The forest that cradled Buckletow wasn’t merely trees and dirt — it was old, older than the village, older than names. Its roots stretched deep like sleeping beasts, curling beneath moss-drenched stones and half-buried bones. The air smelled of damp bark and secrets, thick with the musk of fallen leaves and a lingering chill that never quite left, even in high summer. The trees were tall and hunched, their bark like wrinkled skin, their branches reaching like crooked fingers, always watching, always whispering in the wind. Travelers who didn’t know better spoke of hearing things — voices without mouths, footsteps without feet. But locals knew better than to listen too close. They just kept their heads down and rode fast.

  Boss moved through it like he belonged there, like a shadow welcomed home.

  Boss had just returned from robbing the wealthiest man in all of Watsworth Village, pockets heavy and heart light. His black stallion, Darkie, carried him through the dense arms of the forest, its branches bending and bowing as though even the trees feared his passing. He rode easy, a man dressed in a battered off-white vest, jeans long past their prime, and boots worn but never bested. A scar marked his right shoulder, another zigzagged his left arm like a jagged trail on an old map, and a silver chain hung heavy around his neck — a black cross dangling from it, carved deep with runes in a tongue long forgotten..

  He'd almost give the air of a hero, like those old songs sung of Robby Hood, if not for the fact that he was a thief through and through. Once, long ago, he had stood on the doorstep of honor, reaching for the title of Warlock. Close, so close, he could nearly taste it. But trust is like money, a fragile coin, and he had placed his last in the wrong hand. Roudrick — his oldest friend, or so he had thought — buried a blade deep in his back, not with steel, but with thick betrayal.

  Roudrick had stolen the rank, twisting tales until the Masters believed Boss a half-breed trickster, a charlatan who'd bewitched their minds and robbed them blind. He'd been cast out, scorned and spit on, and in the quiet heart of that day, Boss thought to himself: It would've been nice, for once, to actually have that kind of power.

  And so the man the world wanted — the thief, the manipulator, the scoundrel — he became.

  "You're better off as a thief, son," the old Grandmaster had told him as the hall doors slammed shut behind him, the muffled voice continued in vain..."since you've a habit of robbing folk of their trust anyhow."

  From then on, his heart grew cold and sharp as a blade, and he learned to take what he pleased, leaving behind only shadows and regret. His silver tongue did more work than any magic ever could, and he vowed to rely on no one but himself. The path of a Warlock had been stolen from him, and he walked the path of the thief like it had always been his to walk.

  His pockets were lined now, lined deep with coin and jewel and things most men would kill for. The world spun on, and he owed it nothing. No heroes, no righteous cause, only self-made fortune and silence.

  So perhaps tonight, with a belly full of gold and no one but himself to spend it on, he'd drink his fill at Barn's Bar. Or perhaps he'd pay for the company of a woman and spend the night wrapped in warmth and sin. Or perhaps — the more likely, and the more tempting — all of the above.

  A low chuckle rumbled in his throat at the thought.

  He had no kin left to scold him. His mother, a Witch of wild renown, had raised him alone after his father — a Chieftain of great strength and pride — died on the battlefield, never knowing he'd left a son behind. His mother had woven tales of the man's greatness, of his strong jaw and proud stance, of his black hair and green eyes. And now, as the years had shaped him, those boyish cheeks had vanished, and the mirror showed her words were truth. Raven-black hair to the ear, a jaw carved in strength, shoulders broad as any warrior's shield, and the dark green of his mother's eyes to bind it all.

  But she too had gone, claimed by a sickness no magic could undo. A price, perhaps, for daring to defy the laws of nature.

  Boss reached the edge of Buckletow Village, slipping from his horse's back, tying Darkie to a limb as easy as one pleases. The night air smelled of damp earth and ale-soaked wood. He stepped into Barn's Bar, yes, Barn’s Bar looked like it had been slapped together with half-rotted planks and prayers, leaning slightly to one side like a drunk who’d forgotten which way gravity worked. The paint peeled like old scabs, the door creaked worse than a graveyard gate, and the floor groaned under every step like it hated the weight of history. But inside...inside, brimmed life. The scent hit first — thick, heady, carnival-sick. Liquor so sweet it stung the nose. Rum, gin, sugarcane spirits, all sloshing into the air with every exhale, clinging to breath and skin until it became part of a man. Boss barely flinched anymore; his senses had long since surrendered. Even when the stink soured to stale sweat and spilled ale soaking the splintered floorboards, it didn’t turn anyone’s head. Folk couldn’t smell themselves in a place like that — not when their lungs were lined with it too.

  Breathing alcohol? Indeed. It had the feel of a sin-soaked chapel. Laughter too loud, music just shy of being in tune, a barmaid’s perfume cutting sharp through the stench like wildflowers at a funeral. Neon lights sputtered and hummed, tinting the walls with a sickly glow of red and purple. Tables were always taken, games were always in play, and even the fights that broke out every now and again seemed more like dance than danger.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  It wasn’t a noble place. But it was alive. Unapologetically, unforgivingly alive.

  Locals called it “The Barn” like it was kin. Outsiders? They traveled from towns over, just for the chance to drown their lives in noise and neon, to forget themselves in its belly for a night or two.

  Boss didn’t smile much, but when he slid into his usual booth — the shadowed corner that seemed carved for him alone — something in his shoulders let go. It wasn’t peace. But it was close enough, the place dimmed as he lay claim to the shadowy corner like it was an old friend. A maid — young, but with eyes dulled from knowing better — placed a bottle of gin before him without a word.

  He stretched long under the battered old table, boots nudging the chair opposite, a silent warning to any fool who thought to sit.

  No one dared.

  Yet deep in his chest, Boss carried a storm the world never saw — a quiet war between bloodlines. Not to get him wrong- He honored his father’s people, warriors bold and proud, carved from soil and iron. But it burned him raw, knowing the same man might’ve turned away from the woman who bore his name. A witch she was, yes — but not the wicked kind. She healed what others feared. Guided lost spirits. Sat with the dead when no one else would.

  And still, the humanfolk had shunned her.

  The truth came slowly, like molasses drowned in a stone wall: it mattered not whether you were thief or Warlock, witch or chieftain’s son — the world would find a reason to hate you, especially if it was looking.

  So Boss cast off magic, like a shirt too tight at the shoulders. Refused to call spirits, to summon wind, to listen for the songs of the roots like his mother taught him. He walked with shadows instead — like a man, like a thief — and left behind the old ways that tied him to her. Even the owls, once his kin and messenger by birthright, he turned from. When one circled overhead, he’d look away. When they cried in the dark, he’d drink louder.

  He stole like a man. Lied like a man. Bled like a man. And if he could not be human in their eyes, he’d at least make the world pay in coin and sorrow for every wound they ever carved.

  Still, some bonds refuse to die quiet.

  Far off, in the silver fog of twilight, a strange owl cut through the clouds. To any ordinary eye, it looked much like any forest owl — round-eyed, sharp-beaked, and silent in flight. But beneath a careful glance, its feathers told another tale. Its wings shimmered like woven shadow, deep black threaded with streaks of violet, as though the night sky had been combed into it. A crescent of pale silver marked its forehead, glowing faintly like a sliver of distant moon. And within its gaze — deep green, sharp and watchful — flickered the color of Boss’s own eyes, a mirrored echo from bloodlines long denied.

  It moved with purpose, an enchantment folded into every beat of its wings. Clutched in its claw, a slip of parchment sealed with wax, etched with the rune of the soulbind — a mark from a tribe who knew the language of stars and owls and things older than fire.

  But fate, like pride, is as stubborn as a mule.

  As the owl neared the edge of Buckletow, its wings strained. Something unseen pressed against it — not weather, nor arrow, but resistance, born from denial. A cold wind of self-forgetting. The kind that comes when one turns from their roots.

  The owl let out a low cry, circling once over the crooked inn, over the room where Boss drowned himself in gin and memory. But he never stirred, never looked up. Never saw the flash of violet and shadow against the moonlight. Never heard the sky whisper his name in feathers.

  With a mournful tilt, the owl veered off into the woods, message still held fast — as if waiting for the day the door might open again.

  The stories about Boss were plenty, and none pleasant enough for company so everyone avoided him, some with pride, and some with pity.

  From across the bar, a man's voice cut through the low murmur.

  "The Prince of Great Land's gone and marched himself off to the Dragon's den."

  Boss lifted his dark brow, the gin hovering at his lips. Three men sat not far, hunched in quiet awe over the tale.

  "But that be suicide!," one muttered, his accent thick and voice tight with dread.

  "He be gettin' 'imself killed!" the last spoke.

  "Aye, he's gone to get himself killed, sure enough," another chimed, just as a ruckus stirred the streets outside.

  "And what of the Queen? Poor woman must be drowning in grief, knowing her son's thrown his life away."

  "It's not like he'll be coming back," the last one said, voice sharper than the others, like he'd accepted the funeral long before the body was lost. "And with no heir to the throne, it won't be long before every kingdom sets its sights on Great Land."

  Prince Mikael. Foolish, brave, or both...

  Boss clicked his tongue, shaking his head. Either the lad was daft, or he was after something worth more than gold and crowns combined. Nothing else would make a man face down Victoria, the dragon.

  He scratched the scruff along his chin, weighing the thought. No gold in this world was worth gambling his life, not unless proof was laid before his eyes. Until then, he'd stay right where he was, in the old corner of the old bar, listening to the old world spin out its stories.

  The stained glass window to his left wept with rain, and the evening settled deeper into itself.

  With a grin that never quite reached his eyes, Boss raised a hand for three more gins.

  The night was young, and the world owed him one good drink, at the very least.

  RIP Chapter 3 cuz that's the last solid drink Boss is ever gonna get.

  And then there's Victoria... the mask, the monster, the misery-I-I mean....mystery...