THE DELIVERER'S DESTINY

Chapter 1, Part 2 - Annabella

Just outside Brittgard, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

The sun was just beginning to set, disappearing behind the treetops and bathing the forest in fading, golden light. Off in the distance, the snow-capped peak of Englecon Mountain was under the illusion of being on fire as the sun's rays struck it. Leaves from the dying trees fluttered down from above, tugged free from their perches to be scattered across the forest floor. It was the start of the season of death, and yet the forest was alive with vibrant colours.

It was fleeting, Annabella LaKline reminded herself as she hurried through the forest. Soon enough, the colours would fade and she would again have to face the ugly backside of winter. Winters in Desmond were always drab and frighteningly cold, giving off a desolate chill she always struggled to shrug off even when spring resurfaced.

Currently, however, winter was the least of her worries.

As she walked — it was more of a jog — her fingers brushed the pummel of the sword on her left hip. Her hand ached to draw it. Not yet, she told herself firmly, breathing in the cool breeze and never slowing her hurried pace. She flipped her long braid back over her shoulder, resisting the urge to turn around. She knew someone was following her; the footsteps crunching the undergrowth belonged to no animal.

Had she been spotted? So soon? She had hoped to reach Sarum without any issues, but things didn't often go her way. She could have sworn, though, that one of Motch's squadrons would have been much stealthier than her current pursuer, especially one that dared to tail one of the crown's most feared Illegals.

She had a distinct idea about who was behind her. It did not stop her from closing her hand around the hilt of her sword.

"Bell—"

She spun, sword drawn and swinging with deadly precision. The young man behind her was visibly startled, hands out, frozen with wide blue eyes and her sword at his neck. Annabella held the sword firmly just inches from his skin, letting her eyes narrow coldly.

"You could have lost your fingers, Luke Reiter."

He took a breath, lowering his hands. "Bella," he began.

"Don't call me that." She shoved her sword back into its scabbard with a bit more force than necessary. "You know I hate it." Truthfully, she would have rather faced down a squadron of Motch's soldiers. It was more bearable than facing down the mama's boy before her. She knew why he had followed her.

"Fine." Luke folded his arms across his chest. "Annabella. Please, listen to reason. You're going to get yourself killed."

"Then why are you following me? You're the one who seems to fancy hiding behind your mother's skirts. Less chance of losing your head."

He merely huffed through his nose, but she knew she had wounded his pride. "You know why."

She studied the young man before her. He was just shy of nineteen, a few years older than she, with a muscular build and dazzling sapphire blue eyes. His blond hair was cut short, and patchy stubble lined his jaw where he was desperately trying to grow a beard. Once, she had found him attractive. Now she only found him desperate. "Ah, yes. Because you love me." She hadn't meant to say it so callously, but she let it be. She couldn't afford to let him follow her or pull her back to Brittgard. He had to let her go and move on.

"You doubt that," he said, searching her eyes. "Why do you doubt that?"

"Nobody loves me, Luke. No one can or should risk it." Any emotions she might have felt she smothered with apathy. It was getting easier and easier to do that. "I'm sorry for letting you think you could."