Conradin's caravan marched for days, using the dense woods to conceal their trail as they pushed steadily toward the capital. They halted only to sleep, and by the time the first rays of dawn broke through the trees, the men were already on their feet, ready to move again.
The three captive women were kept bound, forced to march barefoot after their boots had been ruined during their 'escape'. Their feet bled with every step, small wood splinters digging deep into their flesh, a misery unknown in the frozen North, where the ground was always sheathed in ice. Even so, their lives had been harder long before they became Shadow Guards. They knew hunger. They knew tragedy. They knew winter. This kind of pain was nothing new.
