Night~ fell quickly that fateful November day. A handful of silver stars delicately sprinkled the indigo-black sky and a myriad of unseen creatures and insects were the only ones to disturb the silence and stillness of the forest, save the occasional evening breeze. That is, until a soft groan sounded from an otherwise lifeless-looking body lain carelessly atop a thin pile of autumn leaves and small twigs.

Then—silence again.

The limp body belonged to a young, Russian boy. There were a few traces of small, blonde fuzz around his thin, chapped lips and a few pimples lined the side of his jaw: signs that he was already in the beginning, if not middle, phases of puberty.

His wispy hair fell delicately across his closed eyelids and a thin line of dried blood ran down the left side of his pale face from a rather serious-looking head wound. The long, dirty fingers on his right hand twitched as he slowly regained consciousness, but his eyelids remained unopened. Everything that had occurred that morning alone flooded his mind, adding to the excruciating migraine from which he now suffered, and he raised his hands to his throbbing temples. With another pained groan, the young Russian began to massage his head while attempting to slowly sit up and recall the events that had resulted in his current state.

He remembered running from a woman. She’d grabbed his arm in the middle of a crowded marketplace where he had been restocking his food supplies before continuing the mission he was sent on by the czar. It was apples—no, he was buying unripe peaches when he saw her. His eyes had wandered to her innocently, but she’d caught his gaze and he recalled feeling quite like she was studying him. It had felt like, perhaps, he was one of the peaches and she was trying to determine whether or not he was the peach she wanted—or the one she’d tried to find for some time.

Regardless of what the woman had thought, however, the young Russian had quickly paid for his peaches, dropped them into his rucksack, and attempted to lose her in the crowd. His fingers had wandered to his breast pocket where he kept the all-important message from the czar; it was the message that eight Elite messengers to the czar before him had failed to deliver.

Seven of the messengers were missing while one, the sixth messenger, was proclaimed dead not four months earlier. His name was Liam Federov, a twenty-year-old boy from Moscow whose parents were royal advisers to the czar and whose older brother had also been an Elite messenger still missing to the day.

All of the messengers’ journeys used different paths and yet all of their missions had been hindered indefinitely by some unknown enemies that the young Russian boy—the ninth messenger—thought about too often for his own good.

As he’d made his way through the marketplace, he had almost been certain that something he feared from the beginning of his journey was on the verge of happening. The woman at the peach stand—had she been searching for him? Would he be killed for his message as Liam had been killed? Such thoughts occupied his mind for no longer than a minute, however, when a strong hand grabbed his arm. It could have been anyone in the massive crowd, but he didn’t dare attempt to identify who had grabbed hold of his arm; instead, he’d lurched away from where the hand started to drag him and stumbled into a few people before breaking into a run.

He’d run for miles, certainly, because now his legs felt quite sore.

As he’d ran from the marketplace, he recalled not just one pursuer but at least five—all armed and shooting deadly projectiles at his feet. He remembered a few arrows that had nicked his calves and left stinging wounds, but nothing that stopped him from running. When he’d seen the forest, he thought it was what would save him. There was an infinite amount of paths he could take and he had a large enough lead on his pursuers to easily lose them. Unfortunately for the young Russian, he was unable to relieve himself of his pursuers no matter how many turns he took.

He inhaled sharply now as the wound on his head began to sting again. After the pain subsided, he closed his eyes again and recalled the final event right before he’d lost consciousness earlier that day.

He’d grown tired of running, but his pursuers seemed to gain speed the more he slowed down. He remembered growing desperate and seeing a large shrub he thought he could hide behind and pray that they passed him. As his pursuers’ fast steps grew nearer, he’d quickly debated what to do with the message from the czar. Clearly, they were after it and he was merely in their way. He considered reading it, memorizing its contents, and destroying the evidence. Or perhaps he could keep it in his breast pocket and, with any luck that his pursuers were stupid and carelessly failed to search him once they captured him, could escape and successfully deliver the message. How idyllic his hopes had been, he now laughed. In any case, he couldn’t follow through with either idea for, he clearly remembered, he’d felt a sudden blow to the left side of his head and then woke up now to find himself in near darkness, laying atop a pile of dead leaves.

The ninth messenger exhaled wearily now. Then, his intense blue eyes widening in fear, felt in his breast pocket for the czar’s message. It was gone! He cursed in Russian and desperately sifted through the leaves and twigs, knowing all the while that his efforts were in vain. His face felt hot and he punched the ground. Was this what had happened to the others? Had they been run down, knocked unconscious for their message— killed if they resisted— then taken to the wilderness to find their own way out? Was that why they were still missing? Were they just—simply—lost?

“¿Qué haces?” a sharp, female voice hissed suddenly from behind where the ninth messenger was crouched over.

He hastily turned around and immediately shielded his eyes from the bright light that someone was shining in his face, falling helplessly into the pile of leaves and twigs in doing so.