Eulah landed in the dirt of the back garden, her knees bending to absorb the shock.

She kept low, using the tall, manicured rose bushes to hide her movements as she sprinted toward the rear entrance of the stables.

She slipped through the wooden back door. The air inside smelled strongly of hay and horse sweat.

The stable boy was slumped on a stool near the front entrance, snoring softly.

Eulah moved silently. She found a massive, purebred black stallion in the third stall. She quickly unhooked his leather lead rope.

There was no time to fetch a heavy leather saddle and strap it on. Every second counted.

She grabbed a handful of the horse's coarse mane and hauled herself up. She swung her leg over, settling onto the horse's bare, slippery back.

Eulah squeezed her thighs tightly against the horse's ribs.

The stallion let out a sharp whinny and bolted.

They exploded out of the stable enclosure.

The estate guards stationed at the front gate heard the commotion. They spun around, raising their long, iron-tipped halberds to block the path.

Eulah didn't slow down. She raised the leather riding crop and brought it down hard on the horse's flank.

The stallion surged forward, its powerful front legs leaving the ground. They cleared the guards' heads by inches.

The horse's iron shoes slammed onto the cobblestone streets outside the estate, kicking up a cloud of gray dust.

The morning streets of the capital were already busy. Merchants pushing wooden carts and pedestrians carrying baskets screamed and scattered as the massive black horse tore through the narrow avenues.

The wind whipped violently against Eulah's face. It tore the pins from her hair, sending long, dark strands whipping around her face. She flattened her upper body against the horse's neck, ignoring the burning in her thighs.

Her eyes were locked on the horizon. The golden, domed roofs of the Royal Palace were getting closer.

Suddenly, at a busy intersection, a heavy wagon loaded with massive oak logs lost control. The draft horses panicked, dragging the wagon sideways, completely blocking the street.

Eulah yanked back on the leather reins with all her strength, desperately trying to force her horse to turn.

The black stallion reared up on its hind legs, letting out a terrified, ear-piercing scream.

Without a saddle or stirrups to anchor her, the violent, upward jerk destroyed Eulah's center of gravity.

She was launched off the horse's back.

She flew through the air in a terrifying arc.

Her body slammed onto the unforgiving cobblestone street. She rolled violently, her shoulders and hips taking the brutal impacts.

A sickening, blinding pain erupted from her right ankle.

It felt as if the bones had been grabbed and twisted until they snapped.

Pedestrians gasped. A crowd quickly formed a circle around the fallen noblewoman, murmuring in shock. A few reached out, offering hands to help her up.

Eulah bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard the skin split. The metallic taste of fresh blood flooded her mouth, shocking her brain past the haze of agony.

She slapped away the hands reaching for her.

She pressed her palms flat against the rough stones and pushed herself up.

The moment she put weight on her right foot, a tearing, agonizing pain shot up her leg. Her knee buckled. She almost collapsed back into the dirt.

Cold sweat instantly drenched the back of her riding shirt. It stuck to her skin like ice.

But when she looked up, her eyes were feral. Like a cornered wolf.

The heavy, bronze bell in the palace clock tower began to toll.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

Time was up. Daryl was arriving.

Eulah dragged her useless right leg behind her. She limped forward. Every single step caused the broken bones in her ankle to grind against each other. It was a suffocating, nauseating torture.

She passed a fruit vendor's stall. She reached out and snatched a thick, sturdy wooden pole used to prop up the awning.

The vendor opened his mouth to yell at her.

Eulah reached up, her fingers gripping the heavy, jewel-encrusted silver clasp at the collar of her riding habit. With a violent yank, she tore it free, ripping the fabric, and threw the expensive piece of jewelry directly at his chest. The man caught the glittering silver and snapped his mouth shut.

She used the pole as a crutch. Her expensive riding habit was torn, covered in street grime and her own blood. She looked like a beggar, but the sheer, terrifying aura radiating from her made the crowd part like the sea.

At the end of the wide avenue, the massive, black iron gates of the Royal Palace loomed.

And rolling slowly toward those gates was a heavily armored convoy of carriages, each bearing the silver wolf crest of the Langley family.

Eulah dropped the wooden pole. It clattered loudly against the cobblestones.

She took a deep breath, forcing her brain to completely shut off the pain signals screaming from her right ankle.

She exploded forward.

She dragged her broken leg, throwing her entire body weight toward the front of the moving convoy.

The massive, armored warhorses pulling the lead carriage panicked at the sudden human figure darting into their path. They reared up, their iron-shod hooves kicking at the air.

The carriage driver cursed loudly, hauling back on the thick leather reins with all his might. The heavy wooden wheels locked, skidding over the stones. The carriage lurched to a violent halt, stopping less than two feet from Eulah's face.

Instantly, the heavily armed guards flanking the convoy drew their longswords. The sharp shing of steel filled the air as they formed a tight circle around her.

Flint Wright, the Chief Guard, spurred his horse forward. He pointed the razor-sharp tip of his sword directly at Eulah's throat.

"Step back, assassin!" Flint barked, his voice cold and commanding. "Move, or I will cut you down where you stand!"

Eulah completely ignored the deadly blade resting against her windpipe.

She tilted her head up, making sure the bright morning sun fully illuminated her dirt-streaked, blood-splattered face.

She opened her mouth and screamed Daryl's name. She screamed it so loudly her vocal cords burned, her voice echoing down the entire avenue.

The early morning crowd-merchants, minor nobles, and commoners-froze. They turned their heads, drawn like magnets to the sudden chaos.

Eulah forced her eyes wide. She let tears well up and spill over her lashes. She perfectly mimicked the manic, desperate look of a woman driven insane by unrequited love.

"Lord Langley!" she wailed, her voice trembling with manufactured desperation. "I threw myself from my horse just to catch a glimpse of you! You cannot ignore me!"

Whispers erupted from the gathering crowd. Someone pointed a finger.

"Is that... is that the Duke's daughter? Eulah Merrill?"

The gossip spread like wildfire. The murmurs grew into a loud, buzzing hum of scandalized disbelief.

Flint's hand hesitated. His sword wavered slightly. He was trained to kill assassins, but butchering a high-ranking Duke's daughter in the middle of the street was a political nightmare he wasn't prepared to handle.

Inside the carriage, a hand reached out.

It was clad in a black leather glove. The fingers slowly pushed aside the heavy, black velvet curtain covering the window.

Lord Daryl Langley's face appeared in the shadows.

His features were sharp, carved from marble. He looked utterly cold, utterly devoid of human emotion. His grayish-blue eyes stared down at Eulah with the detached calculation of a predator assessing a very annoying insect.

Daryl's gaze swept over her. He noted the thin, bleeding scratch on her neck from Flint's sword. He noted the unnatural, sickening angle of her right ankle.

"What is the meaning of this?" Daryl asked. His voice was low, flat, and carried effortlessly over the noise of the crowd.

Eulah met his terrifying gaze. She pressed both hands over her heart, leaning into the ridiculous, lovesick persona.

"Your bravery on the battlefield has stolen my soul, My Lord!" she cried out, her voice cracking perfectly. "I cannot sleep! I cannot eat! I had to stop you, even if it cost me my life!"

In the crowd, several noblewomen gasped in horror, snapping their silk fans open to hide their flushed, embarrassed faces. It was social suicide.

Daryl's dark eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown. He was clearly disgusted by this pathetic, public display.

"Flint," Daryl ordered, his tone dripping with ice. "Drag this madwoman away. Do not delay my audience with the King."

Flint immediately swung down from his horse. He reached out, his large hands aiming to grab Eulah by the arms and haul her off the street.

Eulah watched his hands move.

The second before Flint touched her, she let all the tension drop from her muscles. She went completely limp, like a puppet with its strings cut.

She angled her fall perfectly, dodging Flint's grasp.

Her upper body slammed hard against the wooden step attached to the carriage door.

The impact jarred her broken right ankle.

A genuine, blood-curdling scream ripped from her throat. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving straight into her brain.

She dug her fingernails into the polished wood of the carriage doorframe, clinging to it like a lifeline. She lifted her tear-stained, dirt-covered face and looked desperately into the dark carriage.

Eulah's agonizing scream made Flint flinch. His hands froze in mid-air for a fraction of a second.

That single second was all Eulah needed.

Her fingers, white-knuckled and desperate, gripped the edge of the carriage doorframe. She ignored the blinding pain radiating from her ankle and threw her upper body weight forward, rolling violently inward.

She tumbled into the spacious, luxurious interior of the carriage, bringing the smell of street dust, horse sweat, and fresh blood with her.

The heavy carriage door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the loud gasps of the crowd outside.

Daryl was momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of the move.

But his battlefield reflexes were faster than thought.

Before Eulah could even push herself up from the plush velvet floorboards, Daryl lunged.

His large, powerful hand clamped around her throat.

He slammed her backward. Eulah's spine hit the polished walnut paneling of the carriage wall with a loud thud.

Daryl leaned over her, his massive frame blocking out the little light coming through the curtains. His grayish-blue eyes were no longer cold; they were blazing with lethal intent.

The space inside the carriage was suddenly suffocating. Their bodies were forced together, separated by less than six inches.

Eulah's airway was crushed. She was forced to tilt her head back, her mouth opening as she struggled to pull in a breath.

But the moment the door had closed, the pathetic, lovesick mask vanished from her face.

The tears stopped. The trembling ceased. Her eyes, previously wide with fake adoration, narrowed into sharp, icy daggers that stabbed straight back into Daryl's furious gaze.

The instantaneous, terrifying shift in her demeanor caught Daryl off guard. The fingers tightening around her windpipe loosened by a millimeter.

Eulah didn't try to pry his hand off her neck. Instead, she reached up and grabbed his thick wrist with both of her hands, anchoring herself to him.

She opened her mouth and spoke in a breathless, barely audible whisper.

"Thirty repeating crossbowmen. Hidden in the rafters of the West Corridor."

Daryl's body went completely rigid. The sheer impossibility of her words struck him like a physical blow. The West Corridor was supposed to be secure, swept by his own vanguard just hours prior.

Eulah didn't blink, her gaze boring into his. "They are positioned above the third pillar. They have the high ground and armor-piercing bolts," she hissed, her words rushing out in a desperate, urgent stream. "If you march in standard formation, you will be slaughtered before you reach the throne room."

The pupils of Daryl's eyes contracted into tiny, black pinpricks. The air in the carriage seemed to freeze.

The hand around Eulah's throat tightened again, the knuckles turning stark white as his combat instincts warred with this sudden, highly classified intelligence.

"Who sent you?" Daryl demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in his chest.

Eulah swallowed hard against the crushing pressure on her throat. The corners of her mouth twitched up into a weak, mocking smile.

"I just... didn't want to see a hero die like a slaughtered pig," she rasped.

Outside, a heavy fist pounded against the carriage door.

"My Lord!" Flint yelled, his voice muffled by the thick wood. "Do you need me to break the door down?"

Instantly, Eulah flipped the switch.

Her face crumpled. She let out a loud, dramatic sob. "Please, General! Have mercy on my poor heart!" she wailed, making sure her voice was loud enough to pierce the carriage walls.

Daryl stared down at her. He watched her seamlessly transition from a cold-blooded intelligence operative back into a hysterical fangirl. His eyes darkened with a complex mix of suspicion and shock.

He weighed his options in a split second.

He abruptly released her throat.

Daryl reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulled out a pristine, white silk handkerchief. He wiped his leather glove with slow, deliberate disgust, as if touching her had contaminated him.

"Flint," Daryl commanded, his voice returning to its icy, emotionless baseline. "Escort this 'frightened' lady back to the Duke's estate immediately."

The carriage door was yanked open from the outside. Bright sunlight flooded the dim interior.

Eulah slumped onto the carriage step. She pressed her dirty hands over her face, her shoulders shaking as she faked a devastating bout of weeping.

Flint grabbed her by the arms and hauled her up, dragging her away from the convoy.

Just before she was turned around, Eulah peeked through the gaps in her fingers. She shot Daryl one last, meaningful look.

Don't die.