Sunlight filtered through the uneven slats of the shed, casting faint stripes of gold onto the dusty floor. The cool morning air carried the heavy dampness of dew, though it was tinged with an underlying mustiness that clung to Del’s throat. His neck ached fiercely, his head thick and sluggish, as though stuffed with wool. As he shifted against the rough surface behind him, his whole body protested with sharp, unwelcome twinges.

His arms were pinned awkwardly behind him, the coarse bite of rope digging into his wrists. As he shifted to roll onto his side for relief, he froze. The movement pulled sharply at the bindings, and the full weight of the situation crashed down on him. ‘What the hell…?’ Panic flared, his groggy mind wrestling against the remnants of sleep as clarity returned in a single, chilling wave. He was bound, half-sitting and half-slumped against one of the shed’s wooden support beams. His breathing quickened, the sensation of rough rope against raw skin fueling the rising dread clawing at his thoughts.

His gaze darted around the dimly lit shed, taking in the dusty floor and faint beams of light seeping through the slats. A second thought hit him, cold and visceral. ‘Where the fuck is Elara?’ The question cut through the fog clouding his mind, further sharpening his awareness with brutal precision.

He sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to think as the acrid sharpness of aging wood and damp earth filled his nose. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ A stream of colourful expletives poured through his mind, the panic teetering on the edge of control.

A familiar, tentative sensation brushed against the storm of his thoughts—a faint, steady push that was both grounding and urgent. Misty. The mental nudge steadied him, giving him something to cling to. ‘Misty?’ He reached out through their bond, gripping onto the awareness like a lifeline. The sensation forced his panic into a box, slamming the lid shut. Spiralling into meltdown wouldn’t help Elara. It wouldn’t help him either.

‘Get a grip, Del. You’ve been in worse scrapes than this.’ The reassurance might’ve been a lie, but it was better than letting his thoughts run wild. He glanced upward, toward the faint pull of awareness. Misty was perched on one of the roof beams, her tail flicking in tight, agitated arcs. The faint light caught the rich orange of her fur, though her narrowed amber eyes betrayed no comfort.

‘Hey, girl,’ he sent through the link, his thoughts tinged with equal parts desperation and hope. ‘Any idea what’s going on?’ The absurdity of talking to his cat didn’t even register anymore; it had become second nature, no matter how bizarre it seemed.

Her response came in a jumble of impressions rather than clear images. A large figure, blurred at the edges, moving steadily with something—or someone—slung over their shoulder. A dog, large and imposing, loped alongside them as they moved away from the cabin.

‘Great. So, one of them’s taken Elara somewhere, and the other one’s still around?’ Del’s thoughts pressed against the bond, trying to extract more from the blurry fragments. Misty responded with a soft, affirmative mew, her ears flicking back briefly. She was worried, though she hid it better than he ever could.

Del flexed his fingers against the ropes. The coarse fibres scraped against raw, chafed skin, but he gritted his teeth and gave an experimental tug. ‘No use. Not yet.’

“Any help would be appreciated,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. Misty watched him intently for a moment before leaping down from the beam with a soft thud. The next thing he felt was the damp scrape of her tongue and the sharp nip of her teeth as she began gnawing at the bindings.

The pounding in his head grew harder to ignore—a relentless, pulsing thrum that blurred the edges of his vision. ‘The bastards must have drugged me.’ The thought sparked white-hot anger, cutting through the fog. He prided himself on being a light sleeper; the idea that they’d dragged him across the floor and tied him up without waking him was both terrifying and infuriating.

‘And what the hell do they want with Elara?’ The question burned at him, but he shoved it aside, knowing he had no answer. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. The knot in his stomach tightened as he kept a steady tension on the rope, giving Misty the leverage she needed. With a sudden snap, the bonds gave way, and his arms pulled forward. Pain flared as blood rushed back into his wrists, and he hissed through clenched teeth, shaking out the numbness.

He staggered to his feet, wobbling slightly as the world tilted unnaturally. A deep breath steadied him enough to scan the room. The shed was sparsely furnished—nothing but dust, tools, and shadows filling the space. His eyes flicked to the corner where their gear had been neatly stacked the night before. Gone. Not even a scrap left.

‘Drugged, robbed, and probably about to be murdered,’ he thought darkly, his jaw tightening. ‘Wonderful. What the hell is wrong with everyone in this gods-forsaken place?’ He took a cautious step toward the door, listening intently. The oppressive silence was broken only by the occasional creak of wood as the shed settled. No footsteps. No voices. No sign of life beyond the faint whisper of the wind.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

His eyes landed on a length of wood leaning against the wall—solid, and roughly the size of a cricket bat. Not ideal, but better than nothing. He picked it up, testing its weight in his hand. ‘So, Del, no sword, but at least you’re not entirely defenceless.’

“Misty,” he whispered, glancing toward her as she prowled along the edges of the room. “Is there another way out of here?” She paused, then padded over to a narrow gap near the base of the wall. The wood there had rotted, leaving just enough space for her to slip through. The air beyond carried fresher scents—hints of the forest drifting in on the breeze.

Sunlight filtered through the uneven slats of the shed, casting faint stripes of gold onto the dusty floor. The door creaked slightly as Del pressed against it, the wood shifting just enough to reveal it was barred or locked from the outside. A grim smile tugged at his lips. ‘Of course they locked it. Wouldn’t want their captive wandering off, now, would they?’ He glanced upward, scanning the sloping beams and the gaps between the planks of the roof. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had.

Across the beams, stacks of planks and assorted bits of timber created a precarious storage system. A pulley contraption hung from a heavy chain above, its rusted metal faintly glinting in the light filtering through the slats. It looked like it was used to haul heavier items to a makeshift mezzanine shelf bolted into the far wall. A ladder leaned against the structure, its rungs unevenly worn. Del approached cautiously, testing each step before committing his weight. The longer the person left behind thought he was still unconscious, the better.

The wood creaked softly under his boots as he climbed, every sound amplified in the oppressive stillness. His movements were slow and deliberate, each pause a chance to listen for any sign of approach. By the time he reached the upper platform, his shoulders were tight with tension, his jaw clenched against the nerves prickling under his skin. The shelf was sturdier than it looked from below, piled with offcuts, rusted tools, and the remains of a broken table and chair. Among the clutter, something caught his eye—a small opening in the wall, hidden from view on the ground.

He crouched, narrowing his eyes. The crawlspace was barely large enough for someone his size, but it seemed to lead to the attic of the adjoining house. His pulse quickened. If there was a hatch or even a staircase on the other side, he might have a way to slip past whoever was guarding the place.

‘Misty, get up here,’ he sent through the link, his thoughts sharp with urgency. The faint hum of her acknowledgment came almost instantly, and moments later, she was beside him. Her sleek form blended easily with the shadows as she approached the opening, her tail flicking in silent focus. Del gestured towards the crawlspace, and without hesitation, she slipped inside. Her movements were soundless and fluid, like water slipping through cracks. He could feel her curiosity through the bond, tinged with caution as she explored.

As Del waited, he rubbed his sore wrists, wincing at the deep, angry grooves left by the ropes. The skin was raw and tender, a pulsing ache throbbing with each heartbeat as the blood coursed through the formerly restricted vessels. His thoughts drifted briefly, skimming over the last few hours. The fury bubbling beneath the surface threatened to spill over, but he pushed it down, forcing himself to focus.

‘Tied up like some bloody animal,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Drugged, robbed, and for what? Whatever they’re playing at, it’s not going to end well for them.’ His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms as he fought to steady his thoughts.

The faintest sound shattered his concentration—a quiet thunk from below. His head snapped toward the ladder, every nerve in his body tightening like a drawn bowstring. The bar across the door had been removed.

‘Oh, shit.’ Instinctively, Del hunkered down, gripping the bat in both hands as his eyes locked on the shed’s entrance. The door creaked open, spilling harsh daylight into the dim interior, and a hulking figure stepped inside.

Bran.

The glint of metal caught Del’s eye—a knife. His knife.

“What the hell’s…?” Bran muttered, his voice low and rumbling as his gaze swept over the shed. When his eyes landed on the empty post and discarded ropes, his brow furrowed, confusion flickering into anger. “Where the heck did you—”

Del didn’t wait for him to finish. He leapt from the mezzanine, the makeshift club already swinging as he dropped. The crack as it met the back of Bran’s head echoed through the shed, the impact reverberating painfully up his arms. Bran crumpled without a sound, collapsing in a heap at Del’s feet.

For a moment, Del stood there, chest heaving, the club still raised as though expecting Bran to rise. The tension drained slowly, replaced by a shaky wave of relief. ‘Damn, that went better than expected,’ he thought, lowering the weapon and exhaling deeply.

He glanced up to see Misty perched on the edge of the mezzanine, her amber eyes gleaming with silent approval. “Fancy having a nose outside? See if it’s clear?” he whispered. She tilted her head, then hopped down gracefully, landing beside Bran’s motionless body. Her tail flicked as she sniffed at him, then, seemingly satisfied, sauntered toward the open door.

Del knelt beside Bran, inspecting him quickly. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath a wet, rasping gurgle. Blood trickled from his ears and nose, pooling beneath his head where the club had struck. A deep dent near his ear told Del just how close Bran was to death’s door.

‘Not waking up anytime soon,’ Del thought grimly as he reclaimed his knife from Bran’s slack grip. A quick search of the man’s pockets produced a pouch of coins and an iron key, but nothing else of value. As Del finished, Bran shifted slightly, his head rolling to one side. His breathing became more laboured, the bubbling sound intensifying.

For a brief moment, Del hesitated. The memory of a first-aid course flickered in his mind—a lesson on how to position someone to keep their airway clear. The kind of thing he’d have done without thinking in another life.

He straightened, the knife in his hand feeling heavier than it should. “Fuck him,” he muttered, the words cold and final. Whatever these bastards had planned, it wasn’t good. If Bran choked on his own blood and vomit, it was no less than he deserved.

A faint nudge through the link pulled Del back to the present. Misty’s impatience was clear—outside was quiet, safe for now. Del spared Bran one last glance before stepping over him and heading for the door, the weight of the knife reassuring in his grip.