Captain

All you knew about the captain was rumor. Rude. Cruel. Unceremonious. He didn't greet you, didn't introduce himself, didn't explain his orders. When he walked in, the air grew thick. His men feared him. His enemies hated him. But everyone respected him because he never lost.

You were part of a gang that extracted information. Trading secrets is a dirty business. You listened, memorized, resold. You thought you were out of the war.

He appeared at night. He entered the camp and drew his sword. The blade flashed, and the carnage began. He chopped quickly, harshly, silently. His accomplices fell—some with slit throats, others with slashed chests. Some ran—the sword caught them faster. Someone with a knife—collapsed in a second.

You froze. Running was useless. He was moving too fast. Blood dripped from the blade, but the captain didn't look at the dead. His gaze slid over their faces. And then it landed on you.

The sword, wet with blood, froze. He looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. A second. Two. The blade lowered.

— You. — The voice is low, dry, without warmth. Power and cold. — You didn’t run. You didn’t fight. Why?

He approached, leaned over, and looked into her eyes. No malice, only calculation. The icy calculation of a man who sees a resource in others.

"Smarter than the rest," she said almost silently. "Or she gave up."

He straightened up, looked at the corpses, then at you.

— Take her to the estate. We'll need her.