The cage-cart jolts over another stone, sending fresh pain through my injured shoulder where the crossbow bolt found its mark. They've bandaged the wound—can't have their prize bleeding out before delivery—but it throbs with each heartbeat.
"Awake at last," one of my captors observes. "Thought we might have dosed you too heavy."
I crack my eyes open, taking stock through the iron bars. Four Bounty Hunters on horseback, their pale faces marked with the ritual scars of professional bounty hunters.
They move with practiced efficiency, scanning the surrounding forest for threats while maintaining steady pace toward whatever destination they have planned.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice sounds like a rasp.
"Eelry," one of them replies without looking back. "The new boss there thinks you quite the star; a crowd puller."
“The last one is not cold and another already slipping on his dead shoes.” I say.
“Gospar was a prick. Some of us are thankful your friend ran him through. Would have done it myself given half a chance.”
“Loyal, I see.” I say.
“Only to coin and whoever's pussy I happen to be ploughing.” He laughs to himself.
The forest path winds through hills thick with pine and shadow, far from any settlement that might offer rescue. Smart route for moving valuable cargo—no witnesses, no authorities to bribe or avoid. These bounty hunters know their business.
"How much am I worth?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Hundred gold, alive and intact." He grins, showing teeth filed to predatory points. "Fifty if damaged. Five if we bring back just your head."
A hundred gold. Enough to buy a small farm or outfit a mercenary company. No wonder they tracked me across half the continent.
"The new boss has gold to…"
The attack comes without warning.
Magic erupts from the treeline like liquid fire, crimson energy that turns the lead horse into ash and bone fragments. The rider screams once before chaos magic consumes him, reducing the proud dark elf guard to scattered molecules on the wind.
The remaining Bounty Hunters scatter, drawing weapons and shouting orders, but their attacker is already among them.
A figure in dark leathers moves like liquid death, crimson hair streaming as he cuts through their formation with impossible grace.
I recognize him immediately from Eelry—high on building. The one who killed Kresh. Rage erupts inside me.
He tears through the dark elves like a formidable force of nature. One tries to flee and gets a bolt of crackling energy through the spine. Another raises a crossbow and finds his weapon transformed into a nest of vipers that turn on their new master. The third manages a single sword stroke before his blade opens his throat to the bone.
In thirty seconds, it's over. Four professional killers reduced to cooling meat on the forest floor.
He approaches my cage, wiping blood from his curved blade with theatrical precision. His crimson hair catches afternoon light like spilled wine, and his pale eyes hold the satisfied gleam of someone who genuinely enjoys his work.
“Please, allow me to introduce myself.” he winks at me. “I am Cirsheco. Lover, dreamer, killer.”
I meet his gaze steadily. "I remember you. You killed Kresh."
"Yes, it was such fun. And none likes a naga anyway." He examines the cage's lock with professional interest.
"Why did you rescue me?"
His laughter is like breaking glass. "Rescue? Dear Deceiver, no. I am going to collect your bounty."
The casual admission should anger me, but there's something almost refreshing about his honesty. No pretense, no false nobility—just naked self-interest wrapped in charismatic brutality.
"A hundred gold is a hundred gold," he continues, producing a set of lockpicks from his belt. "Though I confess, I was hoping for more entertaining company than those tedious morons."
