“By the gods…” Markus muttered as I casually strolled back up the slope, brushing dirt from the hem of my now blood-splattered dress. His eyes widened at the sight of me—red fabric clinging to me like spilled wine, streaks of viscera adding a macabre flair I hadn’t entirely intended. I gave him a cheeky twirl, arms outstretched for full dramatic effect.

  “Oh come on, Markus,” I teased, spinning once. “Surely you’ve seen worse on campaign.”

  “…Is that part of the gut?” he asked slowly, eyes narrowing with something between concern and horror.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, placing a hand on my belly, frowning slightly. Everything felt fine. No wounds, no rips in the fabric, no suspicious warmth. My dress, at least in that region, remained unscathed.

  “On your head,” he said, grimacing.

  I ran my fingers through my hair—and immediately regretted it. My fingers came away sticky and coated in something slick, fibrous, and vaguely organic. Unidentifiable, but unmistakably internal.

  “Ew.” Without thinking, I flicked it toward him. The slimy projectile arced perfectly through the air, but Markus ducked just in time. Damn. I’d hoped to hit him square in the chest.

  His disgusted expression was priceless, though—a petty but satisfying payback for his recent jab at my height. He’d called me a goblin last night over dinner. This? This was justice.

  “And this is?” he asked, gesturing behind me with an accusing finger.

  I turned to find my new companion—the former bandit—lurking awkwardly a few steps behind me, half-hidden in my shadow like a cowardly stray dog. Which, frankly, was a perfect description.

  “Oh, him?” I said nonchalantly, stepping to the side so the bandit was no longer sheltered behind me. “A stray I picked up along the way.”

  Markus blinked. “A bandit? You brought a bandit back with you?”

  I sighed. Here it came.

  “What have you done?” Markus demanded, his tone rising. “Have you ever considered the consequences of bringing a bandit into the army?! Are you even thinking?!”

  I waved a hand dismissively. I wasn’t in the mood for lectures. Not now.

  “How dare you speak that way about my subordinate—right to his face, no less!” I declared, doing my best to appear scandalized. Truth be told, I just wanted Markus to drop it and go sulk somewhere else.

  Of course, Markus wasn’t so easily shaken off.

  “A bandit?” he repeated incredulously, stalking forward. “You recruited this gasping pile of nerves who looks like he’d lose to Mary?”

  That gave me pause.

  “Mary? As in Arthur’s wife?”

  Markus nodded with a snort of derision. I turned to regard the bandit again. He was wheezing from the climb, red in the face, one hand gripping a tree for support. I mentally compared him to Mary.

  Yup. Markus had a point.

  Still, strength wasn’t everything. I hoped.

  “What’s your problem?” I snapped, more irritated than before.

  “You don’t know him,” Markus growled. “The mission was to leave no survivors. No one. That was the plan.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, smirking. “And here he is—Nobody.”

  Markus made a sound that was half-snarl, half-laugh, but mostly exasperation. “Rot in hell.”

  “I hear it’s quite warm this time of year,” I said lightly, brushing past him with a grin, knowing that hell had been closed quite some time already.

  Markus wasn’t amused. “He won against you? Won? What exactly were you two doing at that table—writing each other poems?”

  No, that would be ridiculous. We played Blackjack,” I said with an air of casual defiance.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Markus' expression shifted with the speed of a collapsing tower. One second, his face was flushed with anger; the next, it drained of all color as his brain visibly tried to reassemble whatever coherent thought he had before I spoke. For several long seconds, he just stood there, blinking rapidly like he was buffering.

  "You’re joking..." he finally murmured, more to himself than to me.

  But the growing horror in his eyes told me he already knew the answer. And he hated it.

  "This isn’t funny anymore," he said flatly, his voice tight with restraint. The effort it took him not to lunge at either me or my newest… acquisition… was almost admirable.

  "It never was," I replied, drawing down the corners of my mouth with my index fingers in a theatrical frown. The sight only seemed to infuriate him further. His jaw clenched so hard I half-expected his teeth to shatter.

  Still, his sword remained sheathed. Pity. I didn’t mind adding another splash of crimson to my already blood-soaked dress. In fact, a part of me welcomed the idea. It would really tie the whole look together.

  “For fuck’s sake…” Markus growled, rubbing his temple. “You explain this to Arthur. Tell him that your little bandit is now part of your unit.”

  “He’s not my bandit,” I snapped. “And he has a name.”

  “Oh really?” Markus arched a brow, arms folded. “And what would that be?”

  A pause.

  I stared at the former bandit, grasping for a name in the mental void where his identity clearly should have been. Had he ever told me? Possibly. Had I listened? Absolutely not.

  “…Bob,” I said finally, nodding once. “He looks like a Bob.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “My name is Tom,” the man muttered beside me, visibly insulted. He stared at me with a look of sheer disbelief, as if I’d just spat in his porridge.

  Close enough, really. Bob, Tom—practically interchangeable.

  “See?” I said to Markus with a shrug. “It had a ‘b’ in it. Kind of.”

  Markus didn’t even blink.

  “…If he turns out to be a failure,” he began, slowly shaking his head.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said brightly. “I’m a master of failure management. I’ve been doing it for years—also with you, in fact!”

  Markus exhaled so sharply it was almost a growl.

  “Just… just get out of my sight,” he muttered.

  “Gladly,” I said with a little wave. “I need to change anyway.”

  “You should wash yourself first,” he called after me, turning away.

  “Thanks, Dad, ” I called after him with heavy sarcasm, watching as Markus stomped away, his shoulders rigid with frustration. His fury hung in the air like a thick fog, but I knew it would burn out soon enough. Markus always cooled off—eventually.

  Left to my own devices, I began wandering aimlessly through the forest, hoping to stumble upon the pond a soldier had mentioned earlier that day. Since we’d arrived three days ago, I’d never dared to visit it. The very idea of water—clear, cold, and so utterly pure—sent a shiver down my spine. The pond was supposed to be a place for washing away grime and sweat, but for me, it felt like an impossible luxury.

  Blood, strangely enough, was no problem at all. I found the sticky warmth of it on my skin oddly exhilarating. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the sharp reminder that I was still alive, still fighting, still tangled in this chaos. The sight of dried crimson on my arms and dress was something I loved … but water? That was different.

  After nearly ten minutes of wandering without a clue, I stopped and turned to Tom, who still followed behind me faithfully, like a shadow or a stray dog. Embarrassed, he pointed sheepishly in the exact opposite direction of where I’d been heading.

  “Can′t find that pond.” I muttered under my breath.

  “I thought you wanted to go this way,” Tom said quietly, looking almost apologetic. “I know the way to the pond.”

  No, Tom, I didn’t know. And he knew it too. If I’d been wrong, I was sure he’d have told me.

  Fighting the sting of frustration, I stomped past him, turning back toward the direction we’d originally come from. I barely spoke as Tom silently took the lead, navigating the undergrowth with surprising ease for someone who looked so exhausted just moments ago.

  It wasn’t long before we found a small, quiet pond nestled in a clearing. The sun filtered through the trees, scattering dappled light across the still water. Nearby, my clothing had been laid out with care—well, as much care as Markus or whoever had taken the time to think of such a thing could muster. At least they hadn’t forgotten the washcloth I requested.

  Still simmering from Tom’s earlier mistake, I peeled my tattered dress over my head, wincing at the tightness of the bloodstains clinging to the fabric.

  “What are you doing?” Tom asked, twisting around to look away, his cheeks flushing red.

  “I’m going to wash. Duh,” I replied, surprised at his hesitation. “What else would I be doing?”

  He said nothing, but I could feel his eyes still on me, as if unsure whether to respect my privacy or offer some reluctant protection.

  I took a deep breath and stepped toward the water’s edge. The cool air kissed my bare skin, sending shivers down my spine.