---WOODROW’S INN---

Alice studied it further. The building resembled a lavish inn, more manor than tavern, its stone walls adorned with ivy and lanterns casting a warm, inviting light. Laughter and music spilled from within, the raucous notes of a fiddle mingling with voices raised in drunken song. A wide road snaked from the inn to the outside world, connecting this hidden place to the unsuspecting villages beyond.

Alice’s stomach churned. So much noise, she thought, staring at the entrance. So much light.

Woodrow touched her shoulder lightly, his expression gentle. “Let us enter. And try not to worry.”

But worry she did, especially when Alice recognized some of the faces inside. Men she had once served in captivity, men who had leered and jeered at her weakness, now lounged on the inn’s polished benches, cups of mead in hand. She shrank back, pressing closer to Woodrow as the crowd thickened. Women she had known, women who had whispered of this place, moved between the tables, their aprons low-cut and their smiles painted on.

Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Laura, a gentle soul who had spoken to her in the darkness of the prison. The woman was draped over the arm of a minor lord, giggling softly as he stroked her hair. She wore a revealing blouse that bared her shoulders and clung to her hips, accentuating every curve. Laura’s gaze flitted to Woodrow, and a fleeting look of relief passed over her features.

The minor lord stumbled forward, nearly colliding with Woodrow. The man thrust a fat bag of coins into Woodrow’s hands, his smile sloppy with drink. “There he is! Thank you for finding such a beauty in Laura. She’s been good to me.”

“And she will continue to be good to you, my lord if you treat her right,” Woodrow said smoothly, discreetly slipping a few coins into Laura’s hand.

The lord snorted, oblivious to the exchange. “I always am,” he slurred, staggering off.

Laura’s smile melted into something more real as she leaned close to Woodrow, whispering something into his ear. Woodrow nodded, and from somewhere within the folds of his robes, he produced a small black glass bottle, handing it to her.

“Thank you,” Laura murmured and gave Woodrow a grateful look. It spoke of loyalty forged in suffering, of promises made and kept. Laura glanced at Alice, her eyes softening. “You’ll be alright here, love,” she said quietly. “We’ll take care of you.”

Alice nodded, too overwhelmed to respond. Woodrow turned to her, his gaze steady.

“Every woman here has a choice,” he said softly. “To serve, to fight, or to flee. If you wish to leave, you are free to do so. But know this: If you stay, you will not only survive. You will become stronger than you ever dreamed.”

He held out a hand, pale and blood-streaked. “What will you choose, Alice?”

---WOODROW’S OFFICE---

Woodrow’s office door creaked shut, sealing them away from the clamor and din below. The small space was lit by a single brass lantern, its flame casting long shadows over the aged maps strewn across his desk. Alice glanced down, noting the circles and X-marks that dotted various kingdoms and territories. Some were scribbled with notes in Woodrow’s elegant script, marking the names of towns and routes, others simply designated with a cross like a grave.

Alice crossed her arms. “I will stay to learn to fight, but I have no interest in joining your pleasure business. I’ve had enough of men putting their hands where they don’t belong.”

Woodrow’s lips twitched, his smile tightening for a heartbeat. He looked at her, then away, as if choosing his next words with care. “You may do as you like here, Alice. It is the choice of the women and men to join me in the pleasure house.” Woodrow swept his hand over the maps, tracing lines and symbols with a delicate, almost reverent touch. “You know this place is a facade. I want you to know that it is a way to gather information. On our enemies, our allies, and those caught in between.”

Alice’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering through her eyes. “Information?”

Woodrow walked to the far wall and, with a deft twist, pulled a hidden lever. The sound of wood grinding against stone filled the room, and a section of the wall slid open, revealing a series of curious contraptions. Brass tubes jutted out at odd angles, some with earpieces attached, others with mouthpieces like the kind used to amplify a singer’s voice. Alice stepped closer, her gaze following one tube that disappeared into the floorboards.

“Go on,” Woodrow said softly, nodding at the earpiece. “Press it to your ear.”

She hesitated but complied. At once, the low murmur of voices filled her head. A conversation—no, more like sweet nothings exchanged between Laura and the minor lord—filtered through the metal.

“…and how many soldiers does your lordship think will be needed to take the western garrisons?” Laura’s voice was light and airy, threaded with faux curiosity.

“Five hundred at most. And we’ll strike at dawn—no one will see us coming,” the lord slurred, the telltale drawl of a man deep in his cups.

Alice pulled away, staring at the tubes in amazement. “How…?”

“A strong mug of ale, a beautiful lady, and a touch of sleeping potion that loosens the tongue—and there you have it.” Woodrow’s smile was faintly sardonic. “I used to do it myself. Some people cannot resist me, as you’ve seen.” He chuckled, though his laughter was hollow. “But I am just one monk, and I need others. People come to me, and I ask them if they’re sure this is the life they want. Sometimes, they leave for Rothfield or Rothlake or Rothgreen. They seek new lives, to gather their loved ones… but most find it easier to stay here. Easier to take back control than to run.”

Alice’s heart beat faster. Her fear of the place, of the women swaying to the whims of the lords and knights, began to fade.

“Where do I stay if not in the inn?” she asked cautiously.

“You can join the farmers, the seamstresses, or the cooks. There are many roles, Alice. We are a community first.” Woodrow’s gaze darkened with some memory. There was a long moment of silence where Alice and Woodrow stared at each other, waiting.

“I need to find my daughter,” Alice whispered, voice raw with longing. “Whatever it takes.”

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Woodrow’s eyes softened. “I understand.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I’m looking for mine too.”

The admission stunned her. She stared at him, words caught in her throat. A child? He has a child? The revelation reframed the man before her. He was no longer a mysterious monk with shadowy motives, but a father, like her, bereft and desperate.

Woodrow’s smile was sad. “Let’s just say I had a life before I took my vows. A life I only recently remembered… when our dear Abbot showed me the truth.” His fingers clenched, knuckles white. “She was taken from me while I was away at war. I won that war, but at the cost of my humanity. Now I need to find her. To let her know that her father has not abandoned her.”

Alice saw the pain inside her mirrored in his eyes. Slowly, she reached out and grasped his hand. She gasped at its chill, absent of life. She dropped Woodrow's hand and instead looked him straight in his brilliant green eyes. “I’ll do anything,” she said fiercely. “Anything that helps me get her back.”

Woodrow nodded. “Then there’s something you must see.”

He moved behind his desk, pulling out a worn tome. A soft click echoed in the small room as he opened the book, and suddenly, the bookshelf beside him slid open, revealing a set of descending stairs. A chill breeze wafted up from the darkness below.

“Follow me,” Woodrow murmured, lantern in hand.

They descended into the dim underground, the air thick with the scent of sweat and leather. The sound of grunts and the sharp clash of wood against wood reverberated off the stone walls. Alice squinted as her eyes adjusted, and what she saw stole her breath.

Women, dozens of them, moved through the dimly lit space, their bodies twisting and turning with the precision of dancers. They wielded wooden poles and swords, the gleam of steel flashing in the faint light. Some wore scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, while others sported bandages, the marks of recent battles. A few men stood among them, sparring partners who moved with fluid grace.

“They’re training,” Alice murmured, watching in awe as one woman leapt, feinting a strike before slipping under her opponent’s guard and landing a clean blow to his side.

“Training to fight,” Woodrow confirmed. “Every woman here was once considered a victim, a pawn. Now they are warriors in their own right. The use the pleasure house to deceive those who think they can take what they want.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But should they try… they will find themselves facing something far more dangerous.”

One woman spun, landing gracefully on the balls of her feet, the dagger in her hand a blur as she deflected a strike aimed at her head. She moved like the wind itself; swift, deadly, and untouchable.

Alice’s heart raced. This is what they’ve been doing all along. They act meek and submissive, only to learn everything they can, to bide their time and prepare…

“Show me,” Alice whispered, her voice trembling with newfound resolve. “Show me how to fight.”

Woodrow’s smile was small, but his eyes blazed with approval. He nodded slowly, and without a word, he stepped back, gesturing for her to take the place of one of the trainees.

“Your first lesson,” he said quietly, “is to learn how to reclaim your power. Everything else follows after.”

---TRAINING GROUNDS---

Alice’s transformation was quick. The meek, frightened woman who had first stumbled into the pleasure house now stood with her shoulders squared and head held high, every muscle coiled with purpose. The daggers beneath her robes, once alien and intimidating, now felt like extensions of her own will. And as she learned from Woodrow, she also learned from the women who had fought the same war she was now embroiled in: how to hold a blade, how to strike fast and true, and, when necessary, how to turn a man's desire against him.

Woodrow’s guidance was as complex as he was. By day, he would vanish into his office, the door closed and locked tight. The faint scrawl of his pen on parchment would echo through the quiet halls, along with the occasional low murmur of his voice, as though he spoke to unseen visitors. Once, Alice noticed a trail of dark soil leading from his office to his bedchamber door, always locked, always barred to prying eyes. She dared not ask about it, though it piqued her curiosity.

But it was in the late hours of the night, under the flickering torchlight of the training yard, that Woodrow’s true lessons were imparted. He taught her to move with grace and to command attention without saying a word. To smile when she wanted to scowl, to bat her eyes when she wanted to scream, and to sway her hips as if the world itself could be bent to her will.

“The corrupted men of the Sacred Flame fear a woman’s power more than any sword,” Woodrow would murmur as he guided her steps with gentle hands. “The Order of the Sacred Flame seeks to diminish your worth. They want you to believe you’re less than them. But never forget: you are strong. Stronger than any blade they wield.”

He would take her hand, pressing her fingers to the hilt of a dagger hidden beneath her robes. “Before you resort to violence, use your wits. Be kind. Speak to the right people, and find the weaknesses in their armor. Seek peace when you can. But when does it come to violence…” His voice would harden, his gaze darkening like a thundercloud. “Do not hesitate. Make an example of anyone who dares to violate your boundaries. Cut off a finger if a hand wanders where it shouldn’t. Draw blood, and they will think twice before trying again.”

And Alice found herself changing. Where once she had flinched at a raised voice or shied away from a man’s touch, now she faced it with cold, calculating resolve. Every movement she made was deliberate, every smile laden with meaning. Woodrow and the other women mades her comfortble in her own skin, and under their guidance, showed the beauty that she was hiding. She wielded it like a weapon, drawing in glances and loose tongues alike.

One evening, she tested herself. AShe tried to allure a young nobleman visiting the inn. She leaned close, murmuring sweet nothings about his horses and lands, while hiding her disgust as he leaned in, breath heavy with drink, eyes roaming her form. When he reached for her, she slapped his cheek playfully, eliciting a laugh from him and a few coins passed discreetly to Woodrow. The coins were pressed into her hand moments later, followed by a small vial of dark liquid.

“Pour this in his drink,” Woodrow instructed softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “It’s a sleeping draught. A signature concoction of my brother Wilbur’s. It will render him unconscious and, when he dreams, he will think his wildest fantasies were fulfilled.”

Alice glanced at the vial, brow furrowed. “Is that why they keep coming back? They think they had a night of real pleasure?”

Woodrow’s smile was faint, tinged with something like pride. “Exactly.”

She stared at the dark liquid, the weight of it suddenly heavy in her palm. “And what of your brothers?” she asked softly, curiosity finally winning out. “Where are they now?”

“Back at Rothfield, or attending their own duties across the land,” Woodrow answered, his gaze distant, as if peering through the very walls of the pleasure house to places far beyond. “We are separated by necessity, each tending to a specific need. Brother Wilbur, for example, manages a hospital village for the sickly. You’ve seen his work in our gardens and fields.”

He gestured broadly around the inn, encompassing the bustling establishment, the lush gardens beyond, and the thriving village around it. “Each of us ensures that in every settlement, there is a piece of what we’ve built together. Here, the crops flourish thanks to Wilbur’s perfected fertilizers in a miasma-corrupted soil. His potions also aid our people. I am needed here, at the edge of the mountains, near zealots and fanatics who tear families apart and use women as breeding stock.”

Woodrow’s gaze turned somber, his eyes flickering with a shadow of guilt. “I feel partly responsible. We liberated women from bondage, gave them authority over their own fates… and the Order of the Sacred Flame retaliated. They want things done their way, where the weak serve the strong, and the strong take what they will. But we will not let them.” His voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. “My town will grow, Alice. And it will need women like you to protect it.”

Alice swallowed hard, the enormity of what he was saying sinking in. This wasn’t just a fight for her daughter. It was a battle for the soul of every woman and child who suffered under the Sacred Flame’s rule.

“And your daughter?” she asked quietly, searching his face for any sign of hope.

Woodrow’s expression tightened, a flicker of pain flashing through his eyes. “She is out there, somewhere. Hidden. I will find her, Alice. No matter how many kingdoms I have to tear through, I will find her.”

Alice nodded slowly, resolve hardening within her. “Then we’ll fight them together. Until every daughter is back in their parent's arms.”

Woodrow’s smile was small, but true. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Good. Because the Order of the Sacred Flame will not stop. They will poison the minds of our husbands, turn our sons against us. We must stand ready for the final battle, Alice. And it is coming.”

The lantern’s flame flickered as if in agreement, casting their shadows long and dark against the stone walls.