Darkness was already creeping over the craggy peaks. Magdala’s carriage, escorted with four horsemen, rattled along the mountain road back towards home. Its old wooden frame creaked and groaned with every bump and turn, as if the very earth beneath them was restless, eager to shrug off their trespass. Magdala's fingers danced upon the velvet upholstery, tracing the tremors as though divining secrets from the land itself. The relentless clatter of hooves and the coarse swearing of the guards completed the soundscape of this peculiar ritual that she never got tired of.

Through the small side window, the landscape was a moving tapestry of shadows, the silhouettes of steep mountainsides looming like silent sentinels against the encroaching dark. The narrow road wound precariously along the cliff's edge. Far below, jagged rocks sticked out like giant teeth of the ravines that yawned wide, their depths swallowing the waning light, promising a descent into oblivion for any unfortunate soul who slipped from the path.

A predatory smirk unfolded upon her lips as she recalled Amelie Strout's worried expression at the reception earlier today, her delicate frame trembling at the mere thought of these mountain roads. Poor, fragile Amelie, with eyes as wide as the abyss below, fearful of the perilous paths that were arteries to Magdala’s heart. For where Amelie saw dangers, Magdala found exhilaration; the threat of demise made her feel alive, her pulse quickening with life's precarious embrace. Similarly, Magdala reveled in her ability to maneuver through the treacherous landscape of power, wealth, and manipulation.

Yes, she had felt the same kind of excitement during the negotiation with Werther Strout, although he wasn’t much of a challenge for her anymore. In his best days, Werther had been as slippery as these treacherous roads, but now he was so consumed by his greed that he had forgotten how to see beyond his own ambitions. However, his son was a completely different story. Young Willem, though lacking in experience, might have been able to see through her bluff due to his sheer eagerness. Magdala had predicted that keeping him out of the negotiation would be the tricky, but Werther’s foolishness had made it almost too easy. All she had needed to do was to appeal to his manly pride by playing damsel in distress.

“Sometimes I wish I had a man on my side – a powerful man like... you”.

She let out a joyless chuckle. She had actually had a powerful man on her side once – and Werther was no match for him in any aspect. Oh, how she had played Werther, the foolish, greedy man, so easily swayed by the promise of wealth and power. He believed he had secured a fortune, that the combined assets of the Vargas and the Strouts would soon be his to control. He would never suspect that the very documents to which he had so smugly affixed his seal were the nooses around his own neck - and those of his family.

Magdala leaned back against the velvet cushion and closed her eyes, her body trembling ever so slightly from the thrill of the events that had transpired. She let her hand wander down her body, imagining it to be the touch of Alexander – as if he hadn’t disappeared eleven years, two months and six days ago, but had stayed on her side, celebrating her victories by worshipping her body with his rough, calloused hands, with his lips and teeth leaving fiery trails on her skin, with his manhood filling the ravine of her desires.

“Madam,” called the carriage driver, his voice strained, “it is getting dark, and the path grows ever narrower. Shall we slow our pace?”

“Press on!” Magdala commanded fiercely.

Unable to resist any longer, she reached between her thighs and began to pleasure herself, reliving the exhilarating negotiations that had just taken place, her body trembling at each memory. She couldn't help but moan in ecstasy at the thought of her victorious triumph over that disgusting man and the release it brought her. The world was hers for the taking, and she would stop at nothing to secure her place at the pinnacle of power.

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But the gods, it seemed, had other plans.

The first arrow struck without warning, its feral hiss slicing through the silence like a knife through flesh. It lodged itself in the side of the wagon, mere inches from Magdala's face, its fletching quivering from the impact. The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat, suspended in a tableau of terror and disbelief before erupting into chaos.

“Ambush!” a guard screamed. The metallic rattle of his fall was lost amid the tumultuous eruption of shouts from the other guards. The horses neighed wildly, sensing the fear that gripped their human escorts.

As if in response to the guard's warning, a hailstorm of arrows descended upon the carriage. Magdala could hear their rhythmic impacts, the clanking of armor and the sickening thud of flesh pierced by sharp steel. Panic seized Magdala's entourage; the once-disciplined ranks devolved into chaos as guards scrambled for cover, some falling lifelessly from their mounts as they succumbed to unseen assailants.

“Protect Lady Varga! To arms! To arms!” barked the captain of the guards, his words accompanied by a piercing whistle cut through the air, followed by the thunk of arrow embedding into wood. Magdala realized that the captain’s command was futile, for the invisible attackers had no intention to engage in melee combat.

She jolted forward, nearly tumbling from her seat as the carriage swerved violently. Another arrow punched through the side of the carriage.

“Keep moving!” Magdala shouted to the driver, her voice tight with controlled fear. “Get us out of here!”

But as she spoke, she heard a wet, choking gurgle from above. Magdala looked up to see the driver slumping forward, an arrow protruding from his throat, his hands going slack on the reins. The horses, now unbridled, surged forward in blind terror, the carriage careening wildly behind them.

Magdala acted instinctively, without any thought or emotion. She braced herself against the sides of the compartment, her heart pounding in her chest. The world outside had become a blur of whipping branches and jutting rocks, the road lost in a dizzying whirl of motion. The carriage bounced and shuddered, each jolt threatening to shake it apart. Reaching under her seat, her fingers closed around the hilt of a hidden dagger.

The horses veered sharply, the carriage teetering on two wheels as it rounded a bend. For a heart-stopping moment, Magdala glimpsed the sheer drop beyond, a yawning abyss waiting to swallow her whole. Then, with a splintering crash, the carriage struck a boulder and flipped, sending her tumbling into darkness as the world shattered around her.

The carriage plummeted off the mountainside, a whirling dervish of splintered wood and twisted metal. Magdala's world inverted as she was flung about the disintegrating carriage, her body battered by the relentless impacts. The roar of snapping trees and shattering rock filled her ears, a deafening cacophony that drowned out all other sound.

Time stretched and warped, each heart-pounding second an eternity. Magdala felt strangely detached, as if she were watching the scene unfold from outside herself. She saw the carriage crumple and break apart, shards of wood and glass whirling through the air like deadly projectiles. She also saw herself, tossed about like a rag doll, limbs flailing helplessly as she fell.

And then, for a single, crystalline moment, there was stillness. The carriage hung suspended in the air, poised at the apex of its fall. In that instant, Magdala felt a curious sense of weightlessness, as if she had transcended the bounds of her physical form. The world around her seemed to fade away, replaced by a profound silence that echoed in the depths of her soul.

But the moment was fleeting, shattered by the brutal reality of the carriage's resuming descent. It struck the mountainside with a bone-jarring impact that teared through its fragile structure like the talons of some monstrous beast. The carriage rolled and bounced, each collision more violent than the last. Magdala’s body, once a temple of calculated precision, now thrashed within the confines of the carriage. No scheming, no cunning could arrest the fall or negotiate with the immutable law of gravity. Here, in this vertiginous dance with death, Magdala found a perverse kinship with the jagged rocks that awaited her, their stony faces impassive witnesses to her fate. She felt her grip on consciousness slipping, the edges of her vision darkening as pain blossomed in a thousand places at once.

The carriage hit the ground with a final, shattering impact, and the world went black. Silence settled over the ravine, broken only by the fading echoes of the crash and the distant whisper of the wind.