Chapter 17
Written by Bayzo Albion
"It was the same girl from last night—the one who'd pulled me out of that alley."
That anchors the reader instantly.
I kept talking, trying to sound normal, though my eyes kept darting down to my underwear every few seconds
"By the way, why are you dressed like that? Everyone else here looks ready to join a convent, draped in robes and modesty."
She shrugged, the motion easy and unbothered, her confidence unshaken by my abruptness. "Because it's comfortable. I hate when clothes get in the way, weighing me down. Especially in combat, you need freedom to move, to strike without hesitation."
"So your strength is… speed?" I blurted, the first thing that came to mind, a clumsy attempt to distract from how off balance I felt, my mind still reeling from the encounter.
Her lips curved in a knowing smile, the kind that said she'd noticed every flicker of unease I was trying to hide, her eyes narrowing with a flash of interest that felt both playful and dangerous. "Sheesh—so you're not just a lunatic, you actually think fast," she said, her tone teasing but laced with approval. "Weak body, sharp tongue. Dangerous combination in its own way, Northman."
"You… want to rape me?" I blurted, dragging my voice into a mock-horrified squeal as I clapped one hand over my chest and the other over my lower area, theatrically protecting whatever dignity I had left, hoping humor would defuse the tension.
She snorted, scandalized for a heartbeat before amusement took over, her laughter bright and unrestrained. "What? No, you idiot. I came to help you, not to pounce! Though—now I wonder if that was such a bright idea, with you flailing like a damsel in distress."
"Why help me?" I asked, suspicion tasting like iron in my mouth, sharp and bitter. "Want to drag me into a trap, lure me into some scheme cooked up by the village's schemers?"
Her face turned serious in an instant, the playful light folding away like a curtain drawn shut, replaced by a steely resolve. "With that weak frame? You'll last two minutes in the wrong hands—less, if you keep mouthing off. If that sorceress gets hold of you, she won't just gut you—she'll use you, twist you into something you won't recognize. You understand what that means? Long, slow things that are worse than death, rituals that strip away more than flesh."
A cold, blank chorus of possibilities marched through me—dark rituals, Faustian bargains, people used like implements in a game of cosmic stakes. My hands tightened into fists despite the absurdity of a morning's hangover whispering logic at me, my mind racing with questions. *What kind of world did I fashion?* The thought thudded against my skull, heavy and unrelenting. I felt like a child who'd built a toy only to find it building itself back, reshaping its own rules—and not necessarily for my benefit.
"Look," she said, leaning closer so that the scent of sun-warmed linen and a faint trace of iron—blood or metal, I couldn't tell—touched my face, grounding me in her intensity. "You're new. You're naked in more ways than one, vulnerable in ways you don't yet see. I could outfit you properly—teach you to move so you don't look like dinner to the predators here. Or I can show you where to hide until you learn the tricks of this world, the unspoken rules that govern its shadows."
I blinked, her offer catching me off guard, stirring a mix of gratitude and wariness. "Why would you care? What's in it for you?"
Her smile was a crooked thing, not warm but not a blade either, a balance of sincerity and defiance. "Because it annoys me when pretty things get ruined by greedy hands, broken before they've had a chance to shine. Also, because you have that stubborn glint in your eye. It's irritating—and I like irritating things, the kind that challenge the order of this place."
"Eh…" I exhaled slowly, trying to gather my scattered thoughts, the weight of her words settling like dust after a storm. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Twenty," she said without hesitation, her gaze steady, unflinching. "You?"
*One day. Maybe zero, if we're counting from the moment I woke up in this world,* I almost blurted out, the truth teetering on my tongue—but I bit it back just in time, opting for a safer deflection.
"Eighteen plus," I said instead, keeping my face perfectly straight, a mask of nonchalance. "Everything that's allowed—I'm legally allowed to enjoy, by the laws of this realm or any other."
She laughed, tilting her head, studying me like some strange artifact that had washed up on her doorstep, intriguing and out of place. "You're a weird one. But interesting. No one interesting ever comes to our village. And if they do—they don't stay long, not with the way things work here."
"Oh?" I raised a brow, leaning forward slightly, sensing a thread of truth beneath her casual tone. "Why's that? What drives them away?"
"They leave," she said simply, her tone too calm to be teasing, carrying the weight of unspoken stories. "They take one look at the women here—their beauty, their power—and run for the woods like their lives depend on it. Some don't even bother grabbing their things, fleeing as if chased by shadows."
That caught me off guard, a chill creeping down my spine. "Wait. Are you saying… men here run from women? From their allure, their strength?"
"Exactly," she said, with a nod so casual it sent a shiver through me, her eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and caution. "It's almost funny, if you don't think about why, about what drives them to abandon everything and flee."
A hollow silence settled between us for a moment, heavy with implications.
*What the hell kind of world did I make? Why are men running? What's this sorceress they keep mentioning, and what power does she wield that inspires such fear?* The questions circled in my skull like restless wasps, buzzing louder the longer I tried to ignore them, each one stinging with the promise of truths I wasn't yet ready to face.
She watched me, her lips curving in amusement at my furrowed brow. "You're not thinking of running too, are you? Bolting for the forest like the rest?"
I forced a grin, though my stomach tightened with unease, the weight of her words pressing against my resolve. "Run? No. I'm not exactly the cowardly type, not after surviving this far." I looked down at my boots, at the dust still clinging to them from last night's wanderings, a reminder of my journey's start. "While everyone else is running for the trees, I seem to be standing still, rooted like an idiot. Which probably means…"
I glanced up at her again, my smirk faint but defiant. "I'm knee-deep in trouble already, aren't I?"
She smiled in return, but the curve of her lips carried more warning than comfort, a knowing glint that promised challenges yet to come. "Then you'll fit right in, Northman. Trouble's the only currency that matters here."
The breeze picked up between us, slipping through the open window and carrying a faint whisper of distant laughter from somewhere deeper in the village—soft, feminine, and just a little too perfect, like a siren's song woven into the morning air. I couldn't tell if it was an invitation or a threat, but it stirred the air with a promise of revelations, pulling me deeper into the enigma of this world I'd crafted—and the dangers it held.
"Don't be afraid. I'll protect you," she said calmly, her voice gentle but underpinned with steel, a quiet promise that carried both reassurance and a subtle challenge.
Her words made me straighten up, more from pride than gratitude, my spine stiffening as if to prove I wasn't as fragile as she seemed to think.
"You know," I said, forcing a casual tone despite the flicker of indignation in my chest, "that sounds both sweet and insulting. Do I really look like a puppy that needs a babysitter, scampering about with no clue where to go?"
She smiled faintly, tilting her head, her hair catching the morning light in a cascade of shimmering strands. "You do. But even puppies can grow into wolves, given the right guidance—and a bit of bite."
For a second, her eyes glimmered—half teasing, half appraising, as if she were measuring my potential, searching for the spark that might prove her wrong.
"Are all men in your country as brave as you?" she asked, her tone soft but layered with something else, a playful challenge wrapped in curiosity.
"I don't want to disappoint you…" I started, scratching the back of my neck with a wry grin, but she interrupted with a sly smile that cut through my defenses.
"I see. Well, that's hardly surprising. All men are the same," she said, pausing for effect before adding, almost purring, "Except you, of course. There's something… different about you, Northman."
The compliment, laced with mischief, sent a spark through me, though I wasn't sure if it was flattery or a trap. "What's your name?" I asked, trying to keep pace with her quick, confident stride as we began to walk, her movements as fluid as a dancer's.
"Baronessa," she said, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes catching mine with a fleeting intensity. "A pleasure to meet you, Gandalf of Rivia."