Blood and Burden

The wagon creaked and groaned as it rolled steadily along the dirt road, the rhythmic clatter of its wheels blending with the soft rustle of leaves overhead. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape as Nathanael and Amara made their way southward. The journey had been uneventful so far, the monotony of the road broken only by occasional snippets of conversation. Amara, ever curious and unafraid to voice her thoughts, had turned the topic to Augé—or, as she knew him, the Earl.

"So," she began, her tone casual but laced with intrigue, "the Earl is your uncle. That makes your mother his sister, right? Which means she was from the Mignard family before she married into the Greinthsions." She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in thought. "I don't get it. Both families are powerful, right? So why marry into another powerful family? Wouldn't that just… I don't know, cause problems? Like, too many egos in one room?"

Nathanael glanced at her, his expression a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation. "I'm not exactly an expert on political marriages," he admitted, his voice dry. "I spent most of my life either in my quarters reading or on the training grounds. The intricacies of noble alliances weren't exactly part of the curriculum."

Amara snorted, a smirk playing on her lips. "Figures. You nobles are all the same—too busy with your swords and your books to notice the world falling apart around you."

Nathanael didn't respond, his gaze drifting back to the road ahead. The truth was, he had never given much thought to the politics of his family's alliances. His mother's marriage to the Duke had always been a distant fact, something he accepted without question. But now, with Amara's probing, he found himself wondering—what had driven his parents to unite two such powerful houses? And at what cost?

The hours passed in a blur, the sun dipping lower and lower until it finally disappeared behind the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. As darkness began to settle over the land, Nathanael guided the wagon off the road and into a small clearing surrounded by dense trees. They set up camp with the ease of travelers accustomed to life on the road—Nathanael gathering firewood and kindling a small blaze, while Amara pitched their tents with practiced efficiency. The fire crackled softly, its warm glow casting flickering shadows on their faces as they ate a simple meal in companionable silence.

When the stars began to dot the night sky, their brilliance undimmed by the haze of city lights, exhaustion finally caught up with them. Amara retreated to her tent, her bow resting within arm's reach, while Nathanael took the first watch. He sat by the fire, his sword across his lap, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. But as the hours dragged on, the weight of fatigue grew too heavy to ignore. His eyelids drooped, his head nodding forward despite his best efforts to stay alert. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

The night was still, the forest silent save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. But then, faint and almost imperceptible, the underbrush began to stir. The sound grew louder, more deliberate, until it was unmistakable—footsteps, many of them, moving with practiced stealth. Shadows emerged from the trees, their forms rough and menacing, their weapons glinting in the faint light of the dying fire.

The band of men moved with the precision of those who had done this many times before. They communicated in silent gestures, their eyes scanning the camp with predatory focus. One of them, a burly figure with a scar running down his cheek, nodded toward Nathanael and Amara. Two of his companions crept forward, their movements fluid and unhurried, until they were standing over the sleeping figures.

In an instant, they struck. Nathanael awoke to the sensation of hands clamping down on his arms, his instincts screaming at him to fight back. But before he could react, a blow to the back of his head sent him spiraling into unconsciousness. Amara fared no better, her reflexes dulled by sleep as she was subdued with brutal efficiency.

*****

A slap came without warning, a sharp crack that jolted Nathanael awake. His head snapped to the side, the sting of the blow radiating across his cheek as his vision swam back into focus. The first thing he saw was the face of a man—rugged, unshaven, and marked by a patch over one eye. The man leaned in close, his breath reeking of cheap ale and decay, and grinned, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.

"Where'd you come from, boy?" the bandit leader demanded, his voice rough and mocking. He reached out and yanked the gag from Nathanael's mouth, the coarse fabric scraping against his lips.

Nathanael coughed, his throat dry and raw, before answering through gritted teeth. "A town a couple of hours down the road. Now who are you, and what do you want with us?"

The bandits erupted into laughter, a cacophony of harsh, grating sounds that echoed through the clearing. The leader, still grinning, shook his head as if Nathanael had told a particularly amusing joke. "Do we need an introduction to be bandits?" he sneered, his tone dripping with mockery. "You're a funny one, ain't ya?"

His attention shifted to Amara, who sat bound beside Nathanael, her eyes blazing with defiance despite the gag in her mouth. The leader's grin widened as he stepped closer, his gaze lingering on her with a predatory gleam. "Well, well," he drawled, pulling a knife from his belt. "Ain't you a pretty thing?" He reached out, the blade glinting in the firelight, and sliced through the fabric of her shirt, exposing a sliver of her chest—and the intricate sigil etched into her skin.

The leader froze, his expression shifting from leering to one of genuine surprise. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, his voice low. "You've got the face, the body, and the power of the sigil. Life sure ain't fair, is it?" He turned to his men, his grin returning as he gestured toward Amara. "Boys, we're gonna have some fun tonight."

The bandits cheered, their voices raucous and eager, as two of them moved forward to untie Amara. Nathanael's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing as he struggled against the ropes that bound him. "Stop!" he shouted, his voice raw with desperation. "Don't you dare touch her!"

The leader turned back to Nathanael, his expression darkening. Without a word, he drove his knife into Nathanael's thigh, the blade sinking deep into the muscle. Nathanael cried out, the pain searing through him like fire, but the leader only leaned in closer, his breath hot against Nathanael's face. "Shut your mouth, boy," he growled. "Or I'll make sure you never speak again."

Amara, now free from the ropes, struggled against the bandits who held her, her movements frantic but futile. She reached for her power, the sigil on her chest glowing faintly, but nothing happened. The leader noticed and let out a bark of laughter. "Your little tricks won't work on us, girl," he said, his tone almost pitying. "That mark of yours? It's from a bad deity. We know how to handle your kind."

Nathanael's vision blurred as the leader pulled the knife from his thigh, blood pouring from the wound. The pain was excruciating, but he forced himself to stay conscious, his mind racing for a way out. The leader raised the knife again, this time aiming for Nathanael's lower chest. Nathanael twisted his body at the last moment, the blade slicing into his side but missing any vital organs. The leader cursed, his expression a mix of frustration and grudging respect.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that," the leader said, wiping the blood from his blade. "But you won't dodge the next one."

Nathanael's breathing was ragged, his strength fading fast. But as the leader raised the knife once more, Nathanael's lips moved, his voice barely audible as he murmured something under his breath. The leader paused, his curiosity piqued, and leaned in closer. "What's that, boy? You got some last words?"

Nathanael's head snapped up, his eyes glowing a deep, unnatural red. "Cunts," he growled, his voice resonating with a power that seemed to shake the very air.

In an instant, the ropes binding him snapped, the tree behind him splintered, and the leader was hurled backward as if struck by an invisible force. He crashed into another tree with a sickening crunch, the impact leaving him slumped and unconscious. The other bandits froze, their eyes wide with shock and fear.

Amara, seizing the opportunity, twisted free from the loosened grip of her captors. With a swift, practiced motion, she kicked one bandit in the crotch and spun to deliver a back kick to another, sending both men crumpling to the ground. But before she could catch her breath, a third bandit lunged at her, his sword raised high.

Nathanael moved faster than thought, closing the distance between them in a blur of motion. His fist connected with the bandit's jaw with a force that sent the man sprawling, his sword clattering to the ground. Nathanael stood over him, his chest heaving, his eyes still glowing with that eerie red light.