Petyr was certain they must’ve walked for well over an hour through the forest.

The only thing peppering the absolute silence were her instructions whenever she wanted him to switch directions.

He worried that she might slay him at any moment and leave his corpse to rot there.

Or worse, that she might give a final instruction before she dipped away and vanished, with Petyr forever left to wander the forest until he died anyway.

At length, they came to a small clearing where he could see a firepit and a tent. A tree stump had been improvised to serve as a table.

“Move everything from the stump and sit down.”

Nothing could be gleaned from the items: several leather-bound tomes, a few tiny unlabeled bottles, and an impressive silverwork glass.

Petyr let his eyes wander over the gold-embossed title of the first book in the stack. Zarvokti'ik Telentil.

His hairs stood on end.

That language. How could he not recognize it?

Petyr had to resist every impulse not to glance at her again with his newly-acquired info...

Soverni! Of course, she's from the Soverne Republic...

Which brought far more questions than answers. Was she from that skysail? Unlikely, since he had watched it depart.

Why, then, was a random Soverni here, beating and threatening him?

Gulping, he placed everything down with care and kept his realization to himself. The less she thinks I know, the better my odds of being spared. That's how this always works. There's no reason to kill idiots—except maybe for fun...

Thankfully, he could see no actual weapons stored anywhere. If this was some kind of upcoming invasion, then they hadn't come well-prepared. Nor in great numbers, considering he still hadn't laid eyes on another soul apart from her.

Sure, the strange woman mentioned there being a second person with her ready to strike him down if he tried anything. But if so, where were they?

It wasn’t impossible that this other person just shadowed them the whole way, but considering his cuffs there was no real need for it. What threat could Petyr possibly be?

Or... maybe he was an actual threat? Maybe he had overreacted by being so passive and cooperative?

She’s completely alone, he thought, gaining a sudden hope. He had to imagine that as even as an untrained guy he stood a chance to take her down. Men were far stronger than women, weren't they?

It's basically impossible for a girl to win in a fair fight...

Not that it was very fair with him cuffed and her poised to kill him with that bolt of hers.

He sat as ordered, a surge of optimism passing through him. I won't die here. I won't.

She watched him for a moment, her wrist still pointed at him. The gleaming tip of the bolt was angled right at his noggin.

Petyr noticed that the silvery bolt wasn’t attached to a crossbow, but slipped right up under the skintight sleeve. Whatever it was, the device was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Just like the attack on the galleon from that skysail's cannon—weird new Soverni tech?...

The woman took some time to observe him, as if judging whether he was a threat or not, then lowered her arm. She stepped over to another side of the small camp and took a sip from a bottle.

The blood-red liquid must've been wine.

“What is your name?” The edge in her voice was just as pronounced. Petyr wondered if the strange accent was truly Soverni, or if she was faking a different one to throw people off.

Then again... Maybe those books are what's meant to throw me off. Gods. Why is it all so complicated?

“Petyr," he said, mouth dry. "My name is Petyr... And yours?”

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Her eyes shot daggers his way.

Afraid, Petyr gulped and smiled shyly. "Can't I ask?"

“You should only answer and do as you're told. Are you in need of water?”

“N-No..." he said, and instantly regretted it. In truth he would’ve liked some; his lips were parched since before she took him captive.

Maybe noticing his worsening mood, she stood up straight with a rather elegant move and said, “My name is Avesta.”

“And you’ve taken me, why?…”

Her eyebrows narrowed threateningly as she perceived a provocation with his second pertinent question. “I’ve come to root out an infection.”

“What kind of infection?”

There was no response.

"Not that I'm disrespecting you or anything, but it isn't much of an answer..."

She scoffed darkly. “It’s not? It is. Closer than anything else. And besides, I will be the one asking questions. Your father’s name is Gregory, is it not?”

The sudden mention of his father left Petyr gobsmacked. “Yes.” What could she possibly want with him?

“Is he the same one that’s known as Squeezer? Weigh your answer carefully. For every deceitful answer, I’ll cut a piece of your flesh.”

As he sat there on the tree stump in the middle of the forest staring at her, Petyr let out a grim chuckle of disbelief. “Squeezer? I’ve never heard of that in my life. No, definitely not.”

“I’ve heard Squeezer is the one that produces the drugs for the bandits here. I believe the locals call it hushslag.”

Hushslag. Yes, of course, Petyr knew of it. It wasn’t sold at the tavern. Even stepping inside in under its effects would get you an ass-kicking from the bandits. Nik absolutely loathed it. Only true addicts and the destitute who couldn't afford booze got into hushslag.

In general, those in Windust had a very low tolerance for slaggers, as they were known. Most either used it on the hush-hush or knew better than to come into town when they were high.

The only person Petyr knew personally who used it was Jayne’s father. And that was only because she complained about it all the time and how it worried her.

Actually, she’d mentioned it last time they spoke, hadn’t she? He was standing next to her looking out at sun going down, wondering how he'd fuck her later, when she started spilling her guts about family troubles again.

It was only yesterday, yet it feels like a lifetime ago...

As he snapped back to reality, he found the same cold predatory eyes watching him, evaluating whether he was worth keeping alive or not.

“Listen, m-my father could actually help you,” said Petyr. “Or maybe my friend Nik—he runs the tavern, and he’s good with the bandits. Well, he’s one of them, I guess. But the point is, if anyone knows this Squeezer, he does. Maybe my father knows about it too—he can name you every major alchemist in Weston.”

Avesta tilted her head and took a step forward. “You truly don’t know, do you?”

“No! Of course not. Look”—his eyes traced up and down her hot body, unsure of what to call her—”miss, I don’t care about slagers or drunks. I like girls. That’s it. And even then, I’ve never been to a whore.”

A contemptous smirk played upon her lips. “You're a good boy, is that it?”

“Yes!” he insisted. “I know it sounds stupid, but I really am… And despite that thing with the bolt, I’m not a thief. I’ve never stolen in my life. I had no intention of stealing. I didn’t know it was yours. Or that you wanted it back…”

Avesta came closer still—so close that the back of his fingers almost grazed the warm curve of her inner thighs. Her eyes glared down at him. “I will ask you one more time. And I will no longer be cutting parts of you if you lie to me. Deceive me, even once, and I’ll slice your throat open.”

Petyr shuddered and gasped, an overwhelming sense of panic taking over. What did she want from him? Where was the lie? He hadn’t deceived her at all!

Fucking bitch!

“So you’d kill me for telling you the truth?” Bitch, bitch, bitch!

The crazy determined gleam in her eyes only intensified.

“Gregory is Squeezer!” Avesta spat, her voice thundering like that of an angry goddess. “Your father is the one who produces the hushslag for the bandits!”

Petyr instinctively burst into laughter, amazed at such a declaration. “W-What? That’s insane!”

She stormed away towards the other side of the camp.

The moment Petyr saw the flash of the blade, his bladder almost failed him.

His feet moved before he did, carrying him away from the treestump in a desperate run for salvation.

She’s insane! Dad—hushslag? This stupid crazy bitch!

Where was she getting this stuff? Just crazy!

Unwilling to be the victim of a lunatic, no matter how perfect her ass may have been, Petyr ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

But his binds combined with the unfamiliar territory and overall exhaustion did not take him very far.

Avesta grabbed him from behind and slammed his head hard into the trunk of a tree.

It was the same place where he had the bump from the rock that hit him yesterday and Petyr howled in agony.

Next thing he knew, she dropped on top of him, hand crushing his lips together, blade pressed at his throat. “You’ve lied to me," Avesta hissed, the shiny strands of her brown bob dangling over his face. "But you’re also a coward. So why should I give you the satisfaction of a clean death?”

When the knife moved away from his throat he shuddered with relief. Yes. Gods. Thank you. Thank you!

The sting that followed was so quick that he barely thrashed underneath her. A powerful burn came from his ear.

Avesta’s brown eyes shone as she brought the blade back. On it, he could see tip of of his earlobe, a tiny bloody nub of flesh. “You will tell me the truth now,” she said, her small perfectly white teeth forming an unhappy smile. “Or I’ll keep cutting.”

My ear… She… She cut away… She cut off my ear!!

Tears came to his eyes as he considered what she’d done. Ruined his looks, maybe forever. Turned him into a monstrosity.

A pitiful sob wracked his body as he remained trapped underneath this psycho, and utterly at her mercy.

Avesta wiped the blade against his shoulder and left the nub of his earlobe there. She raised the knife again, this time sliding the edge against his nostrils. “Do you wish for your nose to go next?”

Please, he thought, hot tears now streaming uncontrollably. How could a woman this young and beautiful act like this? Not even bandits acted like this!

Avested smirked, darkly satisfied by total power she commanded over him. "Now, tell me everything about Squeezer. About your father.”