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.

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.