smiled faintly. "No. But soon."

A promise.

They returned to watch.

Hours later, relieved by the next shift, they slipped into a small tent Harlan had offered. The space was tight, barely room for two. They lay close, cloaks as blankets.

Donstram turned to her. "I can’t stop thinking about the village."

Alix traced the scar on his jaw. "Neither can I."

He caught her hand, kissed her palm. "We can’t save everyone."

"No." She leaned in, kissed him softly. "But we can try."

The kiss deepened. His hand slid under her shirt, finding warm skin. She arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair.

They moved quietly, carefully. Clothes shed in whispers. He settled between her thighs, the bond already humming with shared need.

When he entered her, slow and deep, they both sighed. The rhythm built—gentle rolls of his hips, her legs wrapped around him. Pleasure echoed back and forth until it crested in a shared wave, muffled against each other’s skin.

After, they lay tangled. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too."

Sleep came.

Unique insight settled over Alix in the quiet dark: Victory feels hollow when innocents still die. But those deaths fuel the fire to fight harder, to build a world where caravans like this can travel without fear.

The road called.

And the war waited.