Magdala's eyes fluttered open, her vision blurring as she tried to make sense of the chaos surrounding her. The shattered remains of the carriage lay scattered around her, the splintered wood and torn fabric a stark contrast to the once luxurious interior. The steep mountainside loomed like a jagged maw, ready to swallow Magdala whole. Pain shot through her side, and she hissed as she tried to move, the coppery tang of blood coating her tongue. Her fingers were clenched around something cold and metallic. It took her a moment to realize it was the hilt her own dagger. Its impassive silence gave her comfort in the midst of the havoc and brought a flood of memories crashing back. The ambush. The screams. The sickening lurch as the carriage plummeted down the mountainside.
“Focus!” she commanded herself, her voice a brittle whisper in the desolate silence. “You are not so easily defeated.”
With a grimace, she attempted to push herself up, only to cry out as white-hot agony lanced through her legs. She painstakingly pulled her torn skirts up, revealing mangled limbs twisted at unnatural angles, shattered bones pressing against skin.
Magdala's breath hitched as she took in the grievous state of her legs. She gritted her teeth and tried to block out the pain. Her eyes darted around, searching for any sign of life or movement.
The acrid stench of blood and leather filled her nostrils, mingling with the crisp mountain air. Suddenly her ears caught a faint, rasping sound behind her – a desperate, labored breathing. She turned her head with agonizing slowness, her vision swimming in and out of focus until she saw it: a horse. The noble beast lay sprawled amidst the splintered remains of the carriage, its once majestic form now a twisted shadow of pain. Its sides heaved with each tortured breath, and its eyes, normally bright and intelligent, were now clouded with suffering. Tremors wracked its body, each shudder sending ripples of agony through its frame.
“Poor creature,” she whispered, though her voice was scarcely more than a croak. The dagger, cold and unyielding, remained firmly gripped in her hand.
Summoning every ounce of her willpower, she began to drag herself towards the horse. Her fingers dug into the dirt, nails broke against the rocky ground. She could feel every broken fragment of her legs grinding together, each shift of her body sending lances of agony through her frame. Her progress was agonizingly slow, but she persevered, driven by an unfamiliar urge she couldn’t name. Inch by inch, she closed the distance. The horse’s breaths grew more frantic as she approached, as if sensing its end.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached its side. Tears mixed with dirt on her cheeks; whether from pain or sorrow, she could not tell.
“Shh, it's alright,” she murmured, raising the dagger. “Your suffering ends now.”
The horse's eyes met hers for a fleeting instant, a silent understanding passing between them. With a swift, practiced motion, she drew the blade across the horse's throat. Hot blood gushed forth, staining her hands and mingling with the earth. The horse gave one last convulsive shudder before the light within the animal's gaze flickered and died.
Magdala let the dagger fall from her grasp, feeling the weight of her actions settle upon her soul. The world around her seemed to close in, the shadows lengthening and deepening, as if mocking her small victory. She knew she too would die here, alone and forsaken, unless she found help.
“Help,” she called out, her voice barely more than a whisper. She cleared her throat, summoning the strength that had seen her through countless betrayals and schemes. “Help me! Someone, please!”
Her cries echoed off the jagged mountainside, swallowed by the indifferent wind. Each shout tore at her already ragged throat, but she persisted, knowing full well the risks. Beasts lurked in these wilds, drawn to the scent of blood. And worse yet, her enemies might be near, waiting to finish what they had started.
Someone wanted me dead. The realization struck her like a physical blow – the obvious fact from which she had hitherto managed to shield her mind. As if to prove her conclusion true, a flash of sunlight glinted off something protruding grotesquely from the horse's lifeless flank, drawing her attention. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, grasping the blood-slick shaft and wrenching it free. The effort sent a fresh wave of agony through her broken legs, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to succumb to the darkness that threatened to pull her under.
The arrow was unmistakable: shiny black fletching, serrated iron tip, a raven rune carved on the shaft, known only to those who dealt in death for coin. This weapon had not only been designed to maim but to convey a message as clear as the death it dealt.
“Black Rogues,” she hissed. “I knew it! Who else could execute such a precise ambush?”
Her thoughts whirled, a maelstrom of suspicion and paranoia. Who among her enemies had the audacity and the resources to hire the assassins so notorious that even she had hesitated to use their services?
“Matriarch Fayden,” she mused, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “So righteous, so full of hatred. Did you finally find the courage to strike?”
She laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the cliff face. “Or perhaps not. You know better than to challenge me, don't you?”
Her thoughts turned to Lady Belinda Anroth, her sister-in-law's face swimming before her in the gathering gloom. “Poor, fragile Belinda,” Magdala murmured. “Do you still weep for Jeremy? Or have you finally found the strength to seek vengeance?”
A pang of doubt gnawed at her. How much did Belinda truly know? Could Michail have found out something before he was rendered harmless?
And what of Werther Strout, that greedy old imbecile? Or was it all a sham? “Did you fake it, Werther?” she pondered. “Are you still the same devious snake you used to be?”
No. Magdala was convinced that she had wrapped the old fool around her little finger during the negotiation. Werther’s son, on the other hand… Willem had seen right through her act. He was certainly someone to watch out for, but this ambush couldn’t have been his doing - it had taken place too soon after the negotiation.
She clutched the bloodied shaft tighter, ignoring the pain that lanced through her broken body. ”I will uncover the truth,” she vowed, her voice low and dangerous. “And when I do, they will rue the day they crossed Magdala Varga.” With a snarl of anger and defiance, she hurled the arrow into the gathering shadows.
The crunch of gravel caught her attention, drawing her gaze upward. Someone was descending on a rope from the cliffs above. Instinctively, Magdala picked up her dagger and hid it beneath her skirts, while keeping her eyes on the approaching figure. It was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties – not much older than Michail. He wore dark robes, and his hood was thrown back, revealing jet-black hair tousled by the wind. His movements were smooth and nimble as he made his way down the rope - obviously it wasn’t his first time of practicing climbing activities.
“Is he an angel or a demon?” Magdala whispered to herself. “Either way, I should recruit him as my personal bodyguard and put his agile body to proper use.”
The man landed deftly near her, his eyes flicking over the wreckage before settling on her.
“My lady,” he called out. “Are you injured? Please, allow me to take care of you.”
As he stepped closer, Magdala could see his face more clearly. Her eyes swept over the stranger's face, taking in the chiseled features, the high cheekbones, strong jawline and the piercing blue eyes that seemed to peer deep into her soul.
“A predator of the most alluring kind,” she thought. “If I were twenty years younger, I might even fall for that smile.”
Magdala suppressed a shudder at the thought. Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she pulled herself together. “With whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” she asked with a cold smile.
The young man inclined his head in a bow, his eyes never leaving her face. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said with a voice like velvet. “My name is Ryan, Ryan Blackwood. And you must be Lady Magdala Varga, your reputation precedes you.”
As he spoke, his dark robes flowed around his muscular body like a shroud. He was indeed a fine specimen of a man; there was something noble in his appearance, as well as in his manners. And even though his name – if it was his real name – didn’t sound familiar, Magdala had a strange feeling that she had met him before, but she couldn’t recall where and when.
“How very fortunate that a gallant like you happened to be passing by,” Magdala replied, almost managing to keep the sarcastic tone out of her voice. “I mean, what are the odds?”
Ryan's lips curled into a smirk, amusement gleaming in his eyes. Or was it something else? “Luck always seems to favor the prepared, my lady,” he quipped, keeping his tone light.
“Prepared for what, exactly?” Magdala asked, her voice dripping with honey-coated venom.
“Excuse me, my lady?” Ryan said, dropping his façade just for a second.
“You heard me.”
His eyes flashed with a hint of unease, but he quickly recovered. “I have no idea what you're referring to, my lady. I was merely passing by and heard the carriage crashing down the mountainside.”
“It was hours ago,” Magdala said. “Quite a long time for a coincidental passer-by to react, don’t you think?”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied how the man’s casual nonchalance started to falter, and she saw the flicker of annoyance that flashed across his face. She had him pinned.
“You are here to kill me, aren’t you?” she continued matter-of-factly.
Ryan didn’t answer, but the deep red hue spreading on his face gave away his guilt.
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Since the assassin seemed to have lost his ability to speak, Magdala broke the silence. “As you see, I am just a helpless woman with broken legs. You could have killed me instantly. But you didn’t. That means something, doesn't it? Either you want something more, or… or you just don’t have the guts to do it.”
Still no answer.
“So how is it?” Magdala pushed. “Greedy or cowardly? Cowardly or greedy? I bet it’s both!”
Ryan's jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed with anger. “By all means, let’s skip the pleasantries,” he snarled. “The sealed contract documents in your possession. Hand them over, and I'll ensure your safe return.”
Magdala’s mind raced. So, the game is out in the open, then, she thought to herself. He wants the marriage contract documents, and he's not going to let me die until he gets them.
“Hurry up!” Ryan yelled at her. Having lost his gallant quality, he looked like a desperate beast.
“I’m sorry, I was just wondering which documents you were talking about,” she said with her sweetest smile. “I have so many of them. Maybe if you could tell me who hired you for this fetching job, I would be able to narrow them down.”
The assassin's face twisted into a mask of fury. “If you think that playing coy will help you, you're gravely mistaken,” he responded with a low, dangerous growl. “You will not find out who hired me. And if you don't give me those documents, I'll make sure that crash was the easiest part of your death.”
“Have it your way then,” Magdala sniffed. “All the documents are inside a locked coffer. It is probably somewhere over there, among the remains of the carriage. It is a beautifully crafted silvery chest; you can’t miss it.”
Ryan took an annoyed look at the wreckage. “Let me guess – the key to the coffer is also lying there, among the debris?”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be amusing?” Magdala chuckled. “But no, there is no key. The coffer is protected by a magical lock. I am the only one who can open it.”
“Of course you are,” Ryan scoffed. “You'd better start preparing to bewitch the coffer open.”
With a grunt of frustration, he turned to search the debris. As he moved further, Magdala let her mask slip, revealing the pain and desperation she had been hiding. That was the only relief she could afford for herself, though – she knew she needed to steel herself for the challenge ahead.
Magdala watched Ryan's every move, as he surveyed the scattered remains of the carriage. It was evident that he wasn't experienced in tasks like this. His movements were clumsy and unsure, in strong contrast with the graceful effortlessness he had exhibited before. His frustration mounted with every fruitless search, but Magdala didn’t allow herself even a small spark of satisfaction at his discomfort. Instead, she tightened her grip on the hilt of the dagger.
Just as she thought he was about to give up, he reached down for something hidden amongst the debris. Magdala's heart raced as she watched him pick up a small, intricately carved silvery box from the wreckage. He had finally found it.
With a dangerous gleam in his eyes, Ryan made his way back to Magdala, clutching the coffer tightly in his grasp.
“Open it,” he demanded.
“Seems like I don’t have a choice,” Magdala sighed. “You must bring it closer. I need to touch the lid to channel the unlocking energy.”
The assassin took a step forward, the silver coffer held tightly in his grip. “Don’t try anything foolish”, he warned. He moved closer until the silver coffer was within reach of Magdala's outstretched hand. That’s when she struck – a swift, precise scratch across his forearm. The dagger’s edge whispered through his flesh before he could react.
“What the –” he spat, recoiling and clutching his arm. Blood welled from the thin line, dark and viscous.
“Poison,” Magdala hissed, her green eyes flashing. “A particularly nasty concoction. You'll be dead within few hours unless I provide the antidote.”
Ryan's face contorted with fear and rage. “You lying witch!” he roared, but the way his horrified gaze darted between his bleeding wound and Magdala’s dagger made it evident that fear had already taken root.
Magdala's lips curled into a cruel smile. “Lying? Are you willing to wager your life on that assumption? Or perhaps you already feel that burning sensation spreading along your arm?”
She saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. “The antidote,” he growled. “Where is it?”
“In my study,” Magdala replied, keeping her voice calm. “Help me to get home safely, and I'll ensure you live to see another dawn.”
Sweat beaded on Ryan's brow as he weighed his options. Finally, with a curse, he nodded. “Very well. But if you're deceiving me...”
“Get us out of here,” Magdala commanded, her voice steely. “Up to the road.”
With grudging compliance, the assassin lifted her on his back. He tore a length of rope from his belt and began to bind it around Magdala and himself to make sure she wouldn’t fall off. Each tug sent ripples of pain through her broken body, but Magdala bit back her scream, her teeth grinding against the torrent of pain.
After making sure that Magdala was firmly secured, he wrapped the coffer in the rope and bound it at his waist. Taking firm hold of the rope, he signaled upward with a sharp whistle.
“Wait, who is up there?” Magdala asked, but it was too late. The rope around her tightened, and she felt herself being lifted, every jolt an agony that seared her nerves. Her vision blurred, the edges tinged red with suffering. Through the haze of pain, Magdala caught glimpses of the clifface they were scaling. Jagged rocks seemed to leer at her, promising a swift end should the rope fail. She was thankful for the biting wind whipping around them – it kept her from passing out.
As they neared the top, she could hear their voices now—the mercenaries above, coordinating her extraction with cold efficiency. And then, as if conjured by her torment, the archers appeared, their dark forms silhouetted on the cliff against the dimming sky. Bows drawn, arrows nocked, they stood like specters of death.
“Steady!” one called out, his voice cutting through the wind.
“Almost there,” Ryan grunted. Sweat beaded on his brow as he struggled with Magdala’s weight. He made a final, desperate effort to pull themselves over the edge; the jarring impact wrung a strangled gasp from her lips. The rope's coarse embrace relinquished its grip on Magdala’s waist, and Ryan hauled her onto level ground, his breathing labored. As her body collapsed onto the stone, the mercenaries closed in, their expressions a mix of curiosity and menace.
“Blackwood!” the commander barked. “What's the meaning of this? Why isn't the wench dead?”
Ryan gave him a surly look. “She poisoned me. Claims she has the antidote. I had no choice.”
“You fool,” the commander spat. “There was no poison. You let her trick you.”
“You don’t know that!” Ryan suddenly yelled, his face red with anger and frustration. “I am getting sick and tired of this shit! It is my life on the line, not yours!”
“In that you are right,” the commander growled with seething rage. “You know what? I am getting sick and tired, too.” He jerked his head at the other mercenaries. “Kill him.”
Magdala's eyes widened in shock as she saw the marksmen raising their bows. But Ryan was quicker than them. In a blur of motion, he lunged for the rope, still tethered to the boulder. He leaped, a wild yell on his lips as he plummeted over the edge sliding down the rope. Arrows whizzed after him, but too late. Ryan vanished into the mist-shrouded ravine, the echoes of his cry fading into silence.
The commander swore viciously. “Leave him, we’ll get him later! The rope is his only way up.”
Magdala realized that her situation had just taken a turn for the worse. Without her reluctant rescuer, her fate was now entirely in the hands of the mercenaries – who had been hired to kill her. She knew she needed to act quickly, but with her current state, all she could do was buy some time.
“Gentlemen,” she purred, her voice betraying none of the pain coursing through her broken body. “As your loyal customer, I believe we can come to an arrangement that benefits us all.”
“As our former customer,” the commander grunted, “you should know that we stand by our honor code. We always deliver what has been paid for. The present customer has paid a hefty price for your head and for the documents inside that coffer.”
“The problem is that you can’t have both,” Magdala stated, keeping her voice steady. “The coffer is protected with magic, and I am the only one who can open it. Which I won’t do unless you guarantee my safety.”
“Oh, we have our ways to make you more co-operative,” The commander smiled menacingly.
“I know that torturing defenseless women is a part of your so-called ‘honor code’,” Magdala retorted, her voice edged with venom. “But torturing me would get you nowhere. It would just make my body and mind too weak to dispel the magic and open the coffer.”
For a moment, the commander eyed Magdala with annoyance. But then he straightened his posture, appearing to have made up his mind. “This chatter is getting us nowhere, either,” he stated. “So be it. We will deliver the coffer to the customer as it is; it’s not our problem to open it. Now, kill her!”
“Wait!” A lanky archer with a pockmarked face stepped forward. “Commander, you heard what the lady said: she is the only one who can open the coffer. If we deliver an unopenable box to the customer, we will end up with nothing!”
Magdala's heart raced, but her face remained a placid mask. Yes, let greed do its work.
The commander's nostrils flared. “You dare question my orders?”
“I'm just saying,” the archer persisted, “we should consider our options. What if—”
“Silence!” Another mercenary, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, pushed forward. “The commander's word is law. We kill the witch and take our chances with the coffer.”
Magdala watched, fascinated, as the men's faces contorted with anger and suspicion. The air crackled with tension, thick enough to cut with a knife.
“And who made you second-in-command?” sneered a third man. “I say we vote on it. Divide the spoils equally.”
The commander's face flushed crimson. “There will be no vote! I am in charge here, and –”
His words were cut short as the archer's fist connected with his jaw. In an instant, chaos erupted. Blades flashed in the dying light, and the mountain air filled with the clash of steel and guttural cries of rage.
Magdala stared in quiet disbelief as these men, who were supposed to be disciplined professional killers, tore into each other with savage ferocity. This isn't right, she thought, a chill creeping up her spine. Something else is at play here.
With each passing moment, the combat intensified, fueled by greed and betrayal. Blood splattered across the rocky terrain as the mercenaries slashed and stabbed at each other, their faces twisted by fury and desperation. Somehow, amidst the carnage, Magdala remained unscathed, a lone island of calm in a sea of violence.
One by one, the mercenaries fell, their blood staining the rocky ground. As the last man standing finally realized the enormity of what had just occurred, he staggered back, stumbling over the corpses of his comrades, and turned to Magdala. He pointed an accusing finger at her, his voice shaking with terror.
“Devilry! You bewitched us, foul sorceress – turned brother against brother!”
“Me? I did nothing,” Magdala whispered, her own bewilderment mirrored in his terrified gaze. But the man was beyond reason, and with a last look of pure dread, he turned and fled, disappearing into the gathering gloom of twilight.
As the last echoes of his frantic footsteps faded into the distance, Magdala took a shuddering breath. She wiped the sweat from her brow and gritted her teeth against the pain that coursed through her body. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant howling of the wind. She clutched the coffer tighter, every nerve on edge, as if the very air around her was charged with unseen malice.
Then she saw them.
Two figures emerged from the shadows, silent as ghosts. They glided toward her with eerie grace without making any sound on the rocky ground. They were covered in flowing, dark veils from head to toe, but their obsidian black eyes glimmered through, as if piercing her very soul.
Magdala's heart hammered against her ribs as they drew closer, their intentions impossible to discern. Had those… beings somehow orchestrated the mercenaries' grisly end? The air seemed to thicken with each step they took, pressing down on Magdala like a physical weight. Suddenly, a cold realization washed over her. She knew who they were, what they were.
And she had something stolen from them.
Don't think about it, she told herself frantically. Clear your mind, don’t let them know what I have taken. But even as she tried to banish all thought, she felt the weight of the enchanted crystal, as if her heart had been replaced with it.
One of the veiled figures raised a pale hand, long fingers unfolding like the petals of a flower. Magdala felt a surge of power, ancient and alien, and then the world went black. Her last conscious thought was to tighten her grip on the coffer, hugging it close to her chest as she slipped into oblivion.