Shades of crimson and copper danced together in the clay bowl, blending into a rich, velvety hue. Serena tilted the bowl slightly, her emerald eyes studying the mixture as it clung to the sides before sliding back down, leaving faint streaks of color in its wake. A sweet, earthy scent of roots mingled with fresh herbs, carrying the damp, green aroma of grass after a morning drizzle she’d added for stability.

  Serena dipped a fine-bristled brush into the dye with a delicate and slow movement, twisting it lightly to gather just the right amount. The mixture clung to the brush like liquid silk. Her free hand absently rested on her swollen belly, where her own child grew each day.

  Her gaze shifted to the child sitting before her, a tiny figure with pale ivory skin framed by silvery-white hair that shimmered like moonlight. The strands seemed almost weightless as they moved in the morning breeze, catching the light in fleeting, opalescent hues. Serena reached forward, brushing the girl’s hair aside to expose a small section near her temple.

  “Hold still, Whisper,” Serena murmured, her voice gentle but firm. The toddler tilted her head slightly, unusual violet eyes tracking the brush’s movement with the attention a child gave things they found of interest. Then, as if reaching for something unseen, her small hand reached out to grasp at empty air. Serena smiled faintly at the familiar gesture she had grown accustomed to from this child.

  She stroked the brush against the strands, leaving behind a faint trail of rose-pink, like dawn’s first blush creeping across winter clouds. Each stroke added another ribbon of color, weaving through the silver in delicate, deliberate patterns.

  Whisper giggled suddenly, reaching up again at nothing, her movement causing the brush to leave an uneven streak.

  “Hey!” Serena laughed, the sound warm and musical. “I told you to hold still, little one. Just a few more strands left.” She sighed, though her smile never faded. “Now I have to fix this.”

  Her fingers ran through the streaked hair, the warmth of her touch softening the error, blending it until it looked intentional. Three months of practice had made her quite skilled at these corrections.

  “There,” she whispered, stepping back to admire her work. Delicate ribbons of rose-pink wove through the silvery strands like threads of sunset caught in starlight. “Perfect, just like you.”

  Whisper turned those striking violet eyes toward something past Serena’s shoulder, reaching out once more with a delighted gurgle. Serena had long since stopped looking to see what captured the child’s attention.

  Suddenly, Whisper abandoned her fascination with the unseen to toddle over to Serena, placing tiny hands on her growing belly. Her violet eyes widened with that strange awareness that sometimes made Serena wonder just what the child could see.

  “Bruther,” Whisper said softly, patting the belly with gentle determination.

  Serena gave a bright smile. It was the first word Whisper had spoken this day. Before she could respond, footsteps approached the cabin door.

  “I think your father’s home,” she told Whisper softly. The child continued to pat her belly, murmuring “bruther” again to herself as the door closed behind Draven.

  “Ratty will watch over you both today,” Draven said, striding into the room as the door closed behind him. He checked his hidden daggers and went to the table, securing a small coin purse to his belt. “I need to meet with ‘lord’”—Draven held the term as long as he could while rolling his eyes—“Derrimont Blacksword at the high camp.”

  “Is everything alright?” Serena’s hand unconsciously covered Whisper’s, which still rested on her belly.

  Draven paused, jaw tightening. “Don’t know. It’s been a year since Whisper came to us. That wagon we hit? Military weapons. Fucking weapons and armor meant for the king’s forces. We fucked with knights and shit!” He caught Serena’s sharp look and glanced at Whisper. “Sorry. Since then, everything’s felt wrong. Last four jobs were harder than they should’ve been.”

  His voice lowered. “And Kragen keeps asking about you. Since he saw you in camp… don’t like how he watches this cabin.”

  “Be careful,” Serena said, rising carefully with one hand supporting her belly. Whisper still clung to her skirts, violet eyes now fixed on Draven.

  “Always am.” He leaned in to kiss Serena quickly, then moved to ruffle Whisper’s hair.

  “Wait—” Serena’s warning came too late as his fingers sank into the hair, leaving smudges of rose-pink across his fingertips. The careful patterns she’d created now blurred in spots.

  “oops,” he muttered, examining his stained fingers.

  Serena sighed, shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “And now I’ll have to fix it again.”

  “Sorry,” Draven offered, giving a shrug before bending down and staring at Whisper’s eyes. “Seems I’ve made a mess of your pretty colors.” He touched her cheek instead. “Stay inside today, both of you.”

  “Pa,” Whisper said suddenly, reaching for his leg. The word from her made him pause at the door.

  “I’ll be back soon, little one,” he promised, then headed out into the morning air.

  Ratty waited near the cabin steps, two men at his back. “Got the boys like you asked, boss.”

  Draven nodded as he continued his stride. The men fell in behind him as he started moving toward the high camp.

  “Don’t worry about the girls,” Ratty called after them. “I’ll keep both eyes open, maybe even a third one if I can find it!” His silver teeth flashed in a grin.

  The path wound through distinct territories, each marked by crude banners or trophies claiming the space for different crews. A group of raiders staggered in through the lower gates, fresh from a successful hunt judging by their loaded packs, drunken singing, and the streaks of blood smeared across their tunics. One man’s sword still dripped with red, leaving a faint trail as they moved.

  “You know you didn’t have to kill him. He’d already surrendered,” one of the men muttered, his tone sharp but resigned. “Honestly, you like killing way too much, my friend.”

  They shouldered past another crew heading out.

  “Hey, watch it, you fucking bastards,” one of the outgoing raiders snapped, shoving back.

  “Oh, fuck you—or better yet, go fuck your mother like I did,” came the slurred retort from the bloodied group’s leader, his grin wide enough to show a chipped tooth.

  “Oh, that’s why your woman asked me to hug you the other day,” the other man shot back, his voice heavy with mockery, “while staring at her pinky, saying it was bigger! Ha, now I know the answer to that secret. Need a pity hug?”

  Laughter erupted from the man’s crew, the sound crude and loud, while the bloodied leader’s grin soured. He spat to the side, his companions patting his back as if to hold him from escalating further.

  Draven and his men moved on, while the groups behind continued exchanging crude gestures and even cruder jokes until the sounds of their rivalry faded away replaced by the sound of the camps life.

  The middle grounds held the camp’s necessities. Smiths hammered at stolen metal, turning plowshares into weapons. Women darned clothes and cured meats while children—some born to the camp, others taken in like Whisper—darted between the tasks with dubious messages and stolen trinkets. The smell of tanning leather mixed with woodsmoke and unwashed bodies.

  Along this area, a couple rutted against a wooden table, knocking over a barrel of ale.

  “For fuck’s sake, take it to the whore tents!” someone shouted from nearby. “Some of us are trying to eat here!”

  “There are also some children around here, you barbarians!” a woman screamed.

  “I swear if my daughter starts asking me uncomfortable questions after this, I’ll gut you in your sleep, you stupid impulsive fucks!” One of the bandits got up from the table, his hands resting on the axe hanging on his belt.

  “Yeah, and the working girls charge less than the ale you just spilled anyway,” another added, drawing crude laughter from some of those around them.

  As they climbed higher, the rough paths became actual steps, cut into the rock. Guards stood at regular intervals, better armed and armored than the common raiders below, wearing chainmail hauberks under surcoats, steel caps gleaming beneath their hoods. These were Blacksword’s men, marked by the practiced discipline in their stance and the way they watched everything below.

  Near the summit, Blacksword's high camp dominated the hillside. Where other bandits built with scavenged wood and hide, he had stone walls and iron-tipped palisades - a proper fortress, or at least as proper as a bandit fortress can be.

  A man hung in chains against the wall. His arms were wrenched high, chains biting deep into wrists rubbed raw, old blood dried to black crusts beneath the fresh. His chest and back bore shallow cuts, each meant it inflict pain yet none to kill. Blood had dried from wrist to torso painting a gruesome art. Flies hovered over welts swollen with infection, clustering at the corner of his cracked lips, where a broken tooth jutted through split flesh.

  Draven recognized the display for what it was; the previous month's example had been replaced, yet the message remained identical. This was Blackswords message, a message written in welts and careful cuts, same as the last one and the one before that. Draven’s experienced eye swept over the familiar defensive positions, where attackers would be exposed to arrows from above, with hidden stakes placed to funnel enemies into predetermined paths. The killing ground. Whatever else Blacksword might be, he never failed to secure his position."

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Two of Kragen’s men flanked the gate in partial plate—breastplates and pauldrons polished to a shine that seemed to sneer at the crude leather and stolen chainmail of the camp below. They carried themselves with the rigid posture of former soldiers, though their eyes held the dead look of men who’d learned to enjoy following cruel orders.

  Through the gate lay the heart of the camp’s many rumors about Blacksword and his origins. Here lay his so-called ‘noble’s court,’ where instruments of torture were displayed with the pride others might reserve for heirlooms or tapestries. His men’s habit of calling him ‘lord’ only deepened the speculation among the bandits below. They did not carry themselves like common raiders, and it was known he hadn’t gathered his followers from villagers and desperados like the other gangs; he had arrived with them, as if they had followed him from another life altogether. Draven couldn’t decide if their leader truly was fallen nobility or if his delusions of grandeur would make a peacock blush.

  As Draven continued looking around the room, he spotted Raven leaning against a pillar, her foot tapping lightly against the stone, fingers drumming a quick rhythm on its surface. Her loose-fitting leather armor creaked softly with each movement, the silver chains woven through it catching the torchlight.

  She was speaking to a smaller woman whose delicate features and short brown hair, precisely cut to frame her face, belied the deadly crossbow at her back. The woman’s warm brown eyes and soft curves made her look more like a nobleman’s daughter than a bandit leader—at least until one noticed her strong, cold gaze and the array of small daggers carefully arranged at her belt.

  “Hey Draven, look who’s back from another ‘rescue mission,’” Raven called out with a knowing smirk, nodding toward her companion. The smaller woman’s hand instinctively checked her crossbow’s string, a habit Draven recognized from years of watching her cope with nervousness.

  Draven caught her eye and smiled faintly, something warmer in it than usual. “Sparrow,” he greeted, “nice to see you intact. Guess you got more girls in your crew after taking care of their abusive husbands.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Sparrow said in a soft voice, her cold gaze softening slightly as she began to look down, stealing glances at the man through strands of honey-brown hair.

  “And you, still breathing I see.” His gaze flickered over to Raven.

  “What do you mean still breathing? It’s only been a few months since our last job. And don’t forget, thanks to me, you got cute Whisper a year ago.” She puffed up her chest proudly, the loose leather armor shifting slightly with the motion, the soft creaking of the straps faint but noticeable. Draven’s eyes briefly flickered to her breasts, the loose fit of her armor making the movement more obvious as she adjusted her posture.

  “Raven!” Sparrow exclaimed.

  “Heh, what’s the matter, Sparrow? You’ve got a nice pair yourself, I know you wouldn’t mind our old boss here taking a look.” Raven said with a sly grin, her hand suddenly reaching out to grope Sparrow’s breast, leaving Sparrow visibly uncomfortable as she pinched Ravens hand.

  Sparrow shifted back, her cheeks flushing. “D-Don’t do that,” she stammered, stepping away from Raven while sneaking another glance at Draven.

  Draven sighed. “Alright, alright, both of you are hot, okay? But can you not do that here? The others are starting to stare... I swear you’re always causing trouble, Raven.”

  “The fuck you looking at?” Raven and Sparrow snapped in unison at the men watching, making them look away quickly. Sparrow’s soft voice had gained a deadly edge that reminded everyone that she also led her own crew.

  “Watch—if that guy can get to those two fine pieces of ass, so can I,” one of the younger crew leaders murmured.

  “Don’t. That’s Draven. Both of them used to run with him—Sparrow, the man-hater, and Raven, the lunatic. Only Draven can do whatever he wants to them. Anyone else? Well, I won’t be protecting ya,” an older bandit shrugged.

  “The Axe sees his favorite girls,” a gravelly voice announced. The massive figure stepped forward, towering a head above most men, his imposing frame clad in crude leather armor. Small axe heads jutted from his shoulder pieces, their edges crusted with dried blood. A scrap of flesh clung to one blade, swaying faintly as he moved, the crimson stains glinting ominously in the torchlight. Multiple axes dangled from his belt, though the largest was strapped across his broad back.

  Behind him, a lean man in surprisingly clean leathers. “Axe you don’t have to keep announcing your name they know, you don’t see me saying Slither has arrived do you? Though I should have someone do that for me sounds fun.” Slither moved with an unnatural grace that made those around him question if he had bones in his body.

  “The Axe thinks you need a real man to show you how to—” he started, but Raven cut him off with an exaggerated yawn.

  “The Axe needs to shut his fucking mouth before I shove one of those toys he carries up his ass,” Raven said, examining her nails with theatrical boredom.

  Slither’s thin lips curved into something approaching a smile. “Now, now... is that any way to speak in Lord Blacksword’s court? Speaking of courts...” his gaze slid to Draven, “I heard interesting rumors about your woman’s background, Pragmatist. Noble blood makes for such... complicated situations.”

  Sparrow’s hand drifted to her daggers, but Draven’s slight head shake stopped her. Near the walls, her crew’s crossbow women shifted their stances ever so slightly, finding better firing positions. Raven’s men fingered their weapons with barely contained eagerness, wild grins matching their leader’s reputation. Draven’s two remained still but watchful, their eyes tracking every movement like wolves waiting for their alpha’s signal.

  Across the chamber, brutish men bearing smaller versions of The Axe’s shoulder blades tensed, while shadowy figures that could only be Slither’s assassins seemed to drift closer to the pillars, their hands disappearing into their cloaks.

  “LORD BLACKSWORD!” a voice boomed from the entrance, cutting through the growing hostility like a knife.

  “Kragen changed his pelt again,” Raven muttered. The massive wolf skin draped over Kragen’s brigandine armor like a noble’s cape, metal plates gleaming beneath the leather where the pelt parted. The beast’s preserved head served as a hood, its fangs framing his throat, while the pelt’s claws hung menacingly at his shoulders. Even the wolf’s empty eye sockets seemed to glare from above his steel gorget.

  “And Belad’s still creeping about with that bow,” Sparrow whispered, nodding toward the lean figure on Blacksword’s left.

  Unlike the others' crude leathers or stolen armor, Belad's dark hardened leather outfit seemed purpose-made for work involving the shadows, fitting close to allow smooth drawing of his bow. The weapon was distinctive—twin metal blades extended from both ends of the grip, making it as deadly in close quarters as it was at range. His black-fletched arrows rode high over one shoulder, while a sword hung at his hip.

  Between them stood Blacksword, his posture carrying an unusual grace for a bandit. Each step held the disciplined rhythm of a seasoned warrior, paired with an intimidating strut. His fine black leather armor layered over gleaming chain mail, while his polished breastplate bore mutilated decorations, as if someone had taken care to destroy whatever symbols once adorned it. A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth, the kind that never reached his cold dark eyes.

  The sword that earned him his name hung at his hip—its black blade drinking in the torchlight rather than reflecting it. Within its pommel, shadows seemed to writhe like trapped spirits, so subtle most would mistake it for a trick of the light. The weapon bore suspicious dark red stains that no amount of cleaning ever seemed to remove.

  Some of the crew leaders stood carelessly, lounging against pillars or walls. Their voices carried too loud for the room, the coarse laughter jarring against the heavy air of expectation. One idly tapped a blade against a stone column, the sharp metallic clinks grating on the nerves of those paying attention.

  Others shifted awkwardly at the edges, their eyes darting between the gathered figures as though unsure where to settle. Their clothing, a mix of mismatched leathers and poorly maintained armor, betrayed a lack of experience in both battle and decorum.

  In stark contrast, the more seasoned leaders—Draven and Raven among them—stood with deliberate stillness. Their postures were measured, their gazes sharp, catching every detail: the faint tightening around Blacksword’s eyes, the way Kragen’s fingers flexed against his sword hilt. Without a word, they inclined their heads slightly.

  Blacksword’s cruel smile grew sharper as his gaze swept over the room. The clash of ignorant posturing and silent respect amused him. He gestured to the rough benches and chairs before the raised platform, the motion slow and deliberate.

  “Sit,” he commanded, his tone holding a strange mixture that seemed to blend refinement and menace as one. The polished accent clashed with the brutal edge beneath, making it clear he was no stranger to bloodshed. “Now then, for those who’ve perhaps forgotten—or never learned—proper respect, find your manners before I have to remind you.”

  The newer leaders scrambled for seats, some shoving past others in their haste to appear obedient, only managing to look more foolish. A few tried to claim spots near the front, as if proximity to power might grant it to them.

  The Axe moved slowly, taking his time as he pushed away from the wall, his crude metal shoulder blades dragging against stone, the screech of metal on rock setting teeth on edge. The sound drew a slight twitch from Blacksword’s eye. Slither had already found a seat without anyone seeing him move.

  Draven caught Raven and Sparrow’s eyes, a slight tilt of his head indicating seats midway back. They moved together, taking their positions while their followers stood vigilant behind them.

  The room settled into uneasy silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of a boot and at times the shifting of leather against wood.

  Blacksword's gaze swept the gathered leaders before he spoke, his controlled voice carried throughout the room. "Our scouts report increased military presence in every territory surrounding us. The kingdom grows bold, pushing into lands they once feared to tread."

  He began to pace, boots clicking against the raised platform. “We must adapt. No more scattered raids and petty thefts. I propose we build something greater—supply lines, coordinated attacks, proper fortifications. The kingdoms want to call us a threat?” A cruel smile touched his lips. “Then let us become one.”

  He paused, letting his words sink in. “In fact, the first steps have already been taken. Some of you were assigned tasks by Kragen—jobs that involved stealing weapons meant for the kingdom’s forces.”

  His dark eyes fixed on specific leaders as he continued. “Each crew will need to document their resources, their raids, their territories. Everything must be organized, recorded. We’ll need detailed plans, maps, lists of every fighter at our disposal.”

  “Write it down?” one of the newer leaders interrupted with a harsh laugh. “Half of us can’t even read our own names, my lord.” The last words dripped with mockery.

  Blacksword’s smile didn’t waver. “Then perhaps it’s time you learned. Or found someone who can.”

  “And the profit in all this?” The Axe’s gravelly voice rumbled from the back. “The Axe wants to know what’s in it for those doing all this... organizing.”

  “I didn’t join up to be a fucking soldier again,” another voice called out. “Left that life behind when I deserted.”

  “At least you were a soldier. I’m a fucking farmer whose lord made impossibly high taxes. Me and my guys can steal well but fight? Come on, half of us just swing our weapons around to intimidate and I know I’m not the only crew like that.”

  Draven watched the room become divided—the former soldiers straightening at the mention of real warfare, the common thieves and desperate farmers shrinking back as the room grew louder and louder. His gaze drifted to Blacksword’s mutilated breastplate, wondering what symbols had once adorned it. He didn’t like this, what Blacksword was proposing sounded suicidal to him. It all felt wrong - they were bandits, not soldiers, so why did it feel like an army was being formed? Yet Draven didn’t have enough pieces, and going against the masses would be suicide. He would need to wait and see, for that was the safest option.

  He caught Raven’s eye. She gave him the barest shake of her head, her usual playful demeanor gone. She loved a good fight as much as any bandit and feared almost nothing, but she despised being controlled. To her, Blacksword’s proposal wasn’t just a plan; it was a cage. Even Draven—a man she both liked and respected—could barely keep her in line. Beside her, Sparrow’s fingers hadn’t left her daggers since Blacksword started talking about documentation.

  Blacksword raised a hand, silencing the growing murmurs. “Let us now discuss the finer details.” His dark eyes glittered with something that made even the most vocal protestors fall quiet.

  QUILLTOME III

  END