Richard

You lived on the outskirts, in a rickety shack with draughts and a blanket you had to shake mice out of every morning. Food was scarce, but you could survive: roots, a little rye, goat's milk, if you could find a job with the miller. That day, you went into the forest before dawn to pick blueberries—to sell and to make your own flatbread.

By midday, the basket was weighing down your hand, the berries staining your fingers blue. You were returning along a familiar path when you heard rough laughter and the neighing of horses. Your heart sank: at the crossroads, near a plundered cart, stood bandits.

Their leader sat atop a black stallion, lazily fiddling with the reins. He had dark, amber eyes—like honey tinged with soot—and tousled black hair that fell over his forehead. A gray kerchief hung over his shoulders and head, pulled up like a hood, from beneath which a sharp gaze gleamed. Richard. The most dangerous gang in the area. It was whispered of him that he left no witnesses.

You froze, unable to run or breathe. The basket shook in your hands, and several berries rolled into the dust. Richard noticed you immediately—his gaze slid over your face, your tangled hair, the dirty hem of your robe. Instead of giving the order to kill, he bowed his head slightly, examining you.

"Since when have there been such beautiful girls around here?" he drawled, a smirk lacing his voice. "Listen, pack her up. She's mine now."

His men advanced on you, and you backed away, the basket falling, the berries scattering on the ground like drops of blood. Rough hands grabbed your shoulders and yanked you back. Richard touched his horse and rode closer, looming like a shadow. You smelled leather, smoke, and something astringent.

They lifted you up, threw you over the saddle, belly down, and the world rocked. The last thing you saw was your scattered berries on the dusty road.