That awkward moment when you screw up your own character's description…it was just her eye color but I'm going back and fixing it now. I am the queen of fail. Anyway, working on so many other stories (I do this to myself) and didn't work on this one, sorry! But, now it's updated and I'm trying to work out a system of what order stories will get new chapters.

When Maela was a child, she had witnessed a wolf stalking a rabbit. It was crouched low, ears flat as it locked eyes with its prey. The rabbit had been too frightened to do much else than stare at the beast. This was the predicament the Breton currently found herself in.

The "wolf" had his brown eyes locked on her, still holding his dripping blade casually in his hand. Maela could do nothing but gape and remain mesmerized in his stare. Even when the man began to move toward her, she found she couldn't will her heavy legs to step away. She was frozen in fear, just like that rabbit.

Now, all that was left was for the wolf to pounce.

The assassin stopped in front of her, a smirk curling his lips. He raised his hand to the petrified girl and brushed some ebony hair behind her ear, leaning down to whisper to her in a low growl, "Run, little rabbit."

All sense seemed to return to her, as though his words had broken some sort of spell. She pushed away from him and darted back into the hallway, his deep laugh resonating off the walls and following her as she climbed up the ladder and through the hatch. Slamming the trapdoor beneath her, Maela ran outside of the inn to where Pascal was tied to the fence. She sheathed her dagger, pulled his reins loose and mounted him, giving him a panicked kick to his ribs to break him out into a gallop.

She didn't have the courage to check for signs of pursuit, only urged the horse faster and faster, praying to every divine she could think of for protection. When the gates of Bravil loomed in the distance, Maela felt a ray of hope.

Pascal whinnied loudly in pain, collapsing to the ground and throwing Maela off his back. She rolled in the dirt a few feet away and groaned, lifting her head to see a silver arrow imbedded in her horse's flank, shining in the light of the moon.

"No," Maela scrambled to her feet, "No, please Mara, no," she began to run for the gates, the sound of a galloping horse pursuing behind her. It became closer and closer and the Breton couldn't stop the tears as she clenched her eyes shut, waiting for a blade to swing down and take off her head.

"Miss, are you alright?" A gentle voiced asked from above. Maela opened her eyes and sobbed in relief, an imperial man sat on a dark horse. His chestnut brown hair was tied behind his head and his lips were turned down in a concerned frown. He was dressed in middle-class clothing, perhaps he was a merchant of some sort, but that didn't matter to her.

"No," she cried, "Please, help me! He killed that old man and now he's after me," she ran to the imperial and grabbed his pant leg desperately, "Please, I'll do anything, just help me!"

"Milady, please slow down," the man frowned and offered her his hand, "come with me, I can bring you into the city and you can tell the captain of the guard, I'm sure they'll find somewhere safe for you to hide until they find the one responsible."

"Thank you," she took the man's hand and he lifted her onto the saddle in front of him, locking her safely to his chest while he held the reins and urged his horse into a trot. She relaxed only slightly, feeling safer now that someone else was with her, but she was still alert for any sign of the hooded assassin lurking in the shadows.

"I'm very sorry that happened to you," the man said. Maela looked up at him, meeting his kind, brown eyes as he stared down at her with pity. "That sounds like a horrible ordeal."

"I don't want to think of it any longer," she confessed, "I just want to find somewhere to hide, and forget any of this ever happened." She bit her lip, knowing she could never tell anyone that she had gone to the Inn on her own accord. How was she to explain what she was doing in that old man's room as an assassin plunged a blade into his chest?

"I understand," the imperial said, he smiled softly at her and Maela felt warmth bloom in her chest, "You must be very brave."

"No," she admitted, "I'm just very foolish." The man laughed at that, a soft, calm chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

"Funny how those two things coincide, wouldn't you agree?"

Maela smiled softly and nodded. She wished she had met more men like him over the years. He was soft and kind, she was surprised he had so readily helped her despite hearing the story. Many nowadays wouldn't have had anything to do with a woman who was running from a murderer, but he'd lifted her onto his horse without a second thought.

Maela wondered what he'd look like covered in blood. He probably wouldn't look like a gaping fish, as Heinrich had. She imagined this man would die quite elegantly, his skin slowly growing pale as he lost blood, his dark lashes fluttering shut as a single, final breath was sighed from his throat.

Her eyes widened and she looked away, covering her mouth and willing the image out of her mind. The dagger was singing to her again, begging her to unsheathe it and let it taste the life essence it so craved.

"Are you alright?" The man asked. Maela nodded quickly, running her hand through her hair with a sigh.

"I'm just very tired," she sighed, ignoring the sound coming from her waist.

Quiet, he's sure to hear you!

"It's still some time until we reach the city, perhaps you'd like to rest?"

"Yes, thank you," Maela gently leaned against the man's chest, feeling the lean muscle hidden underneath his clothes. She sighed and the man shifted to keep her from falling off the horse.

"Oh, before I forget," he said, reaching behind him into the saddlebag. Maela opened her eyes and watched as he pulled out a fur cloak. His voice dropped to a low growl and he smirk, eyes sparking with malice as he held Heinrich's cloak in front of her to see. "You forgot this at the inn, my dear."