Jenny held her breath, the bolt noise still echoing in her ears. Then she heard the footsteps: heavy and slow. She picked up the crossbow and retreated further into the darkness. With trembling hands, she armed another bolt and pointed it at the trapdoor.

“What’s it, Joel?”

“Heard sometin’,” answered a different voice.

“The rat the girl said?”

“Dinnae sounded like it,” Joel answered.

Jenny heard footsteps and things falling down. She listened to the men grunting, and heavy things dragged on above.

“There’s nothing here.” The first voice complained.

“I ‘eard it, Carlos. I know I ‘eard it.” Joel said.

“Come, we need to keep an eye on the workers. The new lord won’t be pleased if we don’t do our job.”

The footsteps faded away, and Jenny lowered the crossbow. Her hands trembled, and she let out a shaky breath. That was too close for comfort. She sat down and waited. It was clear now she was wrong about the time. The farmers were still working the field, and night hadn’t fallen yet. She lay against the cold wall of the tunnel and thought back at the cursed knowledge.

The information came quickly and eagerly. The components of magic and how to shape the power to her will. The metaphysical energy that powered spells and how to extract the same energy from living creatures. There was more, but Jenny realized something. She knew of magic and not magic itself.

The knowledge in her mind told of magics weaved in the fabric of reality with pre-defined concepts: [Regenerate], [Dominate], [Wrack]. It was the same as knowing a recipe existed without knowing its instructions. She searched deeper. She knew how to modify magic, make it affect more targets, and extend the duration and range, even if she didn’t know any magic to invoke.

Jenny sighed and pushed that knowledge away. Magic was dangerous, and in this island even more so. She hadn’t forgotten the Gloom and what happened when sorcerers toyed with powers that shouldn’t have been.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

During the wait, Jenny heard noises up above — steps and conversation. The workday ended, and the workers stashed their tools in the storage shed. That bit of information helped Jenny pinpoint her location. The farm shed built near the manor walls.

Another eternity later, Jenny approached the trapdoor and pried it open. Or at least, she tried to. The thing wouldn’t budge; something above blocked the movement. She fixed her position and anchored against the wall. She flexed with slow but forceful movements, pushing against the trapdoor.

It was cumbersome, but the wood moved, a small line revealing the dark interior of the shed. Above, she heard something else heavy moving. Jenny redoubled her efforts and pushed harder, against the blocked passage. There was a moment where nothing happened, and then the trapdoor flew open and something else crashed to the ground with a loud bang.

Jenny didn’t wait to see what would happen. She picked up the bag, the dagger, and the crossbow and climbed out of the passage into the dark shed. Outside, she heard voices.

“What do you think it is? A thief?” Someone asked.

“Maybe is the murderer," another joked. "Heard the lord is paying a heft sum to anyone who brings him the lass alive.”

Jenny armed the crossbow and pointed it at the door. Her breath sped up, and her hands started to tremble again, but she did her best to hold still.

“Shouldn’t we inform the others and get more people?” The first voice asked.

“And share the money?” The footsteps got closer. “Now quiet; it is probably some tool fell. You know how lazy those farmers are.”

Jenny heard the jiggling of keys, and the door opened. The moonlight shone inside, illuminating the place. Walls of sturdy timber, assembled from rough-hewn planks. A roof thatched with straws. The heavy wooden door creaked while it opened. Against the walls, wooden racks and shelves laden with tools: hoes and shovels, scythes with their keen, menacing edges, plowshares, and sickles. In one corner, a workbench with odds and ends: twine, nails, and simple tools for mending.

The rays of moonlight cast half of Jenny’s face in stark contrast to the surroundings. The light didn't hide the armed crossbow pointed at the door.

An unkempt, thin man with crooked teeth looked at her, then the crossbow. He turned around, the start of a yell in his throat. “She’s he—”

Jenny pulled the lever and released the bolt. The noise — a sharp, resonant twang — was followed by the whistle of the bolt cutting the air and the impact of the metal tip piercing flesh.

The man fell, his call of alarm transforming into screams of agony.

“Shit, shit, heeeelp!” The second voice yelled outside, getting further away.

Jenny ran out of the shed. After briefly orienting herself, she ran into the fields and toward the trees. If she managed to get there, she might be able to lose anyone pursuing her in the dark.

From behind, a commotion grew. The man she’d shot kept his agonized ruckus. Voices raised behind the walls. Light of torches illuminated the surrounding darkness.

Jenny pulled the cloak over her head, hiding the mane of yellow hair. She was glad for the cloak's dark color. It would help her hide in the dark.