"Hurry up, we don't have much time!"
Liora's fingers squeezed tighter around Corin's hand as she pulled him deeper into the forest. Her bare feet made no sound on the moss-covered ground, but his leather boots crunched through fallen leaves with every step. The old trees towered above them, their thick branches blocking out most of the moonlight, leaving only scattered patches of silver to guide their way.
"Where are we going?" Corin whispered.
She glanced back at him, her dark eyes gleaming. "Somewhere Master Garrett won't think to look."
Corin felt his stomach clench at the mention of her owner's name. At twenty, he was tall but lean, all sharp angles and nervous energy. His brown tunic was patched at both elbows, his leather breeches worn thin at the knees. The blacksmith's son didn't have much, but what little coin he earned went toward planning their future together.
Liora moved with the grace of someone who'd spent years learning to be invisible. Her dress was coarse brown wool that clung to every curve of her body - the swell of her hips, the narrow dip of her waist, the full roundness of her breasts that strained against the rough fabric. At eighteen, she was beautiful in a way that made men stop and stare, which was exactly why Master Garrett kept her so close.
She led him to a small clearing where moonlight spilled through a gap in the canopy. The grass was soft here, dotted with tiny white flowers that seemed to glow faintly in the darkness.
"There," Liora said, turning to face him. "Now we can talk."
But talking wasn't what she had in mind. Before Corin could speak, she pressed herself against him, her hands sliding up his chest to cup his face. Her lips found his in the moonlight, soft and warm and demanding.
Corin's breath caught in his throat. Even after months of stolen meetings like this, her kiss still made his knees weak. She tasted like honey and something wilder, something that made his blood race.
"Liora," he gasped when she finally pulled back.
She smiled, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You're trembling."
"I'm not—"
Her hand dropped lower, pressing against the hard bulge in his breeches. Corin jerked like he'd been struck by lightning, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
Liora's laughter was low and rich. "Look at you. I barely touch you and you're ready to spill yourself." Her fingers moved slightly, making him groan. "All the other boys who've tried to bed me, they think they know everything. But you..." She squeezed gently through the leather. "You're so pure. So innocent. It makes me want to ruin you."
"Gods," Corin whispered, his whole body shaking.
"Have you ever been with a girl before me?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
He shook his head, his face burning with shame and desire.
"I thought not." Her touch grew bolder. "That's what I love about you, Corin. You look at me like I'm something precious instead of something to be used."
Before he could respond, a man's voice echoed through the forest, rough and angry.
"Liora! Where are you, girl?"
She yanked her hand away like she'd been burned, stepping back so fast she nearly stumbled. Her fingers flew to her neckline, tugging the wool higher to cover the pale swell of her breasts where the dress had slipped down.
"Master Garrett," she whispered, fear replacing the heat in her eyes.
"Liora!" The voice was closer now, accompanied by the crunch of heavy boots and the jingle of coins and sword belt.
She looked at Corin with desperate eyes. "I have to go. If he finds us together—"
"I don't care," Corin said fiercely. "Let him find us. I'll challenge him, I'll—"
"You'll die," she cut him off. "He's killed men for less." She pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "Tomorrow night. The old mill by Greenbrook. Promise me."
"I promise."
Then she was running, her skirts hiked up in both hands, disappearing between the trees like a shadow. Corin stood alone in the moonlit clearing, his body still aching with need, listening to her footsteps fade into the distance.
The walk back to the village of Millbrook took him the better part of an hour. His mind raced the entire way, replaying every word she'd spoken, every touch of her fingers. 'Tomorrow,' he thought. 'Tomorrow I'll tell her my plan.'
He'd been saving every copper piece he earned at the forge, hiding them in a leather pouch beneath a loose floorboard in his room. In another year, maybe two, he'd have enough to buy Liora's freedom from Master Garrett. Then they could be married, have children, build a life together.
The village was quiet this late at night, most of the thatched-roof houses dark and silent. Smoke drifted from a few chimneys, carrying the scent of wood fires and evening meals. Corin's house sat at the end of Mill Street, a two-story structure of timber and stone that had once been his father's pride.
That was before the fever took both his parents within a month of each other. Before his father's second wife, Merel, inherited everything.
The door swung open before he could reach for the handle. Merel stood silhouetted against the firelight, her tall frame draped in a gown of deep green silk that must have cost more than most families saw in a year. Her dark hair was braided and coiled at the nape of her neck to show off the elegant curve of her throat. At thirty-five, she was still beautiful, with full breasts that strained against her bodice and hips that swayed when she walked.
"You're late, stepson," she said, her voice honey-smooth with an edge of steel beneath.
Corin tried to step around her, but she moved to block his path. Her green eyes dropped to his crotch, where evidence of his arousal still pressed against his breeches. A cold smile curved her painted lips.
"Ah. Visiting your little slave whore again, I see."
"Don't call her that," Corin snapped.
"What else would I call her?" Merel stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the rosewater in her hair. "She's property, boy. Her cunt belongs to whoever pays her master's price."
Heat flooded Corin's face. Behind Merel, he caught a glimpse of movement - his stepsister Fira peeking out from the stairs. At fifteen, she had her mother's dark hair but softer features, and she looked at him now with something like pity in her brown eyes.
"Sit," Merel commanded, gesturing toward the wooden table where a flagon of wine and two cups waited.
"I'm tired. I should—"
"Sit."
There was something in her tone that brooked no argument. Corin found himself obeying, sinking into one of the carved chairs while Merel poured wine for both of them. The liquid was dark red, probably worth more than he earned in a month at the forge.
"Do you know what it costs to maintain this house?" Merel asked, settling into the chair across from him. She leaned forward slightly, letting her gown gape open enough to show the deep valley between her breasts. "The taxes alone are five gold pieces each season. Then there's food, firewood, servants..."
Corin had heard variations of this speech before. "I know money is tight."
"Money is gone," she corrected. "Your father left nothing but debts when he died. I've been paying them with what remained of my first husband's fortune, but that well has run dry."
She took a sip of wine, watching him over the rim of her cup. "You're a man grown now, Corin. Twenty years old. Time you started contributing instead of mooning over slaves you'll never afford."
The words hit like a physical blow. "I have a job at the forge—"
"Apprentice wages," Merel waved dismissively. "Barely enough to keep you fed. No, what this family needs is real money. Which is why I've arranged a position for you."
Something cold settled in Corin's stomach. "What kind of position?"
Merel's smile widened. "Lady Catherine needs servants for her manor in Westbridge. She pays handsomely - ten gold pieces a year, plus room and board."
The room seemed to spin around him. "You're selling me."
"I'm saving us," Merel snapped, her mask of civility slipping. "Unless you'd prefer I sell the house and leave all of us begging in the streets."
From the stairs came a soft sob. Fira pressed her hands to her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"How long?" Corin asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Five years," Merel said. "After that, you'll have earned enough to buy your freedom. If you're clever about it."
Five years. It might as well be a lifetime. But if he worked hard, if he saved every coin... 'I could buy Liora's freedom too,' he thought desperately. 'I could come back for her.'
"When?" he managed.
"Tomorrow morning. Lady Catherine's guards will arrive at first light to escort you to Westbridge."
Tomorrow. His meeting with Liora at the mill. He had to see her, had to explain—
"I need to—"
"You need to pack," Merel interrupted. "One bag. Anything that doesn't fit gets left behind."
That night, Corin lay awake on his straw mattress, staring at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling. His few possessions were bundled in a leather satchel beside him - two spare tunics, his father's hunting knife, a wooden cup. Not much to show for twenty years of life.
But he had a plan. He'd wake before dawn, slip out while Merel was still sleeping, and meet Liora at the mill. He'd tell her everything - the forced servitude, his promise to return, his plans to buy her freedom. She'd understand. She'd wait for him.
'Five years,' he told himself. 'I'll work hard, save every piece, and come back wealthy enough to buy her from Garrett. Then we'll be wed, have our own home, our own life.'
The thought kept him warm through the cold hours before dawn.
Corin woke while the sky was still black, his heart racing with anticipation. He dressed quickly in his best tunic and breeches, shouldering his pack and creeping toward the door. Soon he'd be holding Liora again, kissing her, promising her that nothing would keep them apart.
He reached for the door latch and froze.
Three men stood in the lane outside, visible through the small window. They wore black leather armor, swords hanging at their sides, their faces hard beneath steel helms. Lady Catherine's guards.
"Hell," Corin whispered.
One of them pounded on the door, the sound echoing through the house like thunder. Merel appeared from her chamber, already dressed in a traveling gown of midnight blue, her hair perfectly arranged.
"Punctual," she said approvingly, opening the door wide.
"We're here for Corin Ashworth," the lead guard said. His voice was flat, emotionless.
Corin stepped forward on unsteady legs. "Wait. I need to—there's something I have to do first."
The guard looked him up and down with cold gray eyes. "Gather your things. We leave immediately."
"Please, just give me one hour—"
"The road isn't safe after dark," the man cut him off. "Bandits hit a merchant wagon three days past. We travel in daylight or not at all."
"But I have to tell someone—"
"No delays." The guard's hand dropped to his sword hilt. "Bring your pack or we drag you in what you're wearing. Choose quickly."
Corin's throat closed up. He looked desperately at Merel, hoping for some scrap of mercy, but her face might as well have been carved from stone. Behind her, Fira appeared on the stairs, tears streaming down her face.
"Corin," she whispered, running to throw her arms around him.
He held his little stepsister tight, breathing in the familiar scent of soap in her hair. At fifteen, she was the only family who'd ever shown him kindness after his parents died.
"I'll come back," he promised, his voice thick. "I'll write when I can."
Fira nodded against his chest, her whole body shaking with sobs.
"Enough," the guard barked. "Move."
Corin picked up his satchel with hands that trembled. As the guards surrounded him, marching him toward the village edge, he looked back once at the house that had been his prison for the past three years. Then he forced himself to face forward, toward whatever future awaited him in Westbridge.
The capital was said to be ten times the size of Millbrook, with tall towers and markets that sold goods from distant lands. Corin had never been more than a day's ride from home in his life.
His father had been a blacksmith before sickness claimed him, proud of his craft and his modest success. His mother had been a weaver, known throughout the village for her skill with thread and dye. They'd loved each other truly, and they'd loved their son. Their deaths had left a hole in Corin's world that nothing could fill.
Merel had married his father for security, not affection. She'd made it clear from the beginning that Corin was an unwelcome burden, something to be tolerated until he could be disposed of profitably.
Now he was walking toward five years of servitude, leaving behind the girl he loved without even a chance to say goodbye.
The road stretched ahead through dense forest, old trees towering on either side like green giants. According to the guards, they'd reach the waystation at Redbridge by evening, then continue to Westbridge the following day.
"Keep pace," the lead guard called back to him. "We want to reach the bridge before the sun sets."
Corin adjusted the straps of his pack and quickened his step. 'Five years,' he told himself again. 'Work hard, save coin, return for Liora. She'll wait. She has to wait.'
It was all he had left to believe in.
They'd been walking for three hours when all of a sudden crossbow bolts came whistling from the trees.
The first one took the rear guard in the throat, dropping him without a sound. The second caught the lead guard in the chest, punching through his leather armor like it was cloth.
"Bandits!" the remaining guard shouted, drawing his sword.
Men burst from the undergrowth on both sides of the road - six of them, maybe seven, faces hidden behind cloth masks. They moved with the swiftly, surrounding the small group in seconds.
The last guard fought bravely, his blade singing as he parried and thrust. But he was outnumbered, and within moments a bandit's axe found the gap between his helmet and gorget. Blood sprayed across the dirt road as he fell.
They'd been walking for three hours when the crossbow bolts came whistling from the trees. The first one took the rear guard in the throat, dropping him without a sound. The second caught the lead guard in the chest, punching through his leather armor like it was cloth.
"Bandits!" the remaining guard shouted, drawing his sword.
Men burst from the undergrowth on both sides of the road - six of them, maybe seven, faces hidden behind cloth masks. They moved swiftly, surrounding the small group in seconds.
The last guard fought bravely, his blade singing as he parried and thrust. But he was outnumbered, and within moments a bandit's axe found the gap between his helmet and gorget. Blood sprayed across the dirt road as he fell.
The last guard fought bravely, his blade singing as he parried and thrust. But he was outnumbered, and within moments a bandit's axe found the gap between his helmet and gorget. Blood sprayed across the dirt road as he fell.
Corin stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching his escorts die. Then his eyes locked onto the fallen guard's sword, lying just three feet away in the dirt.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat slicked his palms. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his legs wouldn't move.
One of the bandits approached him, a big man with scars crisscrossing his bare arms. "What about this one?"
The bandit's hand dropped to his knife hilt.
Corin dove for the sword.
His fingers closed around the leather-wrapped hilt just as the scarred bandit's boot slammed down toward his wrist. Corin rolled, the blade coming up in a wild arc that opened a red line across the man's thigh.
"You!" the bandit cursed, stumbling back.
Corin scrambled to his feet, the sword heavy and unfamiliar in his grip. He'd watched his father's apprentices spar behind the forge, but holding a real blade with blood on it was different. His hands shook, but his feet found their balance.
"Kill him quick," the bandit leader called, a woman with cold blue eyes above her mask.
The scarred man came at him with a long knife, favoring his wounded leg. Corin managed to get the sword up, steel ringing against steel. The impact nearly tore the weapon from his grip, but he held on, backpedaling desperately.
The bandit was stronger, more experienced, but Corin was younger and fueled by panic. When the knife came in low, aiming for his ribs, Corin twisted away and brought the sword down in a clumsy arc. The blade caught the man across the chest - not deep, but enough to make him stumble back, cursing.
But there were still five more bandits closing in.
'My pack, my coins.'
Through the chaos, Corin spotted another bandit rifling through his belongings. The leather pouch containing his life savings glinted in the man's hands - everything he'd worked for, everything he'd need to survive whatever came next.
He charged, sword raised, blood singing in his ears. The bandit looked up just in time to catch the blade across his chest, steel parting leather and flesh. The man went down hard, the pouch spilling gold and silver coins across the forest floor.
Corin dove after them, scooping up as many as he could with his free hand, shoving them into his tunic. The coins were his only chance - without them, he was nothing. Dead or alive, he needed those coins.
He was going to bolt just right after before a crossbow bolt punched into his shoulder, spinning him around. Pain exploded through his arm, and the sword tumbled from his weakened grip. He scrambled for it, but a boot kicked it away.
He tried to move, to get up on his feet but the bolt had dealt serious damage to him as he was bleeding. The remaining bandits closed in, and without the sword, he had nothing left. The bandit leader stepped forward, drawing her own blade.
The end came quickly.
The blade found his heart before he could even raise his hands.
She looked down at him as he bled out in the dirt. "Fought harder than most. I'll give you that."
Corin's body finally gave out. As he crumpled to the road, his free hand pressed against the coins hidden in his tunic. His vision blurred, but he could feel the metal discs through the cloth. Some of them, at least.
Blood filled his mouth. His breathing came in short, desperate gasps. But his fingers stayed clenched around those coins until the darkness took him.