The tallest bandit swaggered forward, his boots kicking little puffs of dust into the air. He squinted at Bram as if trying to decide whether the automaton was a threat or just a rusty scarecrow.
Selira raised both hands casually, palms open, the universal gesture of don't stab me yet.
"Gifts?" she echoed. "I'm afraid I'm in the business of selling, not giving. And I assure you, lamp oil doesn't make for a very fun present."
The second bandit — wiry, with a crooked nose — chuckled. "Don't worry, lass, we'll find a use for it."
"Besides," the third added, hefting an axe over his shoulder, "you've got coin too, I'll wager. Merchants always do."
Selira tilted her head, ponytail brushing her collar. She did have coin, tucked away under a loose plank in Bram's chest compartment. And no, they weren't getting it.
She sighed, muttering just loud enough for Bram to "hear":
"Alright, big guy. Time to earn your keep."
Bram's head jerked slightly at her voice, gears hissing as steam puffed from a vent near his shoulder. The sudden motion made the tall bandit stumble back half a step.
Selira forced a friendly smile. "Last chance, gentlemen. You can walk away, and we'll forget this unpleasant little… misunderstanding."
The wiry one barked a laugh. "Forget it? Oh no, love, this is fate handing us supper!"
That was when Selira gave the smallest snap of her fingers.
Bram moved.
For an automaton, it wasn't graceful — every motion clanked, scraped, and groaned like a wagon with too many nails loose. But strength didn't need grace. Bram swung one massive arm, backhanding the wiry bandit with a sound not unlike a hammer hitting a melon. The man spun into the dirt with a grunt, out cold.
The tall one cursed and drew his sword. The axeman lunged.
Selira darted back, coat flaring. "Bram, left flank!"
The automaton pivoted, intercepting the axe's swing with his forearm. Sparks spat where rusty metal met iron, but Bram held, twisting and shoving the attacker into the ruts of the road. The man yelped as his axe flew from his grip.
That left the tall one. He hesitated, sword wavering, eyes darting between Selira and the automaton.
Selira slipped a hand into her coat pocket. When she pulled it free, a small throwing knife gleamed in the morning light. She didn't throw it — not yet — just spun it lazily between her fingers, a merchant's smile tugging her lips.
"Still want those gifts?" she asked.
The tall one blanched. His sword lowered. He took one step back, then another. Finally, with a curse muttered under his breath, he bolted into the brush, leaving his companions behind.
Selira exhaled, sliding the knife back into her pocket. She nudged Bram's leg. "Good work, as always. You can stop looking scary now."
Bram stood there, chest heaving softly with faint steam bursts, until Selira tapped the side of his arm with her knuckles. Slowly, his posture eased.
She glanced at the groaning axeman, half-buried in weeds. "We'll leave them. If the soldiers find them first, that's their problem. If they limp back home… maybe they'll think twice before waylaying another merchant."
Selira tugged on Bram's strap harness, checking the cargo hadn't shifted too badly in the scuffle. It hadn't. She gave a satisfied nod, dusted her hands, and resumed her walk toward Harrowfield.
The automaton trudged after her, silent as ever, except for the familiar squeak of rusted joints.
"Bandits, soldiers, taxes," she muttered. "Saints save me, the world really hates a woman just trying to make an honest trade."
Bram squeaked again.
Selira smirked. "Yes, yes. You too."
And so they carried on down the dusty road, two unlikely merchants — one flesh, one metal — with the war creeping ever closer.