PARIS, 1793

Philippe Fitzgerald couldn't help but wish that his trek would last forever. It wasn't what one would term 'enjoyable'; trudging through the wilderness with the sun unleashing its hellish fury on him. However, it would certainly be easier to handle compared to the sorrowful looks he'd be welcomed home with.

The sharp crunch of the ochre leaves on the forest floor, every time he took a step sounded like the cracking of a whip against his back. Leafless trees loomed, enveloping Philippe in the deathly stillness of the forest. The only thing that ran in lightning speed in that forest was his mind, racing to find explanations to offer his parents as to why he, the primary source of income for his poverty-ridden family, had lost his job.

Try as he might, he could not bring himself to feel any remorse for what he had done. He could not feel that stabbing ache in his heart at having done what he did. His best friend, Alicio Dubois, had sternly reprimanded him when he had written him a letter expressing this sentiment. But Philippe could not help but entertain the niggling doubt that Alicio had been mildly frightened by his confession, judging by his deferential attitude when Philippe had stayed a night in his house in Nantes while journeying back to Paris.

A sudden exclamation in the distance jerked him out of his reverie. It echoed in the silence, causing Philippe to shudder. His heart pounded. Reflexively, reached for the hilt of the dagger he had hidden up his sleeve. The realization that the nobles in Bordeaux could have their assassins at work washed over him like a violent wave. They had done so before, and would not hesitate to do so again. An involuntary splutter slipped through his lips as he struggling to rein in his fear.

Philippe waited some minutes, his senses on high alert for the smallest sign. The silence of the forest seemed to weigh him down. The wind danced around him like the angel of death as he waited for an ambush.

Nothing.

Sighing, he slipped the dagger into his hand. Pulling his coat around himself tighter in an attempt to ward away the knife-like chill, he kept walking. The rasps of the leaves on the forest floor suddenly sounded to him like dying breaths.

A minute later, the sounds of the clip-clopping of hooves and men's shouts filled the air. He heard the twang of an arrow being fired. His heartbeat accelerated. A giddy rush of blood surged to his head as he brushed past the dry branches that clouded his vision and ran as fast as he could, looking back all the while.

Philippe slowed down only when the sounds faded away. He had reached a clearing—the one where he'd spent most of his childhood days playing with friends. It was ringed with frost-laden trees, all bent with age. He spotted a particularly twisted tree, its finger-like branches painfully bare. He knew that in better days, they would be concealed by thick foliage. He remembered that he'd spent many a day holed up in, shielded from his father's vision by the leaves. He had been merely fifteen when he'd left Paris; he was returning to the city that was once his home, five years later as a stranger.

He had seen the countryside through the course of his journey, teeming with rabid patriots, heads adorned with the red Liberte caps. Many a traveler had told him stories of the havoc the Revolution had caused in Paris those nights he had spent in guest houses. They challenged that he wouldn't recognize the city or its people anymore.

"Casse au-dela de la reparation," they claimed. Broken beyond repair.

But they were talking about the Paris of the clergy and the noblemen. The Paris that was bursting at the seams with the people poorer than church mice, the origin of the Revolution-- the city of change.

The clearing was his Paris. The grooming ground of a child hiding from his drunken father. And nothing had changed. It probably never would.

He jumped when he heard a woman panting profusely behind him. The rate of his heartbeat spiked, realizing that he was not alone. He turned around instinctively, brandishing his dagger in the direction of the panting woman.

The woman was on an ebony horse, holding a bow in one hand and reins in the other. An almost-empty quiver was strapped to her back. The jewel-studded rings on her fingers indicated that she was definitely not what her threadbare dress and flyaway hair suggested—a peasant girl. His eyes trailed over her face, taking in her aristocratic bearing and haughty features. Everything about her bearing suggested that she was of noble lineage. She was not particularly beautiful, but something about her struck him as fascinating. He could not point out what it was.

He realized he was staring when she cleared her throat loudly, and his eyes fell to the ground. He lowered his knife, deciding that she was not an immediate threat.

"Who are you?" she enquired. Philippe couldn't resist smiling, for her accent indicated that she was definitely not from the lower classes. His hunch had proved to be right. She was definitely nobility.

"I'm Philippe Fitzgerald, Mademoiselle," he replied, fingering the hilt of his dagger.

"Do you ride well?" she shot at him, swinging her left leg over to the right side such that she was facing him.

"I do it for a living," he said, his grin transforming into a frown as he corrected himself. "That is, I used to."

"Army?" She gazed at him from head to toe critically. He glanced at the army's mark, sewn on the left breast pocket of his coat consciously.

"Yes."

"I thought so," she mused, smiling to herself. However, her lips fell limp when she heard the crack of a branch. Her neck snapped to her right, accurately tracing the direction from which it sounded. When she turned to face him again, she was white. "Quick," she whispered to him, urgency clouding her voice, "Jump on. I'm being hunted down by Carpentier's men. I need you to ride the horse for me."

Nothing she said made sense to him. He did not know who Carpentier was. She slid towards the rear of the horse, making space for him. Even though his instincts screamed at him to decline, Philippe ignored them and complied.

"Ride as fast as you can to the city," she instructed him. There was a shift in her weight behind him. He turned around to see that her back was facing his.

Puzzled, Philippe asked, "Mademoiselle, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to shoot them down. You just keep your eyes on the path and make it to the city," she replied, not turning to him. He laughed nervously in reply and wondered about what was prompting him to do what he was going to next. Alicio had warned him about getting involved in trouble and judging by the peculiarity of the situation he was in, Philippe had a feeling this was what his friend had meant by 'trouble'.

As he slapped the reins against the horse's hide, a man's shout filled the air. "She's in the clearing!" Philippe heard him exclaim. He felt the woman stiffen against his back.

"Go," she shouted at him. Her arm lodged uncomfortably in his back when she pulled an arrow out of her quiver. The pace of her breaths quickened as the two sped away from the clearing into the dense forest that lay in front of them.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope that you are enjoying the story. I would love to know your thoughts on it :)