Chapter 1

Dead Eye

The loot hits the courtyard stones with a satisfying thunk.

I watch Hyperion dump the last crate beside the others—silks, probably, or maybe silverware—and I'm already counting coin in my head. The haul from the King's Road job is good. Real good. Enough to keep us fed and armed through winter, with plenty left over for the luxuries that make this shit life worth living.

"Careful with that one!" Skeet squawks, hopping around a wooden chest like his feathers are on fire. "There's glass inside! Expensive glass!"

Iron Jaw kicks the chest anyway. Something shatters.

"Oops."

Skeet screeches. I grin. It's been a good day.

Fort Ridge sits in the belly of the Overgrown Woodland like a rotting tooth, all crumbling stone and strangling vines. The iron-wood trees grow so thick overhead that even at midday, it's twilight down here. Moss carpets everything. The air smells like wet earth and old violence. It's the perfect place for people who don't want to be found.

People like us.

Hyperion hauls another crate from the wagon, muscles bunching under his fur. The Minotaur's a mountain—one horn broken off at the base. 

He stacks the crate, then something in the wagon catches his attention. He tilts his head, reaches in, and pulls out a large burlap sack.

It's moving.

"Oh!" Barnaby appears from nowhere, clapping his hands together. "You found it! Wonderful!"

I go still. "Barnaby. What's in the sack?"

Barnaby Highborn III is a problem. A useful problem, but a problem. He's a Dark Elf—tall, too thin, dressed in what used to be fine aristocratic finery but is now just tattered rags held together by dried blood and delusion. His monocle's cracked. One of his eyes is normal violet; the other's a swirling purple vortex that makes you dizzy if you look too long. He's also completely, utterly, magnificently insane.

The sack shrieks.

Everyone freezes.

Skeet drops the jewelry he's pawing through. Iron Jaw's hand moves to his axe. Even Edith—standing by the cook fire with her wooden spoon—goes quiet.

"Barnaby," I say slowly. "Please tell me you grabbed the gold from the carriage."

"Gold?" He giggles, high and sharp. "Oh, Dead Eye. Gold is so pedestrian. So... forgettable." He walks over to Hyperion, takes the sack with surprising gentleness. "I found something much better!"

The sack thrashes violently. Something inside kicks hard enough to make the burlap bulge.

"Is that a pig?" Skeet ventures, edging closer. "Did you steal livestock?"

"A wild cat?" Iron Jaw suggests.

"Better!" Barnaby unties the sack with a theatrical flourish. "I found a doll!"

He upends the sack.

Out tumbles a young dark elf woman.

She hits the courtyard stones hard, bound and gagged and furious. Even tied up, she's clearly highborn—pale skin, sharp features, silver hair that's somehow still perfect despite being stuffed in a sack for hours. Her dress is silk, midnight blue, embroidered with gold thread. Jewelry glitters at her throat and wrists.

The courtyard goes silent.

She thrashes, muffled screams coming from behind the gag. Her eyes are wild, scanning all of us—the crumbling fort, the stolen loot, the gang of criminals staring down at her.

Barnaby kneels beside her, pats her head like she's a pet. "Isn't she precious?"

She tries to headbutt him.

I walk over. Slow. I reach out, pull the gag down.

She sucks in a breath. Then: "Do you imbeciles have ANY idea who I am?!"

Her voice could cut glass.

"No," I say flatly. "Who are you?"

She draws herself up, even bound and on the ground, like she's addressing servants. "I am Lady Cecily Ashdown, daughter of Colonel Mortimer Ashdown, Commander of the Black Vipers and Lord High Inquisitor of the Eastern Provinces!"

The name hits me like a warhammer to the chest.

Ashdown.

Everything stops. The world narrows to that single word. My hand moves—instinctive, automatic—to my eye patch. Fingers brush the worn leather.

"My father," Cecily continues, "will find you. He will hang every last one of you from the walls of this pathetic hovel. He will—"

"Shut up." My voice comes out flat. Dead.

She blinks, shocked that someone would dare interrupt her.

I stand. Turn away. Can't look at her. Can't think.

Behind me, Iron Jaw speaks, and his voice is hollow. "We're already ghosts."

"What do we do?" Skeet asks. 

I don't answer. Don't know the answer.

“She’s my doll and I am keeping her.” Barnaby demands.

Iron Jaw slaps him around the back of the head, “Idiot.”

Can't give Cecily back. Ashdown won't forgive this. He'll kill us all just to erase the insult to his honor.

Can't keep her. He'll come for her. With armies.

We're trapped.

Skeet's voice breaks the silence, higher than usual. "Maybe... maybe we could ransom her? Send a message, negotiate—"

"No." The word comes out harder than I meant. "Ashdown doesn't negotiate."

The girl lifts her chin. "He'll show mercy if you surrender now."

I laugh. It's a bitter sound. "Your father doesn't know the meaning of the word."

From somewhere in the forest—distant but unmistakable—comes the sound of drums.

War drums.

Methodical. Disciplined. Getting closer.

Hyperion's head snaps toward the tree line. He signs, quick and urgent: Movement. Many.

"How many?" I ask.

He holds up both hands. Opens and closes them. Opens them again.

More than he can count quickly.

Iron Jaw picks up his axe. Skeet's already edging toward the fort's inner keep. Barnaby just smiles, humming something tuneless.

Cecily's face beams. "Daddy! Daddy is coming to safe me.” 

“Shut up, girl,” I growl. 

“And he’s going to hang each of you be the balls,” Cecily says. 

“I don’t have any balls,” Edith says continuing to stir the pot of stew as if dinner was on the cards this evening.

“By the tits, then.” Cecily states. 

The drums are louder now.

I look at my gang. My family. Hyperion, standing ready with his fists clenched. Iron Jaw, resigned but steady. Skeet, terrified but not running yet. Edith, already moving to gather her medical supplies. Barnaby, utterly unconcerned with reality.

And in the center of it all, Lady Cecily Ashdown, bound and furious and completely unaware that her name just painted a target on all of us.

"Get her inside," I order. "Everyone inside. Bar the gates. Hyperion—check the walls, find the weak points. Iron Jaw—inventory weapons. Skeet—you're on watch. Anything moves in those trees, I want to know about it."

"What about the loot?" Skeet asks.

"Leave it. We've got bigger problems."

Edith's already moving, grabbing Cecily by the arm and hauling her upright. She protests, but Edith just drags her toward the keep like she weighs nothing.

I stand in the courtyard, watching the tree line for movement. 

The drums are close now. Very close.

Somewhere in that darkness, Colonel Mortimer Ashdown is coming.

And this time, he won't stop at an eye.