"Awake, are you?" His voice was rough, laced with mockery. "You're all very pretty."
Isabelle bristled. Pretty. They meant Anabel and Charlotte. No one ever called her pretty. They barely even glanced at her serious look.
While the men spoke in low voices, she twisted her wrists, testing the knots that bound her. Instead of waiting to die, she'll rather fight. With careful movements, she worked at the ropes, ignoring the raw burn against her skin. Then with a sharp pull, she was free.
She didn't wait. She grabbed a fallen branch in a blur, swinging it hard into the nearest man's skull. He crumpled with a grunt.
"Anabel, Charlotte, run!"
The camp exploded into chaos.
Isabelle darted through the trees, her sisters tumbling after her. Twigs snapped underfoot, the sounds of pursuits thundering behind them.
She heard someone shout, but not from their captors.
A new force burst into the clearing.
Figures cloaked in the shadows and steel descended, moving like wraiths through the forest. And leading them- was him.
The man from the library.
It had been only once, that meeting. A brief encounter among shelves of dust and forgotten words. And now, here he was, sword in hand, cutting down her captors with the ease of a man born to war.
But it wasn't just him. Others fought beside him, warriors marked with strange tribal paints, their battle cries piercing the night.
She didn't hesitate. She snatched a fallen dagger and threw herself into the fight.
She was no delicate lady waiting for rescue.
A captor lunged for her, she bent, driving the blade to his side, He collapsed.
The battle ended swiftly. The forest was quiet afterward, only the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of the wounded sounded. She stood amidst the wreckage of the fight, breathless, her fingers still curled around the dagger she took. Her gown was torn, her dark hair wild, but she held herself tall.
The man from the library approached her, his storm-grey eyes swept over her, lingering on the bruises forming on her wrists, the smudge of dirt across her cheeks.
"You fought well," he said, his voice was smooth, edged with something unreadable.
Isabelle smiled, trying to ignore the way his presence unsettled her.
"And you fight well for a man who spends his time among books."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
She tightened her grip on the dagger. "Who are you?"
For a moment, he studied her. The wind stirred between them, and the strange warriors at his back shifted restlessly, waiting.
"You want to fight me now?"
Then, instead of answering her question, he reached for her.
Before she could protest and defend, she was lifted onto his horse with startling ease, her body pressing against the warmth of his chest as he swung up behind her.
She stiffened. "I asked a question."
"And I chose not to answer." his voice was low, almost teasing. "Not yet."
Isabelle sat stiffly on the saddle as the horse carried her through the winding paths of the hidden village. Her sisters rode behind her, their eyes wide with wariness and wonder.
They had been riding for hours, deeper into unfamiliar lands, until at last, the trees parted to reveal a settlement, unlike anything they had ever seen.
The village stretched before them, nestled deep within the wild lands, untouched by the influence of dukes and kings. Unlike the polished town squares she knew, this place pulsed with life.
Thatched-roof cottages lined the narrow dirt roads, their wooden beams carved with intricate patterns. Smoke curled from chimneys, filling the air with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread. Beautiful women stood at market stalls, their rich dark braids glistened.
Isabelle swallowed.
"You have taken us deep into your world," she said, her voice steady despite the questions in her mind. "Where are we?"
"This is Raven. The stronghold of my clan."
At last, they reached a large cottage. He dismounted, then turned to her and offered a hand. "Come, you and your sisters will rest here."
Isabelle sat quietly on the wooden bench in the room, while her sisters paced in a flurry of agitation.
"This is insufferable." Anabel snapped, throwing her damp shawl over the back of a chair. "First, we were almost killed by some strangers, then some mysterious men rescued us and now, we are expected to sleep in this horrible place?"
Charlotte inhaled sharply. "When Father hears of this, he will have a fit. Do you understand what this means for us? Our reputations-"
"Ruined." Anabel finished darkly. "No one will believe we were merely taken for ransom. People will assume the worst. And now we are trapped in this wretched little house in the middle of nowhere, waiting for that man to send help!"
"You should be grateful, not complaining. We owe that man our lives." She said, shifting on her seat.
Both sisters turned to her in disbelief.
"Grateful?" Anabel scoffed. "For what? This is no place for women of our standing!"
She barely listened to their complaints as she watched them drift to sleep.
When her sisters had finally succumbed to sleep, she quietly slipped out into the cold night.
She needed answers.
The village was quiet, the moon a pale silver in the sky. The cottages stood close together, their small windows shuttered against the cold. Torches burned at intervals along the dirt path, but Isabelle kept to the shadows, moving as quietly as she could.
She had no clear destination, only the burning need to find out more. Just as she neared what looked like a large cave, a sharp whistle cut through the silence.
Someone had seen her.
From the darkness, figures emerged, their torches flaring into life.
The clan warriors.
Unlike the men in her world, these ones moved like wolves. They wore thick leathers over their shoulders, fasten with silver brooches, their kilts, woven with deep greens, swayed with each step. One of them, a huge man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his voice like gravel.
"A noble lass, wandering alone at this hour?" His eyes narrowed. "That's either bravery or foolishness."
Isabelle stiffened, her heart pounding.
"I mean no harm." she said, lifting her chin.
A taller man with an air of command glanced at his men before stepping toward her. "Aye, but the leader will want to know why ye're sneakin' through his lands."
Before she could protest, two of the them took hold of her arms roughly.
"There is no need for this!" she protested.
But they were already leading her past the cottages, toward the great hall.
The hall was carved from ancient stone. Its towering walls were weathered by time. Large wooden doors reinforced with iron stood at the entrance, flanked by torches that burned low in their scones. The structure was both a fortress and a home, built to endure centuries of storms and war.
As the guards pulled open the heavy doors, a rush of warm air met her, thick with the scent of burning logs, aged whisky, and old parchment. The hall itself was vast, its high-beamed ceiling lost in shadow. Banners hung from the walls, embroidered with an art she didn't recognize.
A long wooden table stretched across the center, its surface scarred by time and use, littered with maps, goblets, and remnants of a late meal. And there standing near the flames was him.
He wore the garb of his people- a long leather draped over one shoulder, fastened by a silver brooch, his hair, dark and unruly, curled slightly at the ends, framing sharp features, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and curious eyes that fixed on her the moment she was brought forward.
The men released her and the room fell silent.
For a long moment, he simply looked at her. Not with anger. Not with amusement.
With calculated interest.
"Well," he murmured, his voice smooth yet edged with mockery. "I told you to stay in the cottage, did I not?"
"I wanted answers."
He stepped closer. "Then I suggest you prepare yourself, Lady Isabelle," His voice was quieter now, a promise and a warning all at once.
"For the answers you seek may not be all interesting."