A veiled princess and a mischievous bard entwined in a dance of mutual assassination, passionate procreation, and prophecy.
In Andaríel, where prophecies are more reliable than the weather forecast, Adrián Carrasco's life as a carefree troubadour ta...
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Suffering fools, Ana Belén thought, was one of Royalty's virtues, but for her, it was less about patience and more about lacerations.
War had engrained in her, from an early age, the necessity to never leave a potential enemy behind. A lesson underscored by how her father's initial softness had led to her mother's untimely death.
"Mistress, that's all I know," the bandit stammered, tears carving paths through the dirt on his face.
"I... I... have children, Mistress. We were just going to hand him over—" the man's pleas cut off. They always have children, wives, and mothers; perhaps they needed a better father. The callousness of her thought startled her. In Alcántara, I'll leave all this behind.
Shadows created by the campfire danced on the man's face, indifferent to his fate. Slowly, the forest's normalcy returned; crickets restarted their nightly song, and bats squeaked out on their nocturnal patrol.
Her hand trembled, the weight of decision in her grasp. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luisa's hand signal—a silent offer that she would carry the burden.
Adrián, hanging from the branch, groaned, but she ignored him and concentrated on her target.
"What you must do. You! Must do!" She whispered Captain Ferraro's words. Years of repeat had turned it into the mantra of the path thrust onto her. She could have used him in this escape.
A real owl hooted this time as if signaling the end of her debate.
She gripped the pistol tighter, declined Luisa's offer with a shake of her head, took a deep, steadying breath, and pulled the trigger—her daily promise of restraint once again unkept.
The forest returned to silence. She sighed. What's done is done!
"We need to finish this!" she anxiously commented to no one. Then, with a deep inhale, she started to move. They were in a hostile camp, surrounded by bodies with a hostage to rescue.
"Search their belongings!" She commanded while turning toward the naked hanging figure.
Growing up in the middle of an army had removed any shyness about male bodies long ago. When she was ten, she had snuck and watched the men shower, and at sixteen, she had dabbled with a Duke's son. A damsel in distress, she was not.
As she neared, her eyes widened at the man's Chorizo, and she whistled appreciably at its size.
"Why, Conde Torreblanca, I see why you're so proud of your seductive prowess," she shouted to the figure, her falchion pointing at his midsection, mirth in her voice.
Then, with a swift swing of her falchion, she unceremoniously cut the rope that suspended him from his feet, and he plummeted four feet to land with an audible thud.
