The late afternoon rays of the sun barely passed through the thick forest canopy.

Petyr was still alive. He sat on the ground, leaning against a tree, looking more dirty and beatdown than at every other low point in his life combined.

Still drawing breath should’ve filled him with relief; but truth be told, he wasn’t sure if this psycho was planning to kill him or not.

At present, Avesta had taken a break, too frustrated with him to continue her assault.

Part of him was ashamed that he’d cried like a little bitch when she cut him. Petyr could take a lot, after all. But why did she have to ruin my face? Out of all things! My fucking face?

The one thing he knew with certainty was that he would much rather be dead than alive as an ugly freak. All he wanted now was a mirror to assess just how severe the damage was.

If his face was ruined, then his life was ruined, and it would be a mercy for her to end it here—tonight.

That she did this to him only because he had no answers to the idiotic barrage of questions made it feel even more unfair. The whole thing was just rigged against him. The gods are such pricks.

Since the whole thing went back to his father, part of him was tempted to put the whole blame on Gregory. But the idea that he had some secret identity as some “Squeezer” was absurd.

His father left home maybe once a year, if that.

While Petyr considered the matter and suffered in silence, Avesta went about the camp, completely indifferent to his agony and anxiety.

“People are going to start looking for me,” he dared to voice, hoping the underlying message would work. It’s safer for you to let me go.

Of course, that wasn’t exactly true. It might’ve been before she made it personal by cutting off his fucking ear, but at this point, he was more than a little eager to bash her brains in with his bare hands for revenge.

Still, it was important for her to just feel like this was a waste of time. That it would be safer for her, too, if she just called it quits now and let him be on his way.

“They start to worry when I’m gone all day without sending word.”

Petyr was tempted to add that his father had mentioned seeing a woman stalking the house, but that probably wasn’t a good idea. Then she’ll think my father truly is involved in something nefarious. No, better I keep my mouth shut about that.

Avesta ignored him and crouched down by a leather pouch. Her hand rummaged through it as if he weren’t there. Am I invisible? This goddamned foreign bitch…

No, she deserved way worse than having her skull cracked open. Whatever fate she ultimately suffered needed to be slow and filled with the same psychological torture as what she was putting him through now.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Could pathetic desperation win the day? Petyr told himself he would fake that, too, but it came all rather naturally given the trauma he’d suffered.

“Please…” he begged, sounding exhausted. “Just let me go. I don’t know anything. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go… Please…”

Avesta stood up and sashayed over thoughtfully—Gods, those hips of hers, he thought—looking as if she were almost considering his words. “So I am to believe in good faith that you know nothing at all about your father’s doings?”

“His doings? I told you you’re right that he’s an alchemist. But none of the drug stuff!”

“What does he make?”

What sort of questions were these?! As if Petyr spend the day cataloging what Gregory bottled up and sent out for sale.

“I d-d-don’t know…” he sputtered, disgusted by the suggestion that he might care enough about such meaningless matters.

Avesta let out a grim chuckle. “You share a home. You are his only son. His future heir. And yet, you know nothing?”

Despite his battered state, Petyr could only roll his eyes. “Look, it’s all sorts of crap, okay? Nothing interesting. Ointments, salves, balms…”

Seeing her eyes narrowing, maybe finally believing him, he searched his mind for more to add to his argument. “Tonics… Antidotes… Dyes… Scents, like, perfumes… Explosives…”

Her eyebrows arched with interest. “Explosives?”

“I mean he’s not making anything like—”

For a moment, he almost slipped and mentioned the destruction the skysail’s cannon left in its wake. The way that galleon went from mighty ship to wooden bits in the blink of an eye. No, it’s your people who do that, assuming you’re a true Soverni…

Avesta crouched before him and tilted her head mockingly. “Like what?” Clearly, she still thought it was bullshit.

“Like whatever would kill people! Gods. The guy is boring. He makes fireworks! Or crap to clear up goblin tunnels and shit like that.”

Exasperated by her lack of reaction, Petyr sighed and bashed the back of his head against the rough trunk of the tree he leaned against. “Look, he’s not the person you think he is. Seriously.”

“You live in a nice house,” said Avesta calmly.

The non-sequitur caused his brain to melt. “Huh?”

“Your home. It’s by far the most impressive in these parts. Most are rundown farms that would scatter in the wind if a real storm ever hit. Very interesting that your father could afford such a place.”

“I mean…” Sure, it was a great home, but was that so weird? Farmers had homes near farms…“It’s not like we live in a castle or a mansion. What, do we look like great lords to you?”

“I didn’t say you did.” Avesta’s face lost all emotion as she peered at him closely. “But most alchemists tend to eek out an existence. Unless one is in a guild and working in an advisory role to produce at mass scale, it’s highly unlikely any alchemist would be described as well off.”

What?…

“Who else would buy it?” he shot back. “They’re all destitute farmers around here.”

“And yet, these destitute farmers can apparently afford to buy as many tonics”—Avesta recited the word with pure hatred—”as your hardworking father makes? That’s truly remarkable.”

What was she even trying to say? He was the only alchemist in the entirety of Windust. And many of the things he made the bandits probably sold in the capital and beyond.

Her attitude made Petyr feel at a loss. He’d never encountered a woman this goddamn dense. “You’re just—”

Avesta raised her arm and pointed the deadly bolt between his eyes again. “I am what?”

He suppressed the desire to curse at her. “Wrong. You’re wrong.”

He scoffed gently and shook her head. Her expression was almost kind. “No. It is you who is wrong.”

Petyr’s eyes could follow the progress of the sun through tree branches. Soon, it would dip below the horizon. At which point they’d be in the dark.

There was no way he could run then. In fact, there was a higher chance he’d get lost trying to get back home.

Not that he had a way to escape anyway.

No, he just needed to make her understand. She’s wrong. She’s so wrong.

But how could he convince her?

Or, alternatively… how could he take her down?