The Wounded Firefly

Feedback encouraged in the comments--ruthlessly, if needed.

This is a slow-burn fantasy story. There will be spice--but not immediately. When it arrives, it will hit with weight, consequence, and satisfaction.

The focus is on a cast of emotionally scarred survivors navigating a world of magic, violence, and deep psychological shadows. Their journey is as much inward as it is outward.

If you're here for smut with swords, it'll come. But this is also a story about healing, loyalty, fear, and transformation. Chapters will be releasing regularly until I finish posting the first Arc, and then a pause until I finish the next Arc.

Trigger Warnings: This work explores sensitive themes such as slavery, abuse, and sexual trauma (non-explicit). There is combat violence, but minimal gore. Reader discretion advised.

Thanks for giving this your time. If it's not for you, find something that is. If it is--stick around.

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Personal Diary Entry 1423

Marcus Hale

Hope is what kills you.

Hope is an all-encompassing emotion that strips away any good sense your mother gave you, and dares you to chase foolish dreams.

It stretches those dreams like threadbare rope. What should be impossible, feels merely improbable.

Hope pulls you down a path that everyone else avoids, while you flounder for the invisible exit.

Hope is also your first experience with a prostitute. That subtle, insistent voice telling you that somehow, you'll save them. That weathered soul will abandon their life for a little orphan with no coin and no prospects. The sweet taste of pleasure, followed by crushing disappointment.

And the sick part? You can only seem to blame yourself.

Hope is the pillow that smothers you at night as strong hands hold you down.

While honeyed voices whisper:

"You did all you could"

"At least you tried"

"You weren't the only one who failed"

"They will be there for you when you return"

It is always Hope that kills you.

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Chapter 1: Blut und Eisen

Southwestern Urdan, Doran Empire

In the House Rykan Lands near Trina''s Reach.

On the banks of the lazy beggar's river, inside the Wildwood.

--Marcus Hale--

Today is the fourth of Caelt on the Imperial Calendar, the ninth of Aelon in Elvish.

Year 867 Imperial. 1843 Elvish.

Most people use one or the other, so I keep track of both.

There are others, of course--the Dwarven calendar, the Lunar calendar--but only scholars, hedge-wizards, or pompous jackasses track more than one. And the rest? Can't read anyway.

People like me track these things for our own sanity.

One reason? Today is my birthday.

I'm twenty-eight.

Big deal.

More importantly, it's the ten-year anniversary of my arrival in the Doran Empire.

Ten years since I left behind everything I knew. Ten years rebuilding a life out of dirt and broken stone. Ten years of blood, survival, and compromise.

I had to learn a new language. Let go of my favorite curses.

I had to memorize new maps, internalize laws written by strangers, and adapt to customs that didn't make sense at first.

I even like Dwarves now. At least they sell you what they promise. Honest folk.

The Empire's wilds were another story. I once nearly ate a fruiting plant that began to sing and ensorcel me. A massive bird--with serrated teeth--swooped down to grab it mid-song and saved me.

Then it got torn apart by thorny vines under the command of a deer-shaped nature spirit.

It's a strange place.

Every damn day.

My path through the Empire has been anything but straight: North, East, South, East again, then back Southwest.

I've worked as a courier, a guard, a scout, a translator, even a body-digger once.

Now?

I glance down at the tattoo on the back of my left hand- a dragon's maw, inked in black and old magic.

Now I'm a Sentinel.

That's the official title.

Not much use in impressing tavern girls--most think I sit in a watchtower playing dice with farmers. The truth is uglier.

The Sentinels of the Realm Who Guard the Empire's Uncivilized Frontiers--(a name invented by some emperor who never saw a bog up close)-- are tasked with hunting monsters, tracking insurgents, and putting down threats the Empire doesn't want to admit exist.

Of course, "threat" depends entirely on who you ask.

Sometimes it means a vampire's nest.

Other times, it's just a poor family camped too close to a lord's mine.

The job is thrilling. Character-building.

A real career booster for people with no other prospects and a high tolerance for parasites.

Most of the Empire's greatest war heroes started out this way--trudging through mud, bleeding into their boots, learning the smell of rot and wet fur firsthand.

But none of that matters anymore.

Tonight is my last patrol.

There's a birthday surprise in my bag. Something small. Personal.

I promised myself ten years to find a reason.

A reason for all this.

I found nothing.

Just cruelty.

Just darkness.

Just death.

-----------

Sentinels never travel alone.

At least, that's what Rule 12-C of the manual says.

Nobody follows the rulebook.

Veterans like me? We usually go solo--or, if the stars align and we're feeling sentimental, with a partner. It's been years since I've had one of those.

I was ordered to move north along the river, link up with a training squad out of Rykan territory. Mid-ranked squad. Green recruits. Led by a dwarf named Keldak--someone I'd met once, briefly. Honest. Direct. Reliable.

Dwarves are easy to work with.

Our assignment was simple: patrol the western banks of the Amarni and investigate rumors of a growing bandit presence. The Empire calls the river the "Beggar," but the locals still use its older name--Amarni. Elvish. "Yellow River." The reason was obvious: golden wildflowers crowd the waterline, so vibrant they seem to hum in sunlight.

They smelled like sunlight, too. Or joy you almost remembered.

This morning, I picked a few. Tucked them beside my birthday surprise. Let myself have the moment.

Problem is--flower-picking isn't exactly stealthy. Not great form for a Sentinel.

Now, five of us roam the banks--three trainees, Keldak, and myself. Two weeks in, and the group has started to settle. The stiffness is fading. The rhythm of travel smooths out the nerves.

We made camp before sunset in a clearing tucked between riverbend and trees. The ground was cleared, the fire was built, dinner went on the flame. Like we'd done it a hundred times.

The sun dipped below the canopy, and the woods turned to shadow. Firelight became our only shield.

Five silhouettes huddled near flame and flickering warmth. Five strangers pretending they might matter to one another.

There was laughter. Jokes. Tentative amusement at the sudden softness in their brooding senior.

After all, am I not allowed to smile... on my birthday?

Night came quickly. Too quickly. The darkness here is heavy--thicker than down south. It sits on your skin, like a warning. My instincts began to twitch, subtle reminders that something felt wrong.

There was no watch tonight. No one volunteered. No one assigned one. I didn't press. Assumed someone else would pick up the slack.

Mistake.

I stared into the fire, but the warmth didn't reach my chest. My leather armor felt heavier than usual. My shield rested near a log, close enough to grab. Blades within reach--always.

I look prepared. But tonight? I don't feel it.

My mind wanders.

I remember Wuzzan Hills. Hot spring, quiet glade, mid-summer heat. Thought I'd take a dip. One bath. One lapse in judgment. An orc found me--sword out, me not.

I learned that day: you only fight an orc once with your cock out before you get real religious about never being unarmed again.

Tonight, I'm dressed and armed, but just as vulnerable.

Across from me, Renas sat cross-legged, her flute to her lips. The notes were simple, wistful--just enough to remind us we were alive.

Baraca, all grin and swagger, nudged her with an elbow. "You know, if we survive this job, I'm marrying her."

Renas rolled her eyes, but didn't scoot away when he passed her the last strip of jerky.

Keldak chuckled into his mug. "Boy, you'd bore her to death before the honeymoon."

The elf--hells, I still didn't know her name--kept her eyes on the trees. Alert. Fidgety. Nervous.

I should've felt it then. The wrongness. The hush too heavy. The air too still.

The way the trees held their breath.

But I let it go. Just for one night. Let myself pretend the world was soft.

And then I saw them.

A ripple at the edge of the firelight. A sound that didn't belong. Not bird. Not beast.

Human.

Measured. Intentional. The kind of sound made by someone who knows how to kill and has already decided to try.

From the tree line, two yellow eyes blinked at me. Unblinking. Watching.

THOCK.

Renas jerked backward, the silver flute slipping from her lips.

A wet pop echoed across the campfire as the arrow punched clean through her throat.

She hit the dirt, eyes wide, mouth twitching like she still meant to play another note.

For half a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.

Thenchaos.

Baraca screamed--a raw, keening thing--and charged the tree line like a madman. Knife in hand. No armor. No thought.

FWIP. FWIP.

Two arrows caught him mid-stride.

One in the gut. One in the eye.

He crumpled forward with a grunt, twitching once before stilling. The smell of iron filled the air.

Keldak moved. Fast.

Dwarves don't hesitate.

His war axe carved through the dark like lightning. A bandit rushed in--Keldak met him low and smashed the blade into his knee with a bone-snapping CRACK. The man shrieked, tumbled into the fire, his flesh hissing as it kissed flame.

The dwarf didn't flinch.

Another attacker lunged--Keldak spun and buried his axe deep in a neck, then tore it free with a snarl. Blood sprayed the fire, sizzling.

Then a spear thrust downwards inside his sternum

THUNK

He staggered. Dropped to his knees. And folded forward, silent.

The elf bolted. Smart.

I saw her boots slip against the rocks as she made for the river.

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

The camp went still again--only the crackle of the fire and the whimper of dying men remained.

I stayed frozen. I had... hesitated.

Too late. Too slow.

Another group. Another grave.

Ten years of this. And I still let myself hope.

I didn't even know the elf's name.

Then came the last wave.

Two men burst from the treeline--boys, really. Young, hungry-eyed. Dirty armor. Shoddy weapons. Bandits, not soldiers.

Farm kids who'd traded chores for bloodshed.

The one who killed Keldak stepped closer to the fire, cocky swagger hiding unsteady hands.

"Oi, Peta--this one looks daft. Think he--"

THWUMP.

I moved.

My bowl clattered to the dirt.

I drove forward. Shield out. Metal met face with a sickening CRACK. His nose shattered. Blood sprayed across the firelight.

Before he could scream, I shoved a dinner knife deep into his neck. SCHLICK.

He gargled. Collapsed. Still clawing at his own throat.

THWACK. THWACK.

Crossbows fired.

Bolts skittered off my shield with jarring impact. I surged forward.

Peter--probably--was fumbling with his reload. I didn't give him time.

I slammed the shield rim into his throat.

CRUNCH.

His windpipe collapsed. He dropped without a sound. Just kicked a little. Then nothing besides whimpers and wisps of breath..

The third tried to draw a knife.

Mistake.

I stepped in, and kicked my heel into the inside of his knee.

POP.

He screamed. Rolled.

I snatched the fallen spear of a dead bandit and drove it through his ribs.

SHLUNK.

He gasped. Spit blood. Reached for me.

Too late.

The one next to me was choking a slow death.

I turned.

THRUST.

The one by the fire me was still choking on the knife.

I walked over.

THRUST.

The spear slid through his throat clean. Blood soaked the shaft. He fell like a sack of grain.

I took a breath.

Only one left in the treeline.

I saw him bolt--just a flicker of motion in the dark.

I followed.

Silent. Measured. Efficient.

Smooth is fast.

An old saying. Quote by an old Sentinel.

Varo used to tell me that my title meant something. That my skills meant something.

That I could outrun death, if I stayed sharp.

He died three feet from me.

Let's see what this kid thinks.

Branches clawed at my face. Twigs cracked beneath us. The forest flashed past in gray streaks of moonlight and shadow.

He ran like hell. But fear burns energy quick. He stumbled--nearly tripped--and burst into a clearing.

Small camp. Sagging tents. Crates stacked like teeth. Horses for more than the number of bandits. Graves. Fresh dirt.

He scrambled for a sword. Hands shaking. Helmet crooked. Breastplate unbuckled.

A kid. A scared, murderous kid.

He turned, saw me.

"Wait--please! I got coin! I got women, boats--whatever you want--just don't--"

I didn't answer.

He swung. Wild. Desperate.

Wrong foot forward.

I parried with my shield, twisted under his reach, and drove the spear up under his jaw.

SPLURCH.

His body spasmed. Blood sprayed my arms in a hot, metallic mist. He dropped, twitching.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Then stilled.

"There's a reason knights wear neck protection," I muttered.

The forest went quiet.

No birds. No voices.

Just smoke, blood, and silence.

I exhaled.

My feet crunched through broken branches and brittle leaves as I made my way back through the trees.

Back to the original campfire, or what remained of it.

Corpses.

Ashes.

Broken instruments.

I walked past Keldak's body. Baraca's. Renas's cooling blood soaked into the moss near her flute.

I sat on a stump.

My armor stank--sweat, smoke, death. Blood crusted in the joints. A nick above my eyebrow leaked slowly.

I sat in it. All of it.

There were five of us.

Now there's just me.

Again.

Names I barely had time to learn. Faces already starting to blur.

I reached into my pouch past the yellow flowers and touched the edge of the birthday gift I'd brought for myself.

Didn't pull it out.

I stared at the dying embers of a stolen fire. Around me, the forest waited--hungry and still.

Inside?

Just cold.

There's a reason I don't want to do this anymore.

It's too damn messy.

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The fire hissed in the silence, its last embers licking against scorched logs and spilled blood.

I sat there too long.

Long enough for the warmth to fade from the corpses. Long enough to feel the ache settle into my bones like rot. The smell of blood and burnt hair clung to my skin. The crack in my knuckle throbbed with every heartbeat.

Then the boy's voice echoed back--

"Women."

It pulled me upright like a rope around the neck.

I rose from the stump and turned toward the bandit camp. My boots squelched through grass matted with blood. Somewhere nearby, a vulture called. The night pressed in tighter.

I scanned the clearing with new eyes.

There were graves. Hastily dug. Half-collapsed. One of them yawned open to reveal two bare feet tangled together--two bodies in a single hole.

Sloppy. Cruel.

Nearby, crates spilled over with loot: jewelry, gold coins, silken underclothes--some still stained with old blood. Trophies. Trade goods. Enough supplies for a dozen more men than I fought. Enough horses, too. Saddles lined up like they were waiting to be claimed.

This wasn't a ragtag crew of deserters. It was anoperation.

Organized. Funded. Hidden beneath the mask of desperation.

My stomach soured.

I moved from tent to tent, shoving aside canvas flaps and kicking over makeshift cots.

Trinkets. Rotting rations. A letter home from a boy telling his sister he'd made friends in 'the woods.' I tore it in half without reading the rest.

No strategies. No maps. No codes. Just rot.

Then I found the main tent, on the far side of the camp.

Bigger. Cleaner. Reinforced stakes in the corners. Guarded by silence.

The moment I touched the flap, a chill scraped down my spine.

I pushed it open.

And there they were.

Four women, bound to thick timber posts driven deep into the ground. Their wrists were tied behind them with steel-threaded rope, arms pinned tight. Each of their throats bore a silver collar, cruelly elegant, inset with three pulsing rubies--enchanted to shimmer softly in the dark.

Imperial Obedience collar, set onPacify

My blood turned to ice.

Anyone trained in the arcane arts knew what these were. So did anyone with a conscience. Or a graveyard's worth of guilt.

The last time I saw these, they circled a pit filled with ninety-seven bodies. Half still warm.

I stepped inside. Quiet. Careful. The air smelled of sweat, old fear, and something sharp--like ozone after a lightning strike.

The women didn't move. Eyes open but unfocused, heads lolling slightly. Their chests rose and fell in slow, unnatural rhythm.

Sedated by magic. Bodies muted. Minds muffled.

Their clothing had been stripped down to rags--not even scraps fit for shame. Thin linen. Torn at the seams. No warmth. No dignity. Just a way to display them.

My fists clenched.

The first girl--shorter, stocky, human--was built like a soldier. Thick shoulders, sun-darkened skin, the kind of scars that told of long battles, not sudden assaults. Her black hair clung to her cheeks in damp strands. She looked like someone who refused to break.

Something about her tugged at me. Maybe a face from another life. Maybe one I imagined saving once.

The second stood taller. Ethereal. Definitely elven. Her skin was like moonlight, almost translucent, wrapped tight around lean muscle. A willow tree in human form. Poised, even while slumped. Her hair was white-blonde, braided in an eastern style I hadn't seen in years.

The third woman made the air feel heavier. A half-orc--solid, square-jawed, with braided raven hair and skin the deep green of pine needles at dusk. Her arms were marked with tattooed tallies from shoulder to elbow. Dozens. Each one probably a kill. Or a name. Or both.

And then...

Her.

The flap of the tent stirred behind me.

Moonlight spilled in.

It kissed the skin of the fourth woman like it had been waiting to do so.

She stood taller than the others, spine perfectly aligned despite her state.

A Korthari.

I took a breath and held it.

Ash-gray skin veined faintly with glowing crimson, like magma under obsidian. Her black hair was swept back, woven around the base of two curved horns that arched proudly from her temples. Her ears curved down like blades. A long, sleek tail curled behind her legs, twitching faintly in her magical haze.

And her face--

Beautiful. Terrifying. Regal.

Power and sorrow wrapped in the same expression.

The red glow beneath her skin pulsed once, in sync with the rubies on her collar.

And something inside meshattered.

This wasn't just a kidnapping.

It was trafficking. Possibly sanctioned.

And I was standing in it.

I felt my jaw tighten. My throat closed. The laws were clear: collared captives could not be released. Only two legal outcomes existed.

I didn't speak for a while.

Didn't move.

Then, softly, as though I feared breaking the illusion:

"... Hold on, ladies," I murmured, stepping back. "Let me clean up the bodies. Then I'll come back for you."

Their heads didn't lift.

But one--

The Korthari--

Her tail twitched.

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--Selaena--

The first breath after waking in an Imperial Obedience Collar is always violent.

Like being yanked from sleep and shoved beneath a frozen river. The mind thrashes, lungs burn, and your heartbeat slams into your throat.

When I came to, I was seated cross-legged on packed earth. A thin, scratchy blanket rested over my shoulders. A basin of water and a metal plate of hardtack sat neatly at my feet.

My wrists were unbound. My collar... set toDocile. The middle setting.

I knew what that meant. I knew what usually came next.

Around me, the others still slept in heavy silence--Cara curled on her side, cheek pressed into her arm. Someone had placed a small bowl of berries beside her. Fresh. Undamaged. Peter, the filth with the wandering hands, had looked at her most often.

She'd be at his mercy next.

I took stock. My mind, hazy. My limbs, heavier than they should be. But functioning. Barely.

Being Korthari had its uses. The collar's sedatives hit me softer than they did others. Not ineffective--just dulled. A blessing, if ever there was one.

Outside the tent, someone moved. One set of footsteps. No shouting. No crude laughter or boasting. No boots circling like jackals sniffing carrion.

Too quiet.

I sat up straighter.

The tent flap rustled. A shadow entered.

He did not move like a bandit. He didn't look like one either.

Human. Worn. Sun-browned skin marked by old violence--slashing scars, claw marks, faded burns. His hair was tied back in a simple leather thong, though most of it had come loose. His leather armor was torn at the shoulder, boots caked in mud, blood smeared across one arm.

He walked like a man with nowhere left to run. Or no reason to.

And then I saw hiseyes.

Purple. Faded. Ringed by darkness not from sleeplessness, but from life gone sideways too many times.

"You're not one of them," I said.

His nod was slow. "I was part of the team tracking them."

"... What happened?"

"There are five people alive within half a day's walk from here," he answered, voice flat.

The meaning struck like a slap.

The bandits were dead. And so was everyone else.

He was alone.

And then I saw it. A glint of ink as he adjusted his belt--the tattoo on the back of his left hand.

A dragon's maw breathing fire.

A Sentinel.

Not just a warrior. A licensed hunter. Executioner.

From one kind of collar to another.

My throat tightened.

Silence gathered like storm clouds between us.

"We should be direct," he said at last. "Selaena, isn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "And you are?"

"Marcus."

He lowered himself into a seated crouch, his coat fanning around him. One hand went to his pocket. From it, he drew two things, and laid them between us like offerings to some old god.

A dagger.

And the control disc.

My breath hitched. The collar master key shimmered faintly with activated glyphs. Bound to his aura. Only someone with a legal signature could use it.

"You don't have to kill us," I whispered. "By law, you can--"

"I know the law," he interrupted. "The local viscount is a sadist who collects women like pelts. I'm not turning you over."

The certainty in his voice was a blade of its own.

"There are fates worse than death," he said.

He looked at me. Really looked.

I met his gaze, hoping to find hesitation. A flicker of uncertainty. Anything.

Instead, I saw... acceptance. Buried under exhaustion. Edged by guilt. But solid.

"I don't want to go back with any more deaths on my conscience."

His fingers grazed the disc.

The magic surged like a crack of thunder in my spine.

My body jolted. Limbs unlocked.

Lucid. The highest setting. Awareness. Freedom of motion.

I gasped as color returned to the world, the collar still present but no longer dominant.

"You're free," Marcus said softly. "Take your chance."

He nudged the dagger toward me. Its hilt brushed my knee.

I stared at it.

Rage and disbelief coiled tight in my chest. I seized the weapon, lifted it to his throat in one smooth motion.

But I didn't strike.

Not yet.

His head tilted, baring his neck willingly. Eyes closed. Calm. Accepting.

Peaceful.

Who dies peacefully?

His skin was sun-warmed and weathered. His jaw sharp. His lashes darker than they had any right to be. Handsome. Strong. Wounded.

Too handsome for a man so ready to be forgotten.

I found myself studying him--each scar, each crack in the armor of a life barely held together.

What made him this way?

"I can do this," I said, voice trembling.

"Then do it," he replied without flinching.

"You're a Sentinel," I whispered. "You're supposed to be the terror. The executioner. Not this... martyr."

"I lost hope a long time ago."

"Well, I haven't."

"Do it!"

"I can't!"

"You have to!"

"I won't!"

The dagger fell.

A drop of blood curved down his neck.

We stared across the space between us, both daring the other to break.

Then my markings lit in the gloom, red sigils pulsing beneath my skin. The glow danced over his cheeks and jaw, over eyes that refused to leave mine.

"There's another option," I murmured.

Marcus blinked. "And what's that, Firefly?"

The nickname. I didn't know if I wanted to slap him or kiss him.

"Come with us," I said. "Free us. Stay with us."

He looked at me for a long time. No snort of disbelief. No rejection.

Just a man considering whether to live again.

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Chapter 2- Breaking and Mending

Personal Diary Entry 1424

Marcus Hale

I think that hope has a composite emotion to it.

Hope is just a sibling to fear.

They were raised by the same parent but saw different halves of the story.

Fear was born first---raised by a father who had seen too much of the world's cruelty. Fear learned to recognize safety as fleeting. It rationed happiness like bread during a famine. It hid in shadows, always bracing for the blow it knew would come.

Hope came later. It saw the same father---older, quieter, struggling to build something better. Hope bore witness to the same hands that once left scars now planting gardens, repairing roofs, holding children. It looked at the world and believed---not in what was, but in what could be.

Hope rests on a bed of bones that Fear built with their bare hands.

And yet, it still dares to dream.

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10th of Aelon-

The Former Bandit Camp

--Seleana--

He's sitting by the fire, stirring a stew made from whatever he scavenged together. His back is to the tent, but the tight line of his shoulders betrays the tension he carries. Each motion is precise, restrained. Controlled.

He's not at ease. Not really.

And I can't blame him.

Not after what I asked.

The words still hang in the air like smoke, curling around my thoughts, refusing to dissipate.

We should leave.

It would be safer, cleaner--get these collars off and scatter to the winds before the Empire catches up. Before more blood is spilled.

But something in me resists that logic.

My markings still glow faintly along my skin, whispering of danger... and something else.

I press my hands to my thighs and exhale slowly.

Ancestors, guide me.

I pray that when I introduce the girls, he sees what I see--what we've become to one another. More than survivors. More than victims.

I was the first to be captured--ripped from my companions by an Imperial patrol and thrown into the dark. Then came Cara, Liora... and eventually Brosha. Women from different corners of the world, dragged into the same nightmare. Strangers, at first. Unwilling company.

But time changes things.

Weeks passed. We were locked together, surviving off scraps and silence, curled against one another for warmth in cages colder than death. And in that bleakness, something started to grow.

Cara, ever the storyteller, filled the dark with tales of misplaced treasure, scandalous love affairs, and criminal escapes that were definitely exaggerated.

Liora--quiet, measured--spoke of ancient ruins and the sacred glades of her homeland.

Brosha? Her way of coping was different. Blunt. Brutal. She'd calmly describe all the ways she planned to kill the guards once she got her hands free. It was terrifying... and oddly comforting.

And me?

I didn't share much. At first, anyway. My stories don't go over well in most company. Bloodlines marked by fire and shadow don't usually invite sympathy.

But they pulled bits of it out of me. Question by question. Until I told them everything I could.

And they listened.

Really listened.

No revulsion. No mockery. No fear.

They became more than cellmates. They became something precious. Something dangerous.

Hope.

Now they sleep behind me, still recovering from the collar's grip. I should be resting too, preparing for whatever comes next.

But instead I watch him.

Marcus. Sentinel. Stranger. Executioner... Savior.

I wonder how quickly he'll walk away once he knows my truth.

Part of me prays he doesn't.

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--Marcus--

I don't know how I'll face Keldak's children.

I've done it before--delivered the words, handed over a coin purse, and tried to pretend that "sorry" meant anything at all. It never lands right. The spouses try not to cry. The children don't understand why someone so strong won't be coming home again.

What do you say to a daughter whose father died screaming in a forest she'll never see?

To a boy who's already buried his mother, and now has to dig again?

You don't say anything. You just watch the grief devour them and pretend the pain isn't yours.

But it is.

It always is.

...

The sound of the women's voices drifts across the clearing--an uneven melody carried on the wind. Tension ripples under their words, but there's something else in the undertone: warmth. Fragile camaraderie. The kind of laughter that doesn't quite trust itself.

Cara--small, fierce--has the loudest voice, slicing through the night with a kind of brassy cheer that's infectious whether you want it to be or not.

Liora's voice is low, like mist weaving through harp strings. There's intellect there, refined and cautious. You could get lost in it if you weren't careful.

Brosha speaks like a drum. Heavy, patient, thunderous. Not angry--at least, not just angry--but grounded. She sounds like someone who knows exactly what it costs to be soft, and refuses to pay that price again.

And her.

Seleana.

The horned one. The Korthari.

Her voice is the edge of a sword buried in ice. Controlled, but burning just beneath the surface. There's too much weight behind every word. Too much history.

She's explaining what happened. To them. To me. To us.

It's strange--hearing yourself spoken about in the third person, when the person doing the speaking is all you can think about.

I had something else planned for my birthday. Something quiet. Personal.

Instead, I found prophecy wrapped in a woman's skin. A storm bottled in duskstone and fire.

She is a sovereign carved from hardship. A reminder that some things break beautifully.

I will bring her ruin.

I always do.

But until then... I will steal what moments I can.

...

In my musings, I let my guard slip. My shield rests beside me. My pack is open, the documentation on the women sticks out. The only thing I'm holding is a wooden spoon, stirring the pot.

So when the cold kiss of steel presses against the side of my throat, I don't jump.

A second blade finds the space beneath my arm, wedged into the gap in my armor where leather meets skin.

The hands holding them are steady. Calloused.

"Sentinel," Brosha growls behind me, breath warm against my ear, "I do not trust you."

Her voice is quiet but thick with warning. Not trembling rage. Not recklessness.

Control. Calculated. Prepared.

"You may have fooled Mrs. Seleana," she continues, "but you will not fool me."

I glance toward the spoon still in my hand.

"Not planning to," I murmur. "I doubt you're easy to fool."

The dagger at my neck doesn't move. Instead, it presses deeper. Blood beads against my skin and slides slowly down my collarbone.

I put the spoon down.

The tent flap rustles. More footsteps.

The women step into view--Seleana first. Eyes sharp. Measuring.

Cara, behind her, hands on hips like she's about to launch into an entirely inappropriate joke.

Liora moves with a serenity that feels... practiced. Like she was taught to glide, not walk. Her eyes, however, are all business.

I hum softly--an old tune, something half-remembered from my youth. A cadence I used to keep calm during battle.

Seleana watches me, but I can tell she's really watching them. She's gauging, measuring, balancing roles like a queen judging a war council.

Brosha wants to bury me. Cara wants to bake me a pie. Liora wants to dissect me like a magical artifact.

And I?

I'm too tired to do anything but wait.

Liora is looking at me closely with silver energy pooling over her irises. She is assessing my energy, trying to assess my capabilities.

An Elven mage in a slave camp.

I hope she ignores the darkness that she will see.

"He is a stranger. A servant of the Empire that collared us," Brosha hisses, voice trembling like distant thunder.

"He gave us back our minds," Cara shoots back. "He could've snapped his fingers and turned us into thralls. Instead, he made stew."

Liora says nothing. Instead, she kneels. Fingers weaving slow circles in the dirt. Wisps of silver gather beneath her palms, coalescing into delicate filaments of light.

Spiritwalker.

Not common. Not safe.

Her magic slithers across the forest floor like vines chasing sunlight--silent and beautiful.

"Stop," I whisper, too soft.

Tendrils of power reach out.

They seek to look deep into my soul and walk those shadowed halls.

They touch me, and die.

Her magic turns black at the edge of my boots, curling like burnt paper, hissing as it melts into sludge. The glowing orb in her hands flickers--then implodes with a sharp, vacuumed crack.

The dragon tattoo on my hand pulses, casting a brief light.

Wards--imperial brand. Etched onto my heart. Designed to burn away wild magic before it can root.

The women gasp. Brosha's daggers jerk tighter.

"What did you do, Sentinel?"

Liora falls back, gasping. Silver streaks shiver down her cheeks.

"Mirrors of Gold... Threads of Ash... Footsteps across the river of time..."

Cara rushes to her. Seleana joins, voice taut with concern.

But Liora's already moving. Crawling toward me like a pilgrim toward flame. Her eyes widen--not in fear--but awe.

She touches my cheek. Her fingers tremble.

Her voice reverts to native Elvish.

"What are you?" she whispers. "Ash and salt? Fire and shadow? Who built you?"

I blink slowly, and respond likewise. "I am clay and water. Fear me not Spiritwalker."

She nods, lips parting in quiet confirmation. Then she smiles. Smug, like a scholar who's just solved a riddle the universe whispered in her sleep.

"I believe," she says aloud, "in some human lands, they vote."

Cara's hand shoots up. "Can we vote on whether he takes off his shirt?"

Brosha snorts. "Next you'll be asking for a bridal necklace."

Liora ignores them. She lifts the spoon I abandoned earlier, tastes the broth, and hums in satisfaction.

"Two votes for trusting the human."

She glances at Seleana.

"Horned Lady, what say you?"

Seleana rises, slow and steady. "We need a guide. Protection. If he offers both, and doesn't harm us--"

She pauses.

"I say let him stay."

Cara beams. "He hasn't stabbed me yet. That's a great start."

I expect Brosha to snap. To protest.

Instead, she growls low. Her voice is flint striking steel.

"I trust your judgment, Mrs. Seleana. But trust without proof is blind. He claims to be a Sentinel. Let him show it."

I finally speak. "Would you care for a demonstration, Mrs. Brosha?"

She lifts her chin. "A contest then. To show us who you are."

The fire crackles.

The others look between us. Liora's fingers twitch in anticipation. Cara practically bounces.

But Seleana... she just watches.

Quiet. Measured.

Something deeper swirls in her eyes.

A storm. A decision waiting to be made.

I rise to my feet.

Blood still drips from the cut on my neck.

"Then let's begin."

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--Cara--

Classic red-blooded man. Walks into camp, cooks a half-decent stew, and then volunteers for a pissing match like it's a talent show. All that's missing is a shirtless wood-chopping demonstration while a bard plays violin in the background.

I'd really hate for Tusky to kill him.

At least... not before I get a better look. Preferably when he'snot layered in bloody leather.

It's been a long time since I've had anything resembling fun. The last few months have been a rotating door of leers, leashes, and lies. Those pigs who caught us? Barely more than boys with blades. I flirted a little with that Peter guy--touched some leg, laughed at his jokes. Got me some extra rations before he got any ideas.

I'm not above playing the game. Not when survival's on the line.

But this morning... I woke up to a bowl of fresh berries.

Not rations. Not crumbs. Berries. Bright red, hand-picked, and arranged like someone gave a damn about presentation.

I asked Seleana--she said it wasn't her. Brosha doesn't bother with niceties. And Liora? She'd have never put in the effort.

So that leaves Marcus.

But why?

He didn't linger nearby, waiting for thanks. Didn't even meet my eyes when Brosha was breathing down his neck like a storm about to break. No smirk. No heat. Just... steady, like I didn't even register.

Not that I'm desperate, but damn, a girl notices.

Ugh. There I go again.

Focus, Cara.

Maybe the berries meant nothing. A random act of kindness from a man who's too broken to bother with ulterior motives.

But when has a man ever given me something without expecting something in return?

And why do Ihope this one's different?

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--Liora--

I watch them--Marcus and Brosha--like an academic observing predators in a controlled enclosure. They eye each other: assessing strengths and weaknesses. A duel is inevitable now. It always is, with creatures made more of instinct than logic.

He offered the challenge. She chose the weapons. He set the rules. All very tribal. All very male.

They call it "proving worth." I call it noise.

I've already told them--he is not a threat. Not to us. Not to me.

They didn't listen.

They never do.

Perhaps they still think of me as some half-baked hedge-witch, slinging charms and herbs like a common conjurer. But I am a Spiritwalker--a soul-reader, born of the Silver Glade and trained beneath moonlit boughs where the trees themselves whisper secrets.

I've tasted a hint of Marcus's essence. His thread, as the elders would say.

Our last captors? Their souls reeked of rot. They tasted like iron left in the sun--sour, twisted, angry. Things that should've died long ago.

But Marcus?

He tastes like wine from a buried cellar. A bottle sealed during the fall of a kingdom. Left to age in silence until the dust forgot its name.

Not spoiled. Preserved.

He is power unused. A sword sheathed too long. A hymn no one dares to sing aloud.

He is potential.

He is also--unfortunately--infuriatingly attractive. Tall. Scarred. Tired in the way that makes women want to cradle and curse in equal measure.

He's dangerous. But danger doesn't frighten me. Not when it hides behind eyes like his.

Let the orc-girl swing her blades. I've already seen what matters.

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--Brosha--

Something in my heartbeat shifted the moment I woke.

The collars are still on. The chains may be gone, but the world hasn't changed. Not really.

Our captors are dead.

But a new predator stands among us.

I know the scent.

Gromag--greatest hunter of my people--once tracked a demon across two continents, just by smell. My mother told the tale like scripture. I am not Gromag. I am half-orc. Half-human. But my blood still remembers.

And he smells of old iron. Of storm-washed wood and dying fire. Of ancient promises written in blood.

He smells like prophecy.

I've tried to shake it, ignore it, reason it away.

But every time I look at him, my skin itches. Not with fear. Not even hate.

Recognition.

Something in him calls to something in me. Something I'd rather keep buried.

I know what Seleana sees. What Cara flirts with. What Liora studies.

But I don't trust it. I don't trust him.

A man who smells like thunder has no business in our lives. He doesn't belong in the group we built with blood and teeth.

And yet, I know how this ends.

I will not survive this duel.

I've known that since I challenged him.

But I will not allow these women--my women--to follow a fire they don't understand.

He radiates danger like a forge breathes heat.

So I'll do what needs to be done.

If he has dark intentions, then I will expose his true heart in the battle.

I'll hold him. Delay him. Allow Seleana and the others to flee.

May the spirits guide my hands true.

Mother, I come to you.

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--Seleana--

Brosha chose her daggers.

The same curved blades she'd pressed to Marcus's throat earlier. They glinted like polished fangs, her hands reverent as she tested their weight. No one had to ask why--those weapons were sacred to her. An extension of her will.

Marcus?

Nothing.

No sword. No spear. No armor. Just a man standing barefoot in a square he'd drawn in the dirt--six strides wide, six long. A traditional Sentinel dueling ring. The rules are simple: force your opponent out of the ring, or make them yield.

Or break them completely.

My stomach turns.

This cannot end well.

Surely there's another way--a compromise, a truce, anything other than a blade deciding our future. But no. Brosha is iron-bound in her belief. She sees Marcus as a threat: to our safety, our freedom... maybe even our souls.

And Marcus? He just seems tired. Not bored. Not arrogant.

Calm.

He stands unaware of the tension surrounding him.

"On my mark," I call out, my voice tight. "You may begin."

Two nods.

Brosha bounces on the balls of her feet, rolling her shoulders, coiled like a bowstring ready to snap. She radiates heat, anticipation, and something else--fear. She doesn't want to lose. Not in front of us.

Marcus hums. That same melody from the fire earlier. Slow. Gentle. Familiar.

Why does it tug at something in me?

He doesn't move. Doesn't even raise his fists. He just waits.

"Mark!"

Brosha circles. Like a predator testing an uncertain kill.

Then she strikes. Fast.

A flash of silver cuts the air near Marcus's cheek. A test. A warning.

He doesn't flinch.

"I thought you meant to kill me, Mrs. Brosha," he says softly, still humming.

She slices again. This time, blood blooms along his jaw--thin, precise.

"If you wish to dance," he says, stepping into her space, "then dance."

What follows is... poetry.

Marcus moves like wind shaped into flesh. He doesn't attack--he guides. Deflects. Redirects.

Brosha's blades meet air more often than not. His arms twist and slip around hers, turning lethal strikes into wide arcs that glance harmlessly away.

A step. A pivot. A counter-pressure shift. His body is water shaped to purpose.

His violet eyes glow faintly. He's smiling.

Not mockingly. But like something old inside him has stirred awake.

Brosha snarls, her pace increasing. She lashes out--jab, twist, low sweep. Her attacks grow wilder, stronger. Desperation bleeds through her technique.

Liora stares, breathless. Cara watches in reverent silence, her fingers twitching like she's trying to memorize the rhythm of his movement. Right foot thumping the dirt.

And me? I'm praying.

Not to win. Not to lose.

Just... let them live.

Then--Marcus moves.

She feints. He steps into her space. His arm wraps around hers, foot hooking behind her ankle. He twists, aiming to drop her.

Brosha counters with pure instinct--rolls over his back, legs latching like a vine. A dagger flashes toward his throat.

He spins, and slams her to the ground. Dirt explodes around them as they crash together, rolling, limbs tangled like mating snakes.

Brosha grunts. A blade scrapes his ribs. He catches her wrist, wrenches it sideways. She kicks his thigh. He shifts, pinning her legs underneath his waist. Her torso on the ground. Her arm twisted at an awkward angle.

"Yield," Marcus growls.

"NO!"

"Yield!"

"NEVER!"

CRACK.

The sound splits the air like a bone snapped in a storm. Brosha gasps--a sound not of rage, but pain.

She freezes.

"I..." she pants, voice ragged, "I yield."

Silence.

I nearly move--nearly snatch a dagger myself and drive it into his side. Brosha is clutching her arm, breath ragged. Her expression is pure anguish. Water threatening to flow from her eyes.

I trusted him.

I chose him.

But then--

Marcus kneels.

He places one hand against her shoulder and exhales. Beads of white energy gather beneath his eyes, trailing down his arms like liquid moonlight. They pool into glowing lines, weaving into intricate tattoos that shimmer across his forearms.

A bound spell.

Healing magic.

He whispers something to Brosha--too soft for me to hear. She blinks at him, uncertain.

Then the light flows from his hands into her skin.

We watch.

Muscles knit. Bone shifts. Her arm realigns with a sickening crunch--but it holds. Color returns to her face, and the veins beneath her green skin throb with vitality.

The magic fades, but the warmth lingers.

Brosha stares up at him, lips parted, stunned.

And Marcus?

He smiles gently. Offers her his hand like a knight in a storybook.

I hold my breath.

She takes it.

The camp seems to exhale all at once.

Cara claps, giddy. "See? I told you he wasn't a bastard!"

Liora crosses her arms, unimpressed. "This is no proof of character. It only proves he's more complex than we understood."

Brosha rises slowly, still cradling her arm. She doesn't speak, but her gaze is different now. Less flint. More... cloudy.

And me?

I feel something under my skin. A burning--not pain, but pressure. My markings blaze red beneath the collar, light pulsing from deep within.

Marcus turns toward me.

His face is smudged with dirt, flecked with blood, and lit by that insufferable, impossibly confident grin.

"So what is it, Firefly?" he asks, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Am I capable enough for you? Enough for this group?"

My lips twitch despite myself.

Gods help me.

"I hope so," I whisper.

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Thank you for reading. Please make sure to leave any comments, criticism or suggestions.

The next couple chapters should be posted soon. Going through the final rounds of edits. The next part posted will include 4 chapters together.

Which of the ladies seems the most interesting to you so far?

<3 QuietYearning 7/7/25