Where is she?

As he left the house and made his way towards town, Petyr expected Mora to pelt him with a slingshot or come out hitting him with a stick at any moment.

She hadn’t always been glued to him, but for the last three years or so, she was a constant mainstay in his life and always there in the mornings at the very least.

Now, as Petyr glanced up at the clear sky, he could only see a vulture circling ominously.

For a moment, he began to worry that maybe he’d pissed her off too much the other day. Or worse, that he somehow hurt her in the process of throwing her into the river.

But she didn’t look hurt…

And besides, what do I care? It’s her own damn fault for following me all the time.

He should’ve been glad that the oni menace was out of his life. It was a good sign, after all. Turning a new leaf and all that…

At the same time, Petyr did not have that many friends here in Windust.

The boys were far more difficult to deal with than the girls. While typically girls were by themselves, hapless prey waiting to be approached with the right smile and a pretty word, almost always close to home, the boys here were always in gangs.

Given the living conditions it wasn’t that surprising that they ended up ruthless little animals. And most of them probably stopped thinking of themselves as kids the moment they turned thirteen-fourten…

As soon as the bandits could make use of them, they’d join up.

Of course, Petyr wasn’t as heartless as his parents might’ve thought. He didn’t think these little shits deserved to be hunted down and killed, though many of them behaved exactly like goblins and sometimes even looked like them.

No, he understood the situation well enough. It was difficult to grow up dirt poor.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like them.

And boy, he didn’t.

After all this time spent in Windust, the only real friend he’d made was Nik, and he was well aware that was more to do with who his father was than anything else.

Still, Nik had always looked after him, and in the beginning there even gave him advice for how to go after the local girls, what to do if he got lost, the basics of how to hunt and fish and such…

Petyr had always been flattered by the attention. Nik was an important and respected man after all—bandit or otherwise.

Maybe I could join up with him, he began to think as he went up the hill, the same one where Blind Bill had been left to rot.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

It wasn’t the craziest idea. Surely, Petyr would never be asked to do the undignified tasks the other young bandits were made to do and might even be started in a place of prominence.

Granted, he didn’t know much about how the bandits scraped by…

However, given the intelligence of most, it couldn’t be too difficult for a person like him.

The more he thought about it, the more Petyr perked up. I’d be right under Nik. I’m sure with my smarts and good looks I’d soon be trusted to overtake most of his operations. I could literally be running the tavern in a year or two!

He imagined himself enjoying the day go by just like Nik, ordering the bandits and whores around, a pretty whore in his lap, drinks and food on hand, with all of it turning a nifty little profit.

Yes, yes, yes! How have I not considered this before? This is perfect!

His blood raced from the excitement. His cheeks flushed.

As he came over the top of the hill, Petyr noticed the vulture from before was eyeing a field mouse.

The mouse darted across the dusty trail, oblivious to its exposure.

Shoo, you idiot! You’re going to be breakfast if you don’t!

The whole thing brought back flashes of the skysail and the galleon.

Much like the skysail appeared unassailable, so did the eagle. It made no sound as it circle high above in the sky, it’s eyes keeping track of the field mouse despite its small size and the great distance between them.

Then the eagle dove.

Horrified, Petyr watched it pick up in speed soundlessly as its beak and talons came in ready for the kill.

It’s so stupid! The grass next to path was ankle height at the lowest. And just a few meters further the forest started. How could be so oblivious?

Petyr almost closed his eyes, unwilling to bear witness to another disaster.

But just as the galleon being obliterated left him puzzled and speechless, so too did what happened next.

As the eagle swooped down, maybe just thirty meters away the mouse at most, something changed…

It began to plummet, its graceful dive suddenly broken, its wings folding in on themselves like a crumpled kite.

It slammed into the ground just a few meters away from the mouse, which suddenly ran into the grass, spooked by the impact.

What in the goddamn?

Petyr ran over to see what took place and moved the grass aside to find the eagle’s twisted body.

Is it dead? He gently prodded it at first with the tip of his boot, well aware of the power it had. Little kids had been killed by eagles in Windust before.

When he was certain it was dead, he reached out with a grimace and picked it up. Gross, gross, gross…

Sticking out from the eagle’s chest was the end of a crossbow bolt.

For a moment, Petyr simply froze, a puzzled and emotionless expression imprinted on his face.

What?

He glanced around but he could see no shooter. Nor could he remember seeing many using crossbows around here.

Local kids were slingshot enthusiasts, and some carried on using them to kill small game even into their adult years.

Apart from that, there were a few hunters that used bows—very few.

And then there were the bandits who had firearms—again, very few.

Petyr grimaced and pulled back the bolt.

It was smaller than he thought it would be, slender, and made of some type of strange, silvery metal rather than wood.

He ran it across the dried grass to get rid of the blood, then put the eagle back in its place and inspected it, hoping it might be a clue.

Truth was, he’d never seen anything like it in his life.

Instantly, his fathers words about a strange woman being in the woods came back to him.

His eyes shifted over slowly, heart pounding, afraid the next bolt might enter his head.

The treeline showed no signs of anybody.

Of course, he could’ve ventured into the forest, but…

I think I’d rather not.

Gulping, he moved away from the dead eagle.

Petyr pocketed the bolt.

He moved away as fast as he could—as fast as dignity would allow without outright fleeing the spot in cowardice and shame.

First that skysail.

Now this.

What is happening?