Faking Love To Save The General

The Merrill estate carriage was brought around to the back alley. Eulah was carried through the servants' entrance, hidden from the prying eyes of the capital's gossips.

She was laid gently onto the soft mattress of her bed. Agnes carefully used a pair of fabric scissors to cut away the ruined, blood-stained riding habit.

Dr. Silas Chadwick, an elderly man with a shock of white hair, hurried into the room carrying a heavy leather medical bag.

He took one look at Eulah's right ankle and frowned deeply. The joint was swollen to the size of a grapefruit, the skin stretched tight and colored a sickening shade of purple and black.

"The bone is slightly dislocated," Silas announced, his voice grave. "I have to set it immediately before the swelling gets worse."

Agnes let out a horrified gasp. She clapped her hands over her mouth and turned her face to the wall, unable to watch.

Silas gripped Eulah's foot with both hands. "Bite down on this towel, My Lady. The pain will be severe."

Eulah pushed the rolled-up towel away.

She reached down and grabbed the edges of her mattress, her knuckles turning white as she anchored herself.

"Do it," she ordered.

Silas nodded. He took a breath, adjusted his grip, and shoved the bone back into place with a brutal, twisting motion.

A loud, sickening crack echoed in the quiet bedroom.

Eulah's face drained of all color, turning as white as a sheet of paper. The veins on her forehead bulged against her skin.

But her jaw remained locked. Her teeth ground together so hard they squeaked. Not a single whimper escaped her lips.

Silas looked at her, a flash of genuine astonishment in his old eyes. He quickly applied a thick layer of cooling herbal poultice over the discolored skin. "The swelling is far too severe for splints right now," Silas muttered, wrapping it loosely with soft linen to hold the medicine in place. "You must keep it elevated and perfectly still. I will return tonight to apply the wooden splints once the inflammation has subsided."

He left two jars of strong, herbal numbing ointment on the nightstand, bowed deeply, and left the room.

Agnes rushed over, using a damp cloth to wipe the thick layer of cold sweat from Eulah's forehead. She was crying, muttering about how reckless Eulah had been.

Eulah leaned back against her pillows. She stared out the window, her gaze fixed on the distant spires of the Royal Palace.

She had thrown the bait. Now, it was entirely up to Daryl.

Back at the palace gates, Daryl's carriage jerked forward as the convoy finally resumed its march.

Inside the dim cabin, Daryl stared at his gloved hand. A faint smear of street dirt remained on the black leather.

He replayed the last five minutes in his head. He remembered the terrifying clarity in Eulah's eyes. He remembered the exact numbers and locations she had whispered.

As a general who had survived countless bloodbaths, Daryl did not believe in coincidences. And he certainly did not believe in love at first sight.

He knocked twice on the front panel of the carriage.

"Flint," Daryl said quietly through the small speaking grate. "Change formation. When we pass the second gate, move the vanguard to the flanks."

The carriage rolled past the heavy iron gates and entered the West Corridor.

Massive stone pillars lined the open-air walkway, casting long, dark shadows across the marble floor.

Daryl sat perfectly still. He peered through the tiny slit between the velvet curtains.

His sharp eyes caught a flash of unnatural light near the top of the third pillar. It was the distinct, metallic gleam of a loaded repeating crossbow mechanism.

The woman hadn't lied.

A cold, bloodthirsty smile touched the corners of Daryl's mouth.

He moved with terrifying speed. He unclasped his heavy, fur-lined military cloak. He draped it over the high back of his seat, arranging it to look like a man sitting upright in the shadows.

Then, Daryl dropped to the floorboards. He rolled into the absolute blind spot beneath the window line and drew a wicked, curved dagger from his boot.

A high-pitched whistling arrow pierced the air.

It was the signal.

Instantly, the air was filled with the terrifying thwack-thwack-thwack of releasing bowstrings.

Dozens of black-fletched crossbow bolts rained down from the rafters. They smashed through the wooden roof and windows of the carriage, turning the interior into a deadly pincushion.

Several bolts buried themselves deep into the fur cloak Daryl had left on the seat.

Outside, Flint roared a command. Swords cleared their scabbards.

The bloody, chaotic fight for survival had begun.