CHAPTER SIX

The forest is darker than I imagined it could ever be. We step out of the meadow, the brittle stalks crunching under our boots, and at once the world narrows to black trunks and shifting shadows. Pines rise like pillars into the haze, their spires so tall they might spear the stars themselves. The sky above is no longer a comfort but a broken mosaic glimpsed through tangled crowns—stars pricking faintly through the lattice of branches, the moon spilling silver across leaves that seem to shiver with each gust of wind.

We have been walking only a minute, perhaps less, though the silence makes it feel longer, stretched taut like a string about to snap. Flynn’s boots find the path as though he knows it by heart, and I follow, less certain. The trail is little more than a seam of trampled weeds and black earth twisting through the undergrowth. The air smells of rot and wet moss. Every brush of grass against my ankles, every snap of twig beneath my heel sounds louder than it ought to, like a warning bell.

I hug myself tighter, wishing Flynn would speak, but he seems content to let the silence crawl between us. The night woods have never been my friend, and the longer he withholds his voice, the more the unease prickles beneath my skin. Finally, I can’t hold it in.

“How certain are you that we can pass the border guards?” My voice is sharper than I intend, edged with the kind of fear I try to mask with impatience. “I shouldn’t have trusted you. If we are caught—do you even realize how dangerous this is?”

A cobweb clings to my face, thin and sticky. I flinch, swiping it away, halting just long enough that the rhythm of our steps breaks. Flynn sighs, not turning back.

“Silence, Sol. Don’t you trust me?”

The question bites at me. “I followed you this far, didn’t I?” My words stumble as I scratch at my arm, the sting of an insect bite needling at me. When I nearly trip over a root, I catch his arm by instinct, then release it as quickly as though burned. “But perhaps you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t trust you. You’re dragging us into obvious danger. What if they shoot us?”

“They won’t,” he says evenly, “if they do not see us.”

I breathe out through my nose, the damp air thick with mildew and leaf-rot filling my lungs. “So, we have to hide? The entire time we cross?”

He glances back, just enough that the shadow of a smirk plays across his face. “What is your definition of sneak, Sol? Of course we hide—unless you’d prefer to be locked in a cell.”

“That is certainly not part of my plan.”

“Oh, good. At last, you admit to having one.” His tone is dry as tinder.

“Stop it. Why can’t we just use the main gate?”

“Are you not thinking?” He lowers his voice as though scolding a child. “The main gate swarms with guards—double what patrol this stretch. And it admits only royalty.”

I stomp my foot in frustration, the sharp crack of twig beneath my heel echoing too loudly, making me flinch at my own carelessness. “Fine. So what then? Wait for a miracle?”

“Patience, Sol.”

We stop at last in a dense thicket. The moonlight has shifted, spilling pale light just enough to illuminate what rises before us: the wall. A slab of stone and concrete, scarred by time, tall and unyielding. Vines coil through its cracks like veins, as though nature itself has been conspiring for centuries to reclaim it. It looms, cold and unmovable, a barrier that feels more ancient than the kingdom it divides.

Flynn studies me, his expression unreadable in the shadows. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

I straighten, hugging myself tighter. “No. I’m only… uncomfortable in forests at night.”

“I find them calming.”

I scoff, ready to reply, but a sudden sting interrupts me—sharp needles from the shrub pricking my skin. I wince, hissing in pain.

He’s at my side instantly, grasping my wrist, pressing the wound so the blood beads. “For a servant, your skin is too soft,” he murmurs, almost in wonder.

I roll my eyes, tugging free. “What should I do when I’m pricked? Laugh?”

His mouth twitches—amusement, but quickly replaced by something sharper. “Unusual. Servants don’t often keep skin like this. Perhaps the late King was… taking good care of you?”

His words unsettle me, though I can’t say why. I pull away. “We should focus.”

Flynn nods, clearing his throat, his voice resuming that matter-of-fact tone. “At night, patrols thin in this sector. Only a handful of guards. But they are sharp. They hear everything. One misstep—”

“I understand.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve crossed before. I found a way. A hole in the wall.”

My head snaps toward him. “A hole?”

“Not mine. Old. Hidden. Perhaps meant for someone else who wanted to pass as we do. The guards don’t know of it.”

“Someone built it?” I whisper. “Who?”

“Not our concern.” He shrugs, though his eyes flick with unease. “What matters is that it exists.”

I open my mouth to argue further, but a sound slices through the quiet—snapping twigs, voices carried on the wind. Guards.

“Down,” Flynn breathes.

We drop into the shrubs, pressing ourselves against the damp earth. Two voices drift closer, casual, careless.

“…the ball. Have you heard?”

The rest dissolves into laughter. My heart thunders in my ears, drowning the words. And then—a flicker of movement in the grass near my hand. A snake. Thin, sinuous, sliding across the soil. A squeal escapes my lips before I can strangle it.

Flynn’s eyes widen. His finger presses to his mouth in a desperate plea for silence.

The guards fall quiet. One mutters, “Did you hear that?”

Steps crunch nearer.

Flynn exhales through his teeth. “Run,” he whispers. “Find the hole.”

I shake my head violently. “I don’t know where—”

“The vines,” he hisses. “It hides behind the vines. Feel for the gap. Go.”

I hesitate, fear locking my limbs. His face hardens. “Go!”

I hesitate, my breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat, but the sound of footsteps crunching closer forces me to act. The guard is coming, and every instinct tells me that I cannot be here when his eyes sweep this part of the forest. I don’t want to get caught. I don’t want to be the reason both of us are dragged away in chains.

“You will follow,” I whisper urgently, my voice trembling but firm in intention.

“Of course, Sol. I will,” Flynn replies, and though he says it evenly, I can feel the weight of his words resting against my uncertainty.

I scurry toward the nearest tree, its trunk broad and cloaked in a veil of brambles. The leaves shuffle loudly under my hurried movements, betraying me. The sound seems too large, too obvious, and the guard responds instantly, shifting his direction toward us. My stomach twists in panic, but before I can even think of what to do next, Flynn rises deliberately from his crouched position. His sudden presence draws the guard’s attention in full, startling him enough that the barrel of his gun is raised to Flynn’s face.

“Sir!” Flynn calls out, his voice pitched with just the right urgency, loud enough to distract but not frantic.

The guard squints at him, his gun wavering before lowering slightly. He studies Flynn’s posture, the calm way he holds his hands apart. “What are you doing here?”

Flynn tilts his head, adopting a strange ease, as though the situation is perfectly natural. “I am merely looking for my pet. A cat. Have you seen it?”

A frown twists my face as I crawl further into the shadows, moving out of sight line by sight line. A cat? That’s his excuse? I almost scoff, though I know it’s clever in its own way. Something small, unimportant, a harmless explanation. But still—do I look like a cat?

The guard narrows his eyes. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir. I saw it run this way.” Flynn gestures toward the thicket behind him. His expression is one of worry, carefully placed, a man searching for something dear to him.

“I haven’t seen anything.”

“What a shame. It’s my favorite pet,” Flynn replies smoothly. His voice is almost wistful, though I can hear the strain underneath. “Are you sure you haven’t seen it?”

The guard’s tone hardens. “You need to leave. You are not permitted beyond this perimeter. Have you been here before?”

“I haven’t, sir. This is my first time,” Flynn answers with practiced certainty.

The guard pauses, then gestures sharply. “Come with me.”

My breath hitches. A gasp escapes me before I can contain it, my fear slipping free. My foot presses down on a bed of twigs that snap louder than thunder in this tense silence. The guard stiffens.

“Sir—”

“What was that?” His voice rises, sharper now, laced with suspicion.

I freeze, eyes wide.

Flynn steps forward quickly, voice rising to cover me. “That is probably my pet, sir. It’s hiding from me.”

The guard doesn’t fully lower his suspicion, but his gaze swivels back toward Flynn. It’s the moment I need. I dart silently toward the border, deeper into the darker shadows of the forest. The thick canopy shields me, turning the undergrowth into a patchwork of hiding places. Here, at least, I am concealed, and though my heart thunders, the guard’s line of sight cannot reach me.

Flynn’s voice fades, the tension between him and the guard lost in the muffled distance as I press closer to the wall of the border. The barrier towers above me, old concrete half-swallowed by time. Thick vines crawl across its surface like veins, clinging possessively, disguising its scars. My hands rise instinctively, brushing against the rough tendrils as if they might whisper their secrets.

Where is the hole Flynn spoke of? How would I even recognize it? My palms trace over the scratchy lattice of stems, pressing, tugging, searching. Some vines cling tightly to solid concrete, firm and unyielding. Others give way slightly, pliant beneath my fingers. Yet nothing seems different enough, nothing feels like a passage. Frustration gnaws at me.

I pause, forcing myself to think. If I were the one who had created such a hole, would I want it obvious? No. I would keep it hidden, disguised so thoroughly that even a searching hand might dismiss it. But how? This wall is watched, patrolled. If the guards haven’t discovered it yet, something must be keeping it cleverly veiled.

And then it strikes me—like the snap of a lock releasing.

My gaze lifts. I retrace the steps where my hand had brushed across something softer than stone, something that had seemed too pliant to belong to the wall. Slowly, cautiously, I press my palm against that patch again. The cold vines shift under my touch, and this time, my hand pushes through. My stomach drops. The surface sinks beneath my pressure, not stone at all. Not wall.

Behind the vines lies emptiness. A gap. A hole.

Flynn was right—it is camouflaged. Nature itself has cloaked it, layering thick green tendrils until no human eye would think to question it.

I push harder, my heart hammering as the vines part reluctantly. The opening is narrow, barely enough for one person, and I have to fight through the entangled stems to widen it. My blade flashes briefly as I cut away the stubborn tendrils, each snap of the vine echoing like a declaration of freedom. Then, at last, I see it: the forest beyond.

Relief surges through me. I slip into the opening, forcing my body through the gap until I tumble awkwardly onto the other side. The ground is damp and unkind, knocking me flat on my back, but the sting is nothing compared to the rush of triumph coursing through me.

For a moment, I simply breathe. The air here is different—still thick with trees, but quieter, untouched. Have I truly crossed into the Kingdom of Larimar? It feels like I have. The border behind me feels distant, though I am only a few steps away.

I rise, brushing dirt and vines from my arms, and turn back toward the hole. My chest tightens as I wait, dread whispering every cruel possibility. What if Flynn doesn’t come? What if he’s caught, dragged away, punished for trying to help me?

Then, at last, the vines stir. Flynn emerges, brushing leaves from his shoulders. Relief nearly buckles my knees.

“You’re late,” I say, though the words are softer than my heart, my tone carrying what I cannot confess—that I am glad he made it through.

He smirks faintly, though his voice carries a weary edge. “Oh, what a welcome. I was almost caught. Thought they’d lock me up.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology slips out before I can stop it. I truly am.

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.” His hands carry something—cloth, folded and rough. A blanket, small but purposeful. Of course. He couldn’t resist taking something from the guards. He is a thief, after all.

“Anyway,” he continues, adjusting the bundle, “we need to move. Once we get out of this forest, we’ll be fine. The guards patrol the far side. For now, this path is safe.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, bowing my head slightly.

He tilts his head, amused. “Did you just say thank you instead of sorry, because I told you not to?”

I glare at him, though my lips twitch. “No. I meant it. Thank you, asshole.”

He chuckles, then holds the blanket out toward me. “Here. Wear this.”

I take it, confused. “Why?”

“Your hair.” His eyes linger on it. “We don’t need attention. And yours draws it. No one here has hair like that.”

“Why?”

“Because that color… it belongs to royals.”

Panic lances through me. “What do you mean? I’m not—”

“Of course you’re not,” he interrupts quickly. “You said you were a servant, and I believe you. But listen—peasants here all have dark hair. Yours is different. Uncommon. That alone makes people look twice. And if they think it means bloodlines you don’t actually carry, it’s dangerous.”

I swallow, then nod. He’s right. I pull the blanket over my hair, concealing what must never be noticed.

“Passing the borders was one thing,” Flynn says as we begin walking again. “But the ball, and the palace itself? That will be harder. Guarded from every angle. Do you have a plan?”

I shrug, my voice quieter now. “I doubted we’d even cross the border. And yet we’re here. I think… I think I have to trust you. You know this place better than I do.”

He grins, smugness written across his face, the expression of someone already savoring his own cleverness.

The forest thins as we press onward. Flynn leads with an ease that unsettles me—moving silently, turning at just the right moments, slipping past hidden dangers as though he belongs to the night. I cling to the edge of his shirt whenever I stumble, unwilling to lose his silhouette in the shadows.

At last, the trees open, and beyond them lies a view that steals my breath. A town, quiet but alive, sprawls under the faint shimmer of moonlight.

Flynn finally stops, surveying it. “Sneaking in won’t work. Too many eyes, too many walls. The only way…” He glances at me from head to toe, his gaze lingering with consideration. “…is in plain sight.”

I blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.” His smile tilts, sly and confident. “But first, we need clothes.”