Bridging the Ancient ✓

Chapter 1

The familiar ride in the back of a prison wagon is as unsettling as I remember it to be. Over every pebble and dried water puddle in the trail, the wooden wheels jump and rock, sending the wagon into an entourage of wood groaning and metal chains clanking. All the while, the interior and the exterior of this old, dusty prison wagon remains intact.

For me, the rocking back and forth of the wagon is not a problem. I rest my head against the wall and sit on the side bench, closing my eyes for only a second of reprieve. Two months ago, I felt the tug of hunger in my stomach and I didn't expect to feel that again so soon. Only months ago, but it seems like days. My company was different, they were my blood. I slept easier when they were around, huddled against me in the back of an equally grimy wagon.

In the rough nights, I can't find it in me to sleep. Wandering eyes flutter around the nearby campsites, circling the ember of flame as these people talk in such hushed tones I can only pick out a few words. They're not keeping their voices down because of us, eating the scraps they are forced to give, but for the others we may encounter. The downfall to their entire operation.

When they sleep at night, there's always someone on guard so I don't get the chance to plan our escape into the dark, if there was one to begin with. We're stuck so deep I don't contemplate it enough.

I find myself wanting to sleep but when I close my eyes, my mind wanders to the familiar horror of what got us here in the first place. Every dream, every nightmare, is filled with that memory of a courtyard turned to rubble and the unknown status of the prince-the victim in all of this. My eyes are rimmed with red, exhaustion, and I don't know how much longer I can take keeping myself awake.

Although the commotion on the trail keeps me conscious, settling into the night like a distant threat lurking in the woods, waiting to strike, the same cannot be said for my companion. He sleeps more often than I would like, he's been in better conditions and right now, he's fighting for his life against these threats.

Renit Marron, prince of Esaria, didn't know what was coming for him when that arrow shot through the trees and sank directly in his shoulder. Neither of us were prepared, that's another thought plaguing my guilt. I should have paid more attention to what was happening, I should have been the one to take that arrow. Renit is the fighter, he stands a chance. Not me.

The prince sits against the back wall of the wagon, eyes heavy lidded and strong legs stretched out before him. His weak arm, the one with the arrow piercing through on both sides, hangs limp against his thigh while the other is tucked in tight against his stomach. He's trying to stay awake but that's near impossible in the early hours of the morning-our companions outside of the wagon are preparing for the last stretch of the journey to our destination.

They continue to speak in muttered tones, a voice I recognize and others I don't. A voice I so desperately want to shake the source of and slap across the cheek a few times for being so foolish to join this cause at the beginning-and to take us instead of offering the privilege to go free.

Renit slouches, his head bobbing back and forth. He stares at nothing and no one, the common trend ever since that arrow found itself in him. The looming ghost of infection hovers over us and I desperately need, more than anything, for him to make it to our destination. There I might be able to convince the others to heal him-if they have a healer present. The lack of one sits like a rock in my stomach. A healer is Renit's only hope of survival, we don't have curative supplies to clean up the wound or stitch the remnants of his skin back together. The only thing I can do is hope that these people-whoever they are-whatever they consider themselves, are kind enough to keep the prince alive. If that's the whole premise of this operation then they have to.