The rhythmic clip-clop of horses' hooves echoed along the dirt road, followed by an occasional “nnnrrrr” of complaint and punctuated by the sharp huff of exertion from the animals. Leather harnesses creaked under strain, and the wheels of the wagons groaned softly against the uneven ground as the caravan trudged forward.

  Atop a craggy cliff overlooking the path, a motley crew of bandits lay in wait, their eyes glinting with anticipation. The setting sun cast long shadows across the rocky terrain, painting the scene in hues of gold and crimson.

  "See? I told you they'd come this way, Draven. I did good, right? Right?" A small, jittery man with a mouth full of missing teeth grinned up at his leader, eyes wide with hope for approval. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the frayed edges of his tattered cloak.

  Draven, a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp features and piercing eyes that seemed to strip away all pretense, looked down at the caravan. A wide grin spread across his face as he placed a firm hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "Yeah, you did good, Ratty. You did real good." He let out a hearty laugh, then licked his lips, tasting victory. His eyes narrowed as he counted the wagons, estimating their potential haul.

  Turning to address the group of nearly two dozen bandits, Draven spread his arms wide. The assorted cutthroats and thieves quieted, their attention fixed on their leader. "Lads and ladies, our boy Ratty here's got us a damn fine score. So, what do you think we do next?"

  "We attack!" the group cried out, their voices a mix of excitement and bloodlust.

  Draven’s face darkened. “No, you idiots! We'd die if we did that. According to Ratty, they've got someone with the power of Quill down there. Do you want to deal with that magic?“ He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The mention of a Quill user sent a ripple of unease through the group. He turned to the three women standing apart. “Ladiana, Yellow Lips, Trata, you three ladies, be so kind as to come here.“

  The women exchanged fleeting glances, their faces clouded with fear and uncertainty. One shuffled her feet nervously, her gaze darting to the ground. Another clutched the edge of her tattered cloak, fingers trembling as she gripped the fabric tighter. A third swallowed hard, her breath shallow and uneven. None dared to step forward, the weight of the moment pressing down on them.

  One of them seemed to summon enough courage to let out a whisper, her voice barely audible. "But... the Quill..."

  Draven rolled his eyes, rubbing his forehead as he arched his back and let out a long sigh. Suddenly, he snapped forward, bellowing in frustration, "Bitches, get over here now!" His voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Unless you want the boys taking turns with you instead of having your pockets filled with silver and gold!"

  "Y-yes!" the woman stammered, rushing toward him in a scramble born of fear and urgency.

  As they stood before him, Draven's eyes swept over them, his lips curling into a thoughtful hum as his hand went to his chin. “Yes, you're pretty enough,” he muttered, his gaze sharp. The women weren't stunningly beautiful, but they had a rough sort of attraction.

  “Ladiana, you smell nice,” Ratty said with a sly grin, his voice oily. The first woman stiffened, her hand twitching at her side as if debating whether to strike him. She might have stepped back, but Draven pushed the smaller man aside with a firm shove, silencing him with a cold glare.

  Ladiana shifted uneasily under the scrutiny, her tangled black hair hanging in uneven strands around her face. Her pale blue eyes darted nervously, never settling, but the firm set of her jaw hinted at a resilience forged through hardship. Whatever she'd endured had shaped a tempered will, stronger than most, even if her wary stance betrayed a lingering fear.

  Beside her, the second woman stood with her arms crossed. Her compact, athletic frame showed the life of a woman who worked hard every day. Burn scars marred her forearms, further testament to a hard life, while stray wisps of chestnut-colored hair stuck to her sweat-soaked skin.

  The third woman stood slightly apart from the others. Her olive skin was smudged with dirt, but it was her lips that drew the attention of others—a garish, uneven coat of yellow coloring smeared across them. Whatever she’d used, it wasn’t proper lipstick. Probably some concoction scraped together from flower petals or crushed roots. It was decent enough and had earned her the name she went by.

  Their faces were etched with exhaustion, eyes wide with uncertainty and fear. But Draven knew they held more than what appeared on the surface. These women had been driven here, just like the rest of the bandits. Survival took a certain something—intelligence, strength, cunning, whatever it might be. They'd lived this long without selling their bodies, which meant they'd outlasted those who'd died along the way. They were survivors.

  “You three aren't quite eye-catching enough in these rags to catch the guards' attention,” he mused. “But we can fix that.”

  “Okay, rip here, here, and here,” he told them, gesturing to a few strategic spots to maximize their allure.

  The women exchanged nervous glances once more, moving at a snail-like pace.

  Draven's eyes narrowed, watching them with growing impatience. Their hesitation grated on him. With a growl, he took a step forward, his hands moving swiftly. He grabbed Ladiana by the chin, his grip iron-tight, forcing her to meet his cold, unblinking gaze.

  "You sure you're still up for this, Ladiana?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

  He pulled her in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "If you can't handle this, you won’t get paid. Your kid will starve—not because you couldn't do your job, but because those guards down there will slit your throat without a second thought. They won’t show mercy. Don't forget: you're one of us. Like it or not, you begged me for a job. Well, here it is and honestly it aint a bad one im not asking you to sleep with them just seduce them so we can kill them in a way that wont get us killed."

  His voice dropped further, low enough for only her to hear, each word striking at her heart. "And if you try to pocket any loot without having done a damn thing, the boys will use it as an excuse to have their fun with you. So, choose now: get it together, or just be a damn whore."

  Ladiana nodded slightly. "I'm up for it. Please don't kick me away—I need this," she said, her voice shaking.

  “Then stop hesitating,” Draven said, not waiting for a response. He began tearing at their clothes ruthlessly, each rip swift and calculated. The men watching felt their mouths go dry, eyes widening at the display. One man, overcome, began to unbuckle his trousers.

  "I swear," Draven growled, not even turning around, "if you pull your pants down, I’ll fucking cut off what you’re thinking with." The man hastily sat back down, swallowing hard.

  Draven glanced at the group, his gaze sweeping over the cutthroats with a look that dared anyone to object. The men avoided his eyes—one looked down, another whistled aimlessly, and one even pretended to fiddle with a rock. Satisfied, Draven returned to his task.

  When he finished, the women stood before him, their clothing torn just enough to reveal skin—vulnerable and tempting, just the way he needed. “Perfect,” he said, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “It’ll be dark soon, and they’ll want to rest. You three will make them stop a bit sooner. The perverts will want to bed you, and the decent ones will pity you and want to help.”

  He licked his lips and rubbed his fingers together as if imagining something in his hand. “I can almost taste the gold already.”

  The women exchanged fleeting glances, their faces betraying fear and grim resolve. One let out a quiet, bitter sigh. Another clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Draven caught the gestures from the corner of his eye, his jaw tightening.

  They didn’t have to like it—none of them did—but they had to understand the stakes. The men were used to this life; these women were not. Refusing wasn’t an option. Neither was failure.

  A member of the Quill tribe rode in the caravan, and the haul promised to be immense. One mistake, one hesitation, and it could all collapse. Draven’s fist tightened until his knuckles turned white. If harshness was what it took to ensure survival, so be it. Pride and emotions could heal in time. Death could not.

  The soft rustling of grass mingled with the gentle nickering of horses as they grazed at the edge of the camp. Crickets chirped in the gathering darkness, occasionally punctuated by the low murmur of guards' voices and the crackling song of the campfire.

  The campfire’s glow wavered in the cool night breeze, casting shadows that danced across the clustered wagons and weary guards. Ladiana, Yellow Lips, and Trata lingered at the edge of the firelight, hesitating just long enough for a few heads to turn their way. Their steps were careful and calculated, mixing just the right touch of timidity and desperation to sell the illusion.

  A faint cough from Ladiana broke the guards’ murmured conversations. Heads turned fully now, eyes narrowing as they tried to make sense of the figures emerging from the darkness.

  “Did you hear something?” a guard asked, his voice low.

  The cough was faint, almost swallowed by the crackling fire.

  “Eh, your head’s playing tricks on you,” another guard muttered. “Must have just been the wind.”

  Ladiana's cough was soft, yet it was enough to make one of the more vigilant guards glance up from where he was sharpening a blade.

  The nearest guard to the women tensed for a moment, standing from the log he'd been resting on, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. The sound was so soft—so insignificant—that he quickly relaxed, shaking his head with a small, irritated gesture. Just the wind, as one of his companions had said. Or maybe another cricket’s call, he told himself.

  Before he sat back down, the guard squinted toward the source of the sound and noticed the women emerging from the shadows of the trees. Their torn clothing, exposed skin... it didn’t register at first. Only when the faint rustle of fabric caught his eye did his gaze linger a moment longer, noticing how they appeared—out of place, vulnerable, like prey. Confused and filled with a stir of lust, he hesitated, but before any decision could be made, the women drew close enough for the other guards to see them.

  “H-hello?” Ladiana’s voice cracked, trembling with just the right mix of fear and exhaustion. “We... we saw your fire. Please... we’ve been traveling for days, and we’re lost. Could we—could we rest here?” Her torn clothing and dirt-smeared skin lent weight to her plea, while the cracks in her voice echoed the fatigue that had settled over the caravan.

  “Oh dear, what happened to you?” one of the merchants asked as he approached with a blanket for the trio to share. Trata would have almost thought the merchant was kind if she wasn’t so used to the lustful gaze that followed her around, the same kind of gaze the merchant was trying to hide behind his false gesture, offering a blanket barely enough to cover two of them, let alone all three. This, however, only made her shiver—not from the cold, nor from the merchant's gaze, but from Draven’s prediction. He had warned that someone would try to find a way to separate one of them and bring her to their bed.

  As Trata’s thoughts lingered on Draven’s warning, Yellow Lips stepped forward. Her voice trembled but remained steady enough to hold. “We were attacked on the road by bandits. They took everything—our coin, our supplies, even our dignity.” Her hands clutched at the frayed edges of her clothing, her knuckles whitening. “They laughed as they left us... like this.”

  Trata sniffled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We thought we’d die out there.” Her shoulders sagged, her frail appearance disarming some of the guards, who exchanged uneasy glances.

  The first guard’s eyes softened slightly, though he didn’t let down his guard entirely. “Bastards,” he muttered, his hand still resting near his sword hilt.

  A young guard sighed and tossed them a loaf of bread and a waterskin.

  “Ah, the blanket isn’t large enough. A pity. However, one of you may come with me. I have a cozy little room in one of the caravans.”

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  Everything was going just as Draven had predicted—the mixture of pity and interest was working. Even the offer of separation.

  The guards and merchants had asked some more questions, but as Draven had instructed, the women’s torn attire and carefully crafted air of fear and nervousness allowed them to dodge most inquiries. Gestures of discomfort and trembling voices spoke louder than their words, drawing lingering gazes from some and pitying looks from others.

  Time seemed to stretch and blur as the night deepened. To Ladiana, every glance felt like both a threat and an opportunity, a delicate balance between pushing their luck and maintaining the ruse.

  Yellow Lips scanned the camp, searching for any sign of the Quill tribe member Draven had warned them about. Guards moved about establishing their watch posts, with servants tending to horses and fires while merchants secured their wagons for the night.

  Movement at one of the larger wagons caught her eye. A man emerged, shrugging into robes as dark as a starless night. As the fabric settled over his shoulders, she glimpsed the crimson embroidery that flickered and coiled like living flames when he moved - delicate patterns that started at the hem and spiraled upward, growing more sparse as they ascended. Though the robe marked him as someone of significance, the fabric showed signs of frequent travel - worn spots at the elbows, dust from the road clinging to the edges.

  He paused by a stack of crates, methodically rolling up his sleeves before bending to help with the unloading. The motion revealed an intricate tattoo on his forearm, swirling patterns that seemed to shift in the flickering firelight.

  She'd heard of such markings. The Quill tribes used them as a sign of pride, showing their elemental prowess. The longer the tattoo, the higher the honor, though the extent of her knowledge was just from rumors and hearsay.

  Yellow Lips felt her heart quicken at the sight of the tattoo — a clear mark of a Quill user. Catching Ladiana's eye across the camp, she gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the wagon. Ladiana's slight incline of her head confirmed she'd received the message, but the tightness around her eyes betrayed their shared apprehension. Now they knew who to watch, who to avoid provoking.

  Night settled fully over the camp, the darkness broken only by scattered fires and the occasional torch. As guards rotated their shifts and travelers began settling in for the night, Yellow Lips caught the eye of a particularly eager young guard. In the flickering firelight, her most striking feature stood out — lips painted a bold, unmistakable yellow, the color stark against her olive skin. She leaned in close to the guard, her yellow lips nearly brushing his ear as she whispered, "It's been so long since I've felt... safe. Would you walk with me? Just to the edge of those trees there?"

  The guard gulped, mesmerized by her seductive manner. With quickened breath, he nodded dumbly, his eyes fixed on those yellow lips as he followed her into the shadows.

  "Another guard, drawn by movement in the darkness, heard what seemed to be passionate whispers followed by a wet gurgle and soft thumping against the ground. Yellow Lips' breathless voice drifted from the shadows—"Oh my... that was intense..."—and the second guard smirked, "enjoy yourself, you bastard," he muttered while turning back to his post, never suspecting the true nature of the sounds that had reached his ears."

  Moments later, a figure in the guard's armor emerged from the shadows, struggling to adjust the ill-fitting helmet. Draven cursed under his breath as he tugged at the chest plate, which hung loosely on his leaner frame. The boots, a size too small, pinched his feet with every step. He knew the disguise was far from perfect, but it would have to do. "Clean kill," he whispered to Yellow Lips and Ratty as he passed their hiding spot. Making his way cautiously through the camp, he kept his movements stiff and unnatural, hoping to pass it off as fatigue if anyone noticed.

  As Yellow Lips led her guard away, Trata had already begun to move to a secluded spot behind the supply wagons. Her fingers shook slightly as she reached for the concealed dagger at her waist. A muffled thud, a moment of nauseating guilt, and the guard didn't return. Trata emerged, her face pale but resolute, wiping her blade clean on the grass.

  Ladiana, playing her part, kept the captain engaged in conversation, spinning a tale of their fictional village's demise. Her voice quavered authentically—not entirely an act—as she recounted imagined horrors. Her eyes, however, never left the Quill user, who had moved to the main fire after finishing with the crates, his hands occasionally moving in subtle gestures as he rested.

  Draven, in his stolen uniform, edged closer to the precious cargo, all too aware of the Quill user's presence. He knew a direct confrontation would be suicide, but perhaps with the right distraction...

  He caught Ladiana's eye and gave an imperceptible nod. It was time for the next phase of the plan.

  "Captain," Ladiana whispered, her voice trembling. "I keep thinking I saw movement in the trees. The way they circled us before..." She clutched his arm, eyes wide with carefully crafted fear. "Would you check? Please? I can't bear the thought of going through that again."

  The captain frowned, his eyes scanning the shadows where Ladiana's gaze lingered. "My men would've seen something by now," he said, his tone edged with skepticism. But as her trembling fingers tightened ever so slightly on his arm, a flicker of doubt crossed his face.

  "You're probably right," Ladiana murmured, her tone shifting to reluctant trust. "You would know best…but I can't shake the feeling." She stepped back as if ready to accept his judgment, planting the seed of doubt.

  The captain hesitated, his gaze shifting to his men before Ladiana's trembling fingers tightened on his arm. Straightening, he allowed his protective instincts to override his initial wariness. "Stay close to the fire," he commanded firmly. "I’ll take a quick look." With a sharp gesture, he signaled for two guards to follow him and strode toward the perimeter.

  Trata counted heartbeats, knowing precision mattered more than speed. When enough time had passed for the captain's group to reach the perimeter, she crept toward the horses. Her dagger's pommel struck the lead animal's flank with calculated force. The horse reared with a piercing whinny, startling its companions into a panic. Supply crates toppled as the horses thrashed against their restraints.

  In the chaos, several overturned lanterns ignited scattered hay, sending flames crawling across the ground. The panicked horses only grew more frenzied at the sight of fire.

  The quill tribe member rose, hands weaving patterns that traced fire in the air as he moved to calm the chaos. From the shadows between two wagons, Draven took his shot. The lead ball caught the quill user just above the temple with a sickening crack.

  As the quill user crumpled, Draven raised his closed fist, then opened it—a signal barely visible except to those watching for it. Like a ripple through shadows, the gesture was repeated along the treeline, passing from one hidden bandit to the next. Then shadows detached themselves as bandits emerged, their war cries splitting the air. But Draven knew they weren't here to win—just to divide the guards' attention while he worked. Racing to the wagons, he began transferring the most valuable cargo his spies had identified into two specific vehicles. One remained sealed—Ratty's information suggested it held something special and it was also the one the quill user had emerged from.

  In the chaos of clashing steel and war cries, Draven worked methodically. "Gems, silks, anything light and valuable," he directed, his voice calm despite the surrounding chaos. Yellow Lips and Trata emerged from the shadows, moving with practiced precision. Yellow Lips swept smaller treasures—jewels and silks—into a sack, while Trata strained to shift heavier crates toward the wagon.

  A guard's cry pierced closer than the others. Draven's hand flew to his sling without looking up from the chest he was emptying. The lead ball struck the charging guard in the torso, staggering him. Before the guard could recover, a shadow darted in from the side.

  Ratty struck like a coiled snake, his blade slashing wildly before finding its mark. The guard collapsed with a gurgling sound, and Ratty offered Draven a crooked grin, wiping blood from his face. "Figured you'd need the help."

  Draven snorted but didn't argue, already turning back to the chest he was emptying. "Leave the grain," he snapped as Yellow Lips hesitated over a heavy sack. "Focus on the merchant's personal chest—that's where they hide the real wealth."

  The sealed wagon creaked as Trata secured its horses, sweat gleaming on her brow as she fought to calm the nervous animals. Ratty stepped over the fallen guard, taking up position by the wagon with his dagger drawn, ready for the next threat.

  Through the chaos, Draven caught glimpses of his men—some falling, others breaking away in coordinated retreat. They'd bought him three minutes. Maybe four.

  A crossbow bolt thudded into the wagon beside his head, and Draven's sling whirled twice before he loosed the lead ball into the general direction of the attack. He didn't wait to see if it connected. "Time's up!" he called sharply. "Yellow Lips, get those horses moving! Trata, whatever's in your hands is the last of it!"

  As the women scrambled onto the wagons, Ratty gave Draven a quick nod before climbing onto the second one. The sounds of battle began to shift—the bandits' war cries fading as they drew the guards deeper into the woods.

  Draven cracked the reins on the sealed wagon, the horses surging forward as the second wagon followed. Behind them, the camp was left in chaos, fires flickering against the night as the bandits melted into the darkness.

  The wagons rumbled through the darkness, wheels jolting over exposed roots and uneven ground. Draven kept the horses at a steady pace—fast enough to maintain distance, but not so quick as to risk breaking a wheel on the treacherous terrain. Every few minutes, he glanced back, watching for pursuit torches, but only darkness followed them through the trees.

  After what felt like hours of tense silence, broken only by the creak of wood and leather, Draven guided them toward a sheltered hollow he knew well. Ancient trees formed a natural barrier, their massive roots creating walls that would hide the wagons from passing eyes.

  "We'll rest the horses," he announced, his voice carrying just far enough for the second wagon to hear. "And see what we've won ourselves tonight."

  Draven jumped down from the wagon, his boots landing silently on the moss-covered ground. "Let's see what we managed to grab," he began, but stopped as a muffled sound came from the sealed wagon.

  His hand moved to his sling as he approached. The lock surrendered easily to his tools, and as the door creaked open, moonlight spilled across a woman huddled in the corner. She wore a deep blue dress of fine silk, its elaborate embroidery and careful tailoring speaking of wealth despite its current disheveled state. Dark hair fell across her face as she raised her head, revealing beautiful emerald eyes, bright with a mix of fear and defiance. A healer's satchel lay beside her.

  Draven noted her beauty for but a moment before his attention shifted to the subtle quality of the wagon's interior—cushioned benches, small trunks, and more comfort than cargo would warrant.

  "Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady. "I can explain."

  A slight grin tugged at Draven's lips as he considered the potential ransom such fine clothing might suggest. Before he could respond, Ratty called from the other wagon. "Boss, you'll want to see this. The merchant's strongbox—it's filled with Church documents."

  "Keep watch on her," Draven ordered Yellow Lips, his mind racing with possibilities. He added, his tone firm, "Oh, and if any of you boys touch her, I'll have the hand that does so."

  Draven admitted, even to himself, that the woman was a rare beauty, but his thoughts were already focused on the wealth she might bring. Finding her alongside the documents was an unplanned twist—one that would require careful handling.

  Draven strode to the second wagon where Ratty waited. The wagon's interior was crowded with their hasty plunder—silks spilled from crates, jewels glinted from hastily filled sacks, and several merchant strongboxes lay broken open. The strongbox containing the Church documents remained firm in Draven's grip, its official seals gleaming in the moonlight.

  "Right then," he called out, voice carrying to his gathered men. "Time to divide what we've earned." His eyes swept over the stolen goods, mentally calculating shares. From a pile of jewels, he selected a small pouch, testing its weight in his palm before tossing it to Yellow Lips.

  One of the newer bandits stepped forward, hand outstretched toward the pouch. "What makes them special?" he demanded, gesturing at the women.

  Draven's movement was subtle but immediate. He stepped between the man and Yellow Lips, his presence suddenly filling the small clearing. "They risked their necks inside that camp," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Played their parts perfectly. Everyone who works gets paid, and everyone who works gets their fair share." His eyes locked onto the man's. "You don't take what isn't yours. Not ever."

  The bandit's hand dropped, his bravado withering under Draven's stare. Around them, the other men nodded in approval—this was why they followed Draven. His word was iron, his fairness legendary among their kind.

  "Now those of you who've worked with me before, split the spoils fairly. If you want something specific, work it out among yourselves—you've all earned that right." Draven's voice carried authority but also respect. "For our fallen, if any of you know their families, take their shares. I'll see they get them. Those without family..." He paused. "Their portions split between you all."

  "Yes, boss," came the collective response.

  One of the men looked up from counting jewels. "What about your share, boss?"

  "Just enough to keep me fed this season," Draven replied, patting the strongbox under his arm. "The woman and these documents smell like money to me. If I'm right, I'll be getting far more than all of you. If I'm wrong..." He shrugged. "At least I won't starve."

  As the men began dividing their spoils in earnest, Ratty edged closer to Draven. "Boss, what do those Church papers say?"

  Draven broke the strongbox's seal and squinted at the document inside. "Di... divine wisdom," he muttered, finger tracing the words. "Drae... something. Churches talking about Quill tribes..." His eyes narrowed as he worked through the text. "Want to control them. Slowly. Through... reg... regulations and teaching."

  His initial grin faded into something more calculating. The Nine Churches... this wasn't some merchant's ledger or noble's love letter. This was the kind of document that got people killed.

  "Well now," he said carefully, ensuring his voice wouldn't carry beyond Ratty. "Churches plotting against the Quill tribes. Planning to take their power bit by bit." He folded the document with deliberate care. "Could be worth a fortune to the right buyer. Could also be worth our heads to the wrong one."

  Ratty's eyes widened. "What do we do, boss?"

  "We're careful," Draven said, tucking the document away. "Very careful. First..." His gaze shifted toward the sealed wagon where their other prize waited. "Let's see what our noble guest has to say for herself. Maybe she knows something about why she was traveling with these particular documents."

  Draven approached the sealed wagon again, the Church documents weighing heavy in his jacket. Yellow Lips stood guard, her namesake feature curved in a slight frown.

  The noble woman had composed herself somewhat, sitting straighter despite her disheveled appearance. Those emerald eyes followed his movement as he stepped into the wagon.

  “Your name," he said simply.

  She lifted her chin slightly. "Serena." A pause, then, almost reluctantly, "Serena Monstrous."

  QuillTome I

  End