Victoria Tiger
"Killian," he answered, his voice flat.
"Killian," I repeated. It was an odd name, but it had weight.
"I'm Victoria Tiger," I introduced myself, hoping to stir some reaction.
"That's nice," he said without looking at me, his gaze fixed on the fire. His expression didn't change—still blank, still unreadable.
Back in the capital, when people saw me or even heard my name, they either tensed with fear, turned overly polite, or avoided eye contact. But Killian? Nothing.
"Were you sent by my mother?" I asked.
"No," he replied, now lying on the ground, eyes fixed on the starry sky.
That surprised me. "Then who sent you?"
"No one."
"O-okay," I muttered, thrown off.
Silence settled between us. Only the crackling fire broke it. He looked so relaxed, so at peace under the stars.
"Rest. We're moving in the morning," he said without opening his eyes.
We traveled for two weeks after that night, slipping through villages under robes, never lingering long. Killian bought sweets and fruits but never ate them himself. I told him stories of palace life, and he taught me more about survival.
He was strong, incredibly so. He hunted with ease and treated my wounds with care. Still, I wanted to help. There were no bows or arrows for me, so I stuck to helping roast meat or make fires.
One evening, as he prepared dinner, I asked, "Killian, can you teach me how to hunt?"
He gave me his usual blank look. "Okay."
I had no idea I'd regret asking.
After a breakfast of bread and cheese the next morning, Killian began training me. He was strict and merciless. From sunrise to nightfall, I was pushed to my limits. The pain of experiments paled compared to his training.
Weeks passed. I earned scars, bruises, and aching limbs. But I improved. A month in, I was ready.
"Killian, I'm going to hunt," I told him, filled with shaky confidence.
"Sure," he replied without hesitation.
"Huh?" I blinked. I was used to being brushed off. "Are you okay?"
"Do you want to be thrown off a cliff?" he said, deadpan.
I shut up immediately. He once actually woke me with cold water for ten days straight—just because he said he would.
Killian taught me dagger-wielding, hand-to-hand combat, and presence control. Dagger throwing was my strength. Hand-to-hand? I couldn't even land a hit on him.
"You should train and improve on your own now," he told me after a month.
He handed me a dagger to keep. Despite the hardship, I enjoyed those days. I could hunt. I felt the thrill growing.
But I noticed something. Killian was on edge. Bandits were more frequent, and he became more cautious. Still, I had faith in him. Until everything changed.
Winter came. Snow blanketed the world. We couldn't travel freely anymore—too many knights.
One night, we did something we never did—we stayed at an inn. But when I woke up, Killian was gone.
I panicked.
He always said, "Never leave without permission unless absolutely necessary."
An hour passed. Then two. Then three.
When the sun rose, hidden behind gray clouds, dread filled me. What if he was hurt? Lost? Dead? I rushed out without my cloak, ignoring the freezing wind.
I ran straight into a soldier.
He was tall, built like a mountain, with an eyepatch and a black wolf-fur coat. A warrior, through and through. Behind him, soldiers stood in formation.
He stared down at me. "Well, looks like we found the Princess."
I jumped back, drawing my dagger. He didn't flinch. He was smart—not underestimating me.
"Analyze your enemy's strengths and weaknesses," Killian had taught me.
Their strength: numbers.
I turned to run. A slash tore through my right arm.
Pain exploded through my body. Then came a kick to my chest. I hit the ground hard. My blood stained the snow red.
A boot pressed against my ribs. A soldier held up my severed arm with a grin.
"Looks like it was her travel buddy who was the strong one," someone said. "But she'll be fine."
The last thing I remembered before blacking out was the pain—and one thought:
Sorry, Killian.