The forest bled water.

  Rain fell in sheets, hammering down through the tangled canopy, drenching the cart path and churning the trail into a soup of mud and roots. The wagon’s wooden wheels creaked and sloshed along, its canvas covering sagging under the weight of the storm. The relentless downpour drowned out birdsong and softened the world until it was nothing but dripping trees, rushing water, and the groans of soaked travelers too stubborn to stop.

  The rain had a way of making everything heavier.

  It didn't just fall-it pressed. Into clothes. Into bones. Into tempers.

  Atop the wagon sat two figures. One looked like he belonged in the woods—a tall elf with damp platinum hair tied behind his ears, hood drawn low and eyes always scanning. The other was louder in voice and presence; her red cloak soaked through and clinging to the fine-cut leather armor beneath. She was beautiful in that uniquely Elven way—sharp-featured and quick-eyed—with a slender longbow strapped across her back, its limbs carved with ancient glowing runes that shimmered faintly even in the rain.

  “We should’ve stayed in Re’trataunt,” Aremis grumbled, water dripping from her nose. “We could’ve taken the damn job tomorrow. But no—you had to play hero. ‘Quick trip to Witchrum,’ you said. ‘Easy coin,’ you said. You’re lucky I didn’t drown you in the horse trough before we left.”

  Turmonge kept his eyes forward, unbothered. “We’d be soaked either way.”

  “And you’d still be an idiot either way,” Aremis snapped.

  "This is nothing. Back in the Silver Glades we'd train in worse. Have you forgotten already?"

  "You mean back when we weren't exiles?" Aremis shot back, her green eyes narrowing. " Back before our kin tossed you out like spoiled milk."

  Turmonge's grin faded into something quieter. "A fair point."

  From beneath the canvas, a gruff voice grumbled, “If you two lovebirds are done slapping each other with wet leaves, I’m trying to sleep in here.”

  Aremis kicked the side of the wagon. “Sleep? In this storm? You’d sleep through a bloody minotaur rutting your beard, Bourin.”

  The dwarf poked his head out, rain instantly soaking his wild red hair and plaited beard. His scowl could have soured mead. “Aye, and I’d enjoy it more than listenin’ to you nag for ten more miles. Stick that bow up your pointy—”

  Turmonge raised a hand, and silence fell instantly.

  “What is it?” Aremis asked, already reaching for her bow.

  “We’re being followed,” Turmonge said flatly.

  Bourin snorted, sitting up and thumbing the blade of his axe. “Took you long enough. I heard ‘em half a league back.”

  Aremis rolled her eyes. “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “I was busy tryin’ to nap.”

  The wind picked up then, howling through the trees as though the forest itself had taken a breath.

  A sharp thwip tore through the sound of rain.

  Before more insults could fly, an arrow hissed through the downpour, narrowly missing Aremis’s chin and embedding in a tree with a thud.

  “Well,” she said, drawing her bow in one smooth motion, “guess the welcome party's here.”

  Turmonge tightened the reins, slowed the wagon to a halt, and looped them around the bench. As he stepped into the mud, more figures emerged from the forest—two to the left, two to the right, and three ahead, blocking the trail. From behind came the shifting of branches, the rustle of boots.

  Aremis dropped into a crouch beside the wagon, already notching an arrow. “Nine,” she murmured.

  “More than usual,” Turmonge replied, unsheathing his long blade and its shorter twin with a clean, wet ring.

  Bourin climbed down from the wagon’s side, grumbling. “Nine? Only nine? Tch. I was hoping’ for sport.”

  Ahead, the man on the far left stepped forward. His mismatched armor and scuffed blade marked him as a cutthroat. The leer he wore was older than his years, and fouler.

  “Well, well,” he said, spreading his arms. “What have we here? A pair of waterlogged elves and their dwarf mule. You poor sods look cold. Out here all alone. No guards. No escort. But plenty of cargo. Maybe we relieve you of your burdens.”

  "Your concern is touching," Aremis deadpanned.

  “Yeah, boss,” piped up a filthy, toothless man to his right. “I bet the purse on that elf girl jingles like wedding bells.”

  “I’ll jingle your bells with an arrow to the knob, you crooked goblin,” Aremis spat.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Aremis knocked and arrow and aimed it directly between his legs.

  "Say it again," she offered sweetly. "Please."

  The man shifted behind his companion, who chuckled.

  The third man said nothing, but his eyes lingered on her bow. That was a mistake.

  Turmonge took a step forward. “Let’s not pretend this is a negotiation. State your demands or draw steel.”

  A sharp whistle cut through the rain. The central figure of the group—taller, with a sleek black cloak and a face far too handsome for a highwayman—stepped forward. He lowered his hood, revealing a deep scar that ran from his chin to his throat. His cloak was embroidered in emerald thread. His hat was wide-brimmed and crimson, with a great peacock feather arching back like a noble's pennant. He walked with the easy gait of a man who had long ago stopped fearing death-and had made others learn why.

  "Is that man wearing perfume?" asked Aremis.

  "I believe he is," answered Turmonge.

  “Gentlefolk,” he said, “permit me to introduce myself. Ragnor Vesque. And this sorry lot of mud suckers are the Blood Money Bandits. Or what’s left of them."

  He smiled, a wide fake thing. Then continued.

  "I suppose this is the part," he said, "where we pretend, we want your coin, then we'll let you go."

  "Or," said Aremis, "we skip ahead to the part where we kill you."

  Bourin chuckled. "She's not bluffin. I've seen her put a shaft through a man's eye while coughing up blood."

  Turmonge raised an eyebrow. "Bit short for an outlaw prince."

  Ragnor blinked. “So, you’ve heard of me.”

  "Aye. Enough to know that there used to be ten of you."

  Bourin scratched his beard. "That explains the smell."

  Aremis groaned. “Oh gods, you took this job because of a name, didn’t you? The rum was a farce."

  Turmonge smiled. "I figured we'd kill two crows with one stone is all."

  “Infamous or not,” Bourin said, hefting his axe onto his shoulder, “you lot are about to be famous in the local jail, why your awaiting death.”

  Ragnor sighed. "And you are?"

  "Someone you'll wish you'd never met," Turmonge said, stepping forward. "I'm the one here to take you in."

  Ragnor blinked. "Ah. A bounty hunter."

  Aremis muttered, "Of course. Of course this is a bounty job. That's why we're out here in this pissing rain instead of a dry tavern."

  Turmonge ignored her. "There's a large price on your head in three providences. I plan to collect."

  "What do you know that I don't? Aremis demanded.

  Turmonge didn't answer. Instead, he drew his twin blades-Moonfang and Steelbite, forged by riverborn smiths of the eastern glades. Their steel shimmered even in the gloom.

  Ragnor smiled wider. "A swordsman. Delightful."

  He tossed aside his cloak, revealing two thin, slightly curved swords-duelist's blades, elegant and hungry.

  "Funny," Ragnor said, 'I see three of you, and nine of us."

  Behind them, Bourin rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "Time for a bit of bloodlettin, then."

  Turmonge pointed at Vesque’s left hand. “Callused fingers. You’re a left-handed duelist. Fast. But you favor wide strikes and step with your right—leaves you open. You should fix that.”

  Vesque’s smile flickered. "Your all dead. You just don't know it yet."

  Aremis blinked. “You flirt like that with everyone, or just the people you plan to kill?”

  “Feh,” Bourin spat. “I’m only here because you promised me a pint and someone to hit.”

  “Enough,” Vesque said, voice cold now. “Kill them.”

  The rain exploded with motion.

  Aremis fired first—an arrow glowing green with ancient elven runes. It hissed through the air and hit a bandit square in the chest, flinging him backward like a sack of grain. Another dove for cover. Bourin charged, bellowing a curse that would make an ogre blush, swinging his axe with gory enthusiasm. The first man he reached lost his arm. The second, his head.

  Turmonge moved like smoke, his blades dancing. He blocked, ducked, and countered in one motion, slashing a man’s thigh before spinning and running the next one through the stomach.

  Steel met steel with a flurry of shrieks, blades sliding and ringing like bells in a cathedral made of rain. Ragnor moved like a predator in a ballroom, each step calculated, precise. Turmonge countered with a wild grace honed in exile and war.

  Ragnor feinted high, then low, his hat somehow still in place as he twisted and cut. "I must say, your technique is quite refined for a bounty hunter."

  "I had noble teachers," Turmonge replied, parrying with a flick of his short blade.

  "You came only for the bounty then?" asked Ragnor.

  "Or did you wish to test your skills perhaps?"

  Turmonge didn't deny it.

  "It's a sizable purse I'm told," Ragnor mused. "Thirty gold crowns from Struttsburg. Another Fifteen in the Duchy of Velmour."

  Turmonge smiled and shrugged. "We needed coin."

  "Then come and take it."

  The clashed again, blades skidding in a whirl of mud and water. Turmonge ducked under a wide arc and swept Ragnor's legs, but the man flipped and landed smoothly.

  "Not bad," Ragnor said, panting. " But you will have to do better."

  Turmonge drove forward-one blade high, one low. Ragnor blocked one, but not the other. The short sword grazed his left arm. He grunted and stepped back, knees wobbling slightly.

  Ragnor came at him fast—left hand leading, just as Turmonge had said. Their blades met with a shriek of steel. Turmonge parried twice, then kicked Vesque hard in the stomach, sending him sprawling in the mud.

  Aremis loosed another arrow, then spun and cracked the bow across a bandit’s face, knocking teeth into the rain. She kicked him down and drove a shaft into his neck.

  “Nice shot!” Bourin shouted, cleaving a man’s knee.

  “Thanks, stump-foot!”

  “You fight like a drunk deer!”

  “At least I don’t smell like a pig’s backside!”

  “Focus!” Turmonge snapped, just as Vesque lunged at him again.

  This time, Ragnor moved smarter—tighter strokes, feints, faster. But Turmonge had seen better. He ducked a wild slice, pivoted on his back foot, and drove the shorter blade into Vesque’s thigh.

  The bandit screamed and stumbled.

  “You’re under arrest,” Turmonge said, stepping over him.

  “Go to hell,” Vesque spat.

  Turmonge stabbed him through the shoulder. “Calm down."

  The remaining two bandits threw down their weapons and bolted. Aremis raised her bow, but Turmonge lowered her arm. “Let them go.”

  The clearing was a swamp of bodies and blood. The rain kept falling, washing crimson into the roots. Bourin retrieved his axe and leaned against the wagon, breathing hard.

  "That was fun," he said. "Anymore?"

  Aremis wiped her blade on a corpse's cloak. "I swear if you drag us into another bounty without telling me, I'll shoot you somewhere unimportant but painful."

  Aremis pulled a bit of gore from her hair. “I need a bath. And a drink. And probably a new bowstring.”

  Turmonge crouched beside Vesque’s unconscious form. “Tie him up. We’ll get a good price for this one.”

  “You always pick the best dates,” Aremis muttered.

  "Of course," Bourin grunted. "Elves get wine. I get gore duty."

  Bourin slung his axe over his shoulder. “You’re paying for the next round. And I want meat. Hot. Not dried.”

  Turmonge said nothing.

  Aremis looked back to the trees. Something had moved there-too slow to join the fight. Too clever to be seen.

  She said nothing.

  But she didn't put her bow away either.

  The road to Witchrum would be long. And something was still out there.

  Watching.