This is what I need… the darkness. I cannae see, but nae one can see me either.
Ahead of her, the dirt road sloped down into a shallow valley, flanked by brambles and skeletal oaks. Her lungs burned. Her legs burned, her eyes, her throat; Isabeau was barely holding herself together. She slowed, chest heaving, and let herself believe for just one moment.
If I can reach the village… just the village. Spend one night in an inn, then head south tae the Lowlands. I can say I’m a cook, I can… I can make a modest livin’.
She would change her name. She would cut her hair. She would forget what it meant to be a Campbell.
Her feet carried her down the path, taking one step at a time. With each step, her dream seemed more and more within reach. Hope fountained inside her unbridled, and she let it carry her forward, her feet picking up speed.
But just as she was about to take a turn in the path, the sudden crack of underbrush behind her shattered her fragile dream like glass.
Isabeau froze, startled to stillness. Her heart began to pound again, too loud, too fast.
Another step, this one closer. Then another and another, until it seemed to her that she was completely surrounded, the sounds coming from every direction.
She turned slowly, reaching into the folds of her cloak, her fingers closing around the worn hilt of the dirk. The blade felt insignificant in her grip, but it was all she had, and she’d be damned if she didn’t use it when, from the gloom behind the trees, four figures emerged like wolves drawn to scent.
They were gaunt, filthy, their breath misting in the cooling air as they laughed among themselves. One wore a shredded tartan around his waist; another had a broken tooth and blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. All of them reeked of ale and sweat—the kind of stench that gathered outside inns and taverns of the kind Isabeau had the misfortune to visit only a few times in her life.
“Look what we’ve got here,” one of them slurred. He was a large man, tall and stout, and Isabeau had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “Wee rabbit’s run from the warren.”
Isabeau didn’t answer. Her feet shifted slightly, widening her stance, and her dirk glinted faintly in the half-light, the weightof it in her palm her only comfort. She kept her face calm, but her hands were slick with sweat, and she tightened her fingers around it, keeping her grip secure.
“Bonnie thing,” another said, stepping closer. Older than the first man, his eyes glinted in the dim light. “Pretty even with that look. Ye lost, lass?”
“I’ll gut ye where ye stand,” she said, voice like ice. It was a lie, but it sounded real enough.
The men laughed, loudly, cruelly. They circled her like feral dogs, their boots grinding the earth into dust, their leering grins made more grotesque by the bruises and grime smeared across their faces. Isabeau turned in place, her breath shallow, the dirk trembling in her grip. She held it like she’d seen guards do—blade forward, stance braced—but her hands were too slick with sweat, her limbs too light with panic.
“How much d’ye reckon she’ll fetch?” The first one asked. “If we sell her tae the right hands, she’ll fetch us a handsome price.”
“I’d wager more than a few coins fer a lass like this,” the third man said, stepping closer, his gaze dragging down her front. “If we dinnae get used tae her first.”
Bile rose up Isabeau’s throat, the sharp sting of it making her swallow hard. She had no doubt that those men meant her harm. There was nothing empty about their words, nothing that made her think they were too cowardly to deliver on their threats.These men were thieves—men looking for easy pay. And now that she had stumbled into their path, they had found just that.
“I am a lady, born o’ noble blood,” she snapped, lifting her chin in defiance despite the tremble in her jaw. “If ye touch me, me faither will have yer heads.”
They paused as if considering it—but only for a moment.
Then the one nearest to her barked a laugh. “A lady, is it? Och, sure, an’ I’m the king.”
“A noble-born, travelin’ all alone, nay carriage, nay guards tae keep an eye on her?” the large man asked. “Isnae that funny, lads?”
“Let us see what kind o’ liar she really is,” said another, the smallest and youngest of the four, who looked at her with a sneer that was as mocking as it was chilling.
And then they lunged.
Isabeau screamed and slashed out blindly, her blade carving a shallow gash across one man’s forearm. It was the young one, the first one to reach her, and he roared in pain, stumbling back. It was the opening she needed, and she wasted no time before she sidestepped the man, running deeper into the woods, hoping she would lose them.
There was no going back and there was no going forward. All she could hope for was a place to hide for a while, somewhere that would keep her safe until those brutes decided to leave.
For a brief moment, she tasted freedom. For a brief moment, she held the hope that she could outrun them, snaking through the trees just out of their reach, but the others were on her too fast. The flash of victory was extinguished too quickly, too mercilessly, and she had no time to flee before the rest were upon her.
One caught her wrist mid-swing, another slammed his boot into the back of her knee, and she collapsed with a cry, her cloak tangling around her legs. Isabeau kicked and clawed, baring her teeth like a wild animal, but the dirk was wrenched from her hand by a hand much stronger than hers, and flung into the brush.
“Nay!” she gasped, but it was gone.
A rough fist seized her by the shoulder and slammed her into the dirt. Her cheek scraped the ground, a stinging pain coursing through her entire face as her skin was cut by a fallen twig. The fight burned through her muscles, and she twisted and turned in the men’s grip, desperate to throw them off her, but it wasn’t enough—not against four men, all of them towering over them.
