The evening air was heavy with moisture, dew glistening on leaves like a thousand glassy eyes watching from the dark. The woman's breath came out in shuddering puffs, misting in the twilight. She staggered forward, legs weak and burning, bleeding from where brambles had torn into her. One shoe lost somewhere in the underbrush, the other slipping on the moss-slicked stones beneath her. Still, she ran, a silent prayer slipping from her lips with every panicked heartbeat.
Run only at dusk, never in the light, they had told her, the women who had escaped. And she had listened. She wasn’t a fool. No one could escape in broad daylight. But she hadn’t counted on the new jailor’s guard dogs; sleek, black beasts that could scent blood from miles away. The sleeping potion she had poured into the guards’ ale knocked out the dogs penned in the yard, along with their masters always drinking at night. But the hounds this new jailor brought with him… why did he not join their blasted merrymaking?
Somewhere behind her, their snarls rent the night air, hungry and close. And then the sharp, bellowing voice of the jailor, filled with vile satisfaction.
“Rip her apart, boys! Bring me her bones!” he shouted, the crack of a whip following as a shrill encouragement.
Alice dared a glance back. It was a mistake, for her foot caught on an outcropping stone. She fell, her hands breaking her fall, leaving her palms scraped raw. Pain shot up her arms. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the blood trickling down her arms. She could barely see the path anymore, barely see anything beyond the thick wall of brambles hemming her in. She felt trapped, like a mouse in a snare, each breath coming faster than the last, each heartbeat a pounding drum.
The howls grew closer. They had her scent.
And then she found herself at a dead end. She skidded to a stop, staring at the sheer rock wall rising before her. It loomed like a tombstone.
“No…” she whimpered, the sound of it pathetic in her ears. She turned wildly, searching for another route, any other way to escape, but the branches snagged at her hair and clothes, tearing and pulling, as if the forest itself had turned against her. Even the trees, with their gnarled limbs and twisted roots, conspired to keep her here.
A growl broke through the foliage, low and menacing. She turned in time to see a pair of deadly eyes glinting from the shadows. The jailor’s two hounds emerged, hackles raised, lips curled back to show sharp, glistening teeth.
The woman sank to her knees, trembling hands raised in a feeble shield against the inevitable. The sound of footsteps crunched on the path, and then the jailor stepped out, sneering. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing thick, scarred forearms, his belt swinging free at his hip like a pendulum of malice.
“What did you do to them back there, girl?” he spat, voice dripping with venom. “And you thought you could get away with it, did you?”
He reached for his belt, the well-worn leather coiled like a serpent in his grip. Alice squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the first lash, the searing pain. She wanted to scream but wanted badly to not give him the satisfaction.
But the blow never came.
Instead, there was a high-pitched yelp from one of the dogs, a choking whine, and then silence. Alice dared to open her eyes, just in time to see something dark and swift slip between the trees, followed by a heavy thud. The jailor’s hand froze in mid-swing, confusion flashing across his features.
“What—?” He spun around, peering into the shadows. “Who’s there?! Show yourself, coward!”
A rustling sound came from behind him. The jailor whirled again, eyes wide and wild. A figure stepped into the clearing; a slender, almost ethereal man clad in a monk’s robe. His hair was a deep, fiery red, his skin so pale it seemed to glow. His eyes were green and bright, alive and sinister and unsettling and joyful.
The monk’s lips curved into a slow smile, revealing the barest hint of sharp teeth. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, and his fingers, long and elegant, were stained crimson.
The jailor backed up a step, then another. “Who… What the hell are you?” he demanded, voice trembling now.
The monk raised a hand, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve in an almost absent-minded manner. “No one of consequence to you, I’m afraid,” he said softly. His voice was like silk, soothing and sinister all at once. He glanced down at the bodies of the dogs sprawled in the brush. “Such a shame. Poor creatures never had a chance. I suppose I put them out of their misery, mutated creatures like those. A forceful fusion between sweet docile animals and what beasts resided in the mountains.”
The jailor swore and cried out. He swung his belt at the monk, but the pale man was a blur of movement. There was a flash of metal, a silver dagger slicing through the air, and then the jailor was on the ground, clutching his throat as blood welled between his fingers.
Alice watched, horrified, as the jailor convulsed and went still. She looked up at the monk, heart hammering in her chest. He hadn’t moved from his spot, his gaze fixed on her with a strange, unreadable intensity. Then he held a finger, told her to wait, as he dragged the limp, lifeless jailor into the thick brambles. There was a sound Alice did not recognize, and then the monk came out from the darkness and wiped his mouth with his sleeves.
“You are… Brother Woodrow?” she stammered, clutching her own chest as if to still the frantic beating of her heart.
The monk inclined his head, the same smile lingering on his lips. “That I am, Alice.”
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“How do you know my name?” she whispered, voice barely audible.
“The same way you know mine,” he replied lightly. “The women who escaped spoke of you. And now they wait, just beyond.” He gestured behind her, towards the solid wall of rock. “Step aside, if you will.”
With a graceful, almost languid motion, he reached out and pressed a hand against a loose stone. There was a grinding sound, and to Alice’s astonishment, the rock wall slid aside, revealing a hidden passage beyond.
“A little contraption made by one of my brothers,” Woodrow explained, glancing at the opening with a touch of pride. “He has a talent for such things. Ealhstan, that is. Come, you’ll be safe now.”
Alice hesitated. Could she trust him? How fast and effortless this strange monk made those kills. But then she remembered the women she had met in secret, the ones who had whispered of a place beyond the forests, a sanctuary for those like her. They had given her the sleeping draught, too. Made from a certain alchemist accompanying Woodrow once.
I’ll take my chances, she decided, stepping forward. The passage closed behind them with a soft rumble, sealing off the outside world. Expecting a cramped tunnel, she was surprised to find herself standing in a small clearing, ringed by tall, dark trees. Lanterns glowed softly, casting a warm light over a series of low wooden buildings nestled beneath the boughs.
It wasn’t a village, not quite. It was too small, too hidden. But it felt like a place where she could rest, where she could be free.
“It’s a good thing you escaped at night. Or else I wouldn’t have found you.” Woodrow’s smile curved with a wicked, playful edge, his voice smooth and low as he surveyed the darkened street. “Welcome to my pleasure district.”
“Pleasure district?” The words left Alice’s mouth in a choked whisper. Her chest tightened, a flash of fear stiffening her spine. She took a half-step back, her gaze darting between the raucous laughter drifting from the large inn and the serene, unblinking monk beside her. So that’s why the other women were so vague about escaping, she realized, heart sinking. They’d rather sell their bodies and live freely than be trapped and tortured by vile men.
The thought filled her with a bitter, swirling nausea. She turned, expecting Woodrow to lunge and seize her, like the others did. The men who hunted her down never stopped, never tired. They always caught her, always dragged her back to that cage of filth and despair. She would much rather accept her fate here than be forced back into that hell…
But Woodrow did not move to catch her. Instead, he raised his hands in a calming, almost placating gesture. “I only meant that as a cover,” he said softly, voice sliding like silk over the tension between them. His fingers, pale and graceful, curled and uncurled with a hypnotic ease. Alice’s gaze lingered on them; a musician’s hands, or perhaps a poet’s. Certainly not hands that belonged to a bloodstained monk.
“Welcome to the pleasure district,” he repeated, more gently this time. “It’s not much yet, but it will be. A place for everyone to start anew. Or to start over.” He paused, watching her carefully as she grappled with the weight of his words. “Yes, this is a community that focuses on pleasure, but there is protection in it as well. See that big manor up ahead? That is my house and my base. You will know it well. But for now, I’ll say that this is a place for those who wish to work and live here. If you want to leave, just tell me, and we’ll make plans. You might fancy a monastery at Rothfield or the crafting community near Rothlake. But if you wish to fight and learn how to protect yourself, this is the place where you’ll train.”
His smile faded as he turned to face her fully, his expression turning serious. The lanterns flickered, casting long shadows over his face. “You’ll learn to defend yourself, Alice. To defend others. Some find refuge here. But I want you to know that the pleasure side of this place is a front for something more. Something that will allow us, one day, to strike back against the men who hurt you.”
Alice swallowed, the bitterness in her chest mingling with a spark of something fierce and wild. Could it really be true? Could she find strength here? Could she become something more than just prey?
“I…” She hesitated, the word trembling on her lips, then steeled herself. “I am.”
Woodrow’s smile softened, almost imperceptibly. He inclined his head. “Good. Then welcome, Alice, to Rothshade. Welcome to the true Order of the Kindflame.”
---WOODROW’S BASE / ROTHSHADE---
Woodrow nodded toward the inn that looked like a grand manor, still smiling. The ground floor was full of raucous laughter and music. The second floor had windows that were either lit by warm and candles or were dark. The third floor had no windows at all. “It lulls the men into a false sense of comfort. The place gives them what they desire and, in return, we learn everything they know. Information is the most valuable coin here. But this—” Woodrow swept his hand behind his house, towards the small cottages, the gardens and fields where children played and women huddled together—“this is what our pleasure district truly serves. To hide what is underneath.”
The sharpness of his gaze softened. “You will find pleasure here too, Alice. Pleasure in a freedom few know. Pleasure in revenge. If that is what you seek.”
Alice swallowed hard, words failing her. But she fell into step behind him. Her gaze darted from the flickering firelight of the village’s center to the small community of women and men gathered there. A wide communal firepit glowed with a welcoming light, its warmth drawing the villagers close.
To her surprise, there were children; young boys and girls clutching at their mothers’ skirts, laughing and playing while their mothers looked on with the fierceness of lionesses guarding their cubs. One woman knelt, her arms wrapped around two children—twins, judging by the identical dark hair and frightened, wide eyes. Tears traced down her cheeks, her mouth moving soundlessly in prayer or gratitude.
Woodrow noticed Alice’s lingering stare. “She waited months for us to save her children. The corrupted Order of the Sacred Flame separated them at birth,” he murmured, a hint of anger sharpening his words. “The boys trained for war. The girls… trained to serve, like livestock bred for their use. It was not easy getting them back, Alice. They were kept in different towns, hidden away.”
The woman’s sobs softened to breathless laughter as her children nuzzled into her embrace. Alice’s throat tightened at the sight. A mother, reunited at last.
The weight of all the losses, her own daughter among them, crushed her breath in her lungs. She forced herself to look away. It wasn’t her place to envy others’ happiness.
Woodrow pointed to some young men cutting wood and hauling stone and lumber. “Some of these men came from Rothfield,” Woodrow continued, his tone lighter now. He glanced at her, an eyebrow raised. “Have you heard of it?”
“The monastery of Rothfield?” Alice blinked in surprise. “The grand monastery that houses the true flame of Saint Gaelmar?”
Woodrow smiled softly. “The very same.”
Alice gaped at him, realization dawning. The stories she had dismissed as superstitious nonsense… the tales of a brotherhood guarding miracles… this man had lived them. She had thought them to be little more than fanciful rumors, whispers meant to stoke false hope. Yet here he stood. “You were of the original brotherhood?”
His gaze was distant, “Yes. I still am.” But he said no more, only holding a wooden charm wrapped around his neck.
Woodrow pointed out the other structures scattered across the clearing then. The barnhouse, the stables, and, finally, back to the grand structure that loomed above the rest.
The pleasure house.