Anarra ached head to toe. With the last of the vile bandits dead, having bled out or otherwise, the tension left her. As her heart steadied and the adrenaline was spent in her veins, aches and pains sprouted along her body. She wiped the blood from her lips. That stout fellow had given her a good beating, her stomach was a tapestry of bruises. Her throat was throttled, and the side of her face sported a nasty bruise.

She was frustrated she had let them sneak up on her like that and annoyed that the fight had gotten so out of her control. “Scum,” she snapped, kicking the side of the bled-out bandit’s body.

But she knew she had precious little time. The violence might attract others, daylight was burning away, and before long the pain of her bruises would make travel a chore. She had to settle in for the night, somewhere safe and secure. And she had to pick clean these bodies…

She went through their belongings, one by one. She pulled the knife from the lead bandit’s throat, cleaned it, and took the sheath off the bandoleer. Most of them had coin on them, just a handful of stamped copper coins, depicting a tower on one side and a man she did not recognize on the other. Between them, there were a half-dozen belt pouches. The shortest bandit’s belt would do for her, too. One had a somewhat tattered but serviceable cloak, as well. Lastly, they had food on them: dried nuts, berries, a few scraps of meat, a pair of filled skins of water.

Who knew slaying bandits was profitable? Well, this was meager at best, but it would help her survive. She ran a thumb over one of the coins, realizing this was the first of her wealth that she could truly call her own. She put the copper away and ate, gorging herself on the meager rations. For the bandits, this was a morsel of a meal, meant to keep them going when away from camp. For her, it was the finest meal she had since escaping the monastery.

She thought about those copper coins again. No, those weren’t the first real wealth she had ever earned. Her true wealth was in her blood, unlocking the gifts within. She stared at her own hand, moving her fingers in a rhythmic pattern as motes of pink-hued energy crackled along them. What is this gift, I wonder—and from where did it come? Some of the clergy said I was cursed, a born sinner, or that my blood was tainted. But by what?

But she had no time to dwell on her origins. She turned to the road, but stopped herself—she was curious as to how the bandits had managed to hide so well. She stalked over to the forest’s edge, to the tree and brush the frontmost bandit had hidden behind. She inspected the area carefully, looking over the foliage, the dense bushes and the mighty trees. She wondered if she could have spotted his shadow, or perhaps seen some disturbance amid the brush had she looked for the right signs.

That was when she saw them—down the road, another pair of men, one with a sword at his hip. She ducked into the thick forest foliage, branches rustling about her, and kept her eyes on them.

The two men hurried once they spotted one of the corpses on the bridge. She was just in earshot.

“This ain’t good,” one of them rasped. He was a bearded fellow, of average height, and wore chain armor beneath his shirt. He crouched and examined his fallen comrades. “This is odd… look like burn marks.”

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“Some kinda creature?” said the other, tall and thin, a bow on his back. “Somethin’ that spits fire?”

“Don’t think so,” the bearded one continued. “They’ve been looted. Someone did this, someone with some sort o’ magic.”

The bowman drew his weapon, stringing it up. “Can’t have gone far. They still be warm.”

The other man drew his blade and rose up, peering at the edge of the forest. His eyes went downward, seemingly following something. A trail.

Anarra cursed under her breath. She had sloppily walked right to where her hiding spot was, not caring to guard what steps she left. If they were half-decent trackers, they could easily see the path her boots made. What were you thinking? Fool!

That was two costly mistakes she had made: not thoroughly watching the edge of the forest, and not minding her tracks, either. She needed to be better than that. She was in no condition to risk another battle, and so she scanned her surroundings. Sore as she was, there was no way she’d get away from them if she just ran for it—they likely knew the forest better, and the one man had a bow.

“There’s someone over there, huddled by the tree,” the bowman shouted.

Well. Fight it was.

A crackle of pink-and-scarlet energy came alive along her right arm. She balled it into a tight fist. The magic was gathering slowly—it felt as if she were tensing a sore muscle, or trying to think when exhausted. Did her magic have limits?

She lunged out from the foliage, firing her bolt. The magic struck the bowman head-on. His eyes went wide as the magic shattered his weapon, the remaining energies striking his chest and causing him to stagger briefly. “You was right!” he said, his shirt and arms smoking. “She broke me fuckin’ bow.”

The bearded bandit wet his lips, brow tense. “Rush ‘er, don’t let her cast again.”

The two men broke into a run. Anarra grit her teeth, sweat running down her face. She pushed hard to gather her magic once more, a pinkish ripple manifesting along an arm, but failing to coalesce into a distinct shape. “No—no!” she growled, fingernails digging into the palm of her hand, trying to coax the magic out.

The bearded man was on her. He lunged into a tackle and took her down, the two skidding along the forest floor, shredding the ground, dirt flying through the air. He was on top of her, scrambling to grab her wrists. She groped for her knife, and failed—he snatched both her arms up and pinned her wrists on the ground, above her head.

“Let—go of me!” she snapped at him.

“You’re lucky we don’t kill ya,” he hissed back, straining to hold the struggling, writhing woman. “Give it up, sweetheart. It’s over.”

She struggled for a few seconds longer, thrashing and bucking, but the pain along her abdomen was too fresh, to say nothing for her throat. With a huff, she eased.

“Thassa good girl,” the bearded bandit said, twisting her over. He yanked her arms behind her back, and fished out a rope. “The boss is gonna wanna see you.”

“Think she’ll kill her?” the bowman said, having caught up, still looking distraught at the loss of his weapon.

Did Anarra hear that right? The so-called boss was a woman.

“Maybe,” the bearded fellow replied. “A spellcaster… that might be useful. Or she’ll hang her for killing three of ours. We can’t afford a loss like that.”

The bowman scratched his rough-looking jaw. “Could sell her fine ass to slavers. Might feed us for months.”

“Not a bad thought. Hand me some cloth. Gotta make sure a spell-slinger can’t speak, or else we’re paying for it.”

Before long, Anarra was tied up thoroughly: her ankles together, her wrists behind her back. She tried to fight away from the gag, but there was little she could do; the man drew her head back by her bright red hair and tied the gag taut in her mouth.

Anarra groaned into the gag as the bearded bandit lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder. It was disorienting to be held like this, legs up, head hanging, staring down at the ground. Then, the bowman came close.

“Can’t be letting you see where we bring you,” he said, as he forced a bag over her head. She screamed into the gag and thrashed, and then she was struck hard and suddenly on the head. Her world turned black.