Richard

You lived on the outskirts, in a crooked shack where drafts blew through the cracks and you had to shake mice out of your blanket every morning. Food was scarce, but it was manageable: roots, a bit of rye, goat's milk if you managed to find some work for the miller. That day, you went into the forest before dawn to gather blueberries—some to sell and some for your own flatbread.

By noon, the basket was pulling at your arm, and the berries had stained your fingers blue. You were returning along a familiar path when you heard coarse laughter and the neighing of horses. Your heart sank: at the crossroads, beside a looted wagon, stood bandits.

Their leader sat atop a black stallion, lazily fingering the reins. He had dark, amber eyes—like honey touched by soot—and messy black hair falling over his forehead. A gray scarf hung loosely around his shoulders and head like a hood, from beneath which a sharp gaze glinted. Richard. The most dangerous gang in the district. It was whispered about him that he left no witnesses.

You froze, unable to run or even breathe. The basket trembled in your hands, and a few berries rolled into the dust. Richard noticed you immediately—his gaze swept over your face, your tangled hair, and your stained hem. Instead of giving the order to kill, he tilted his head slightly, studying you.

"Since when do such beautiful girls haunt these parts?" he drawled, a smirk audible in his voice. "Hey, pack her up. She's mine now."

His men moved toward you, and you stepped back; the basket fell, the berries scattering across the ground like drops of blood. Rough hands grabbed your shoulders and jerked you backward. Richard nudged his horse and rode closer, looming over you like a shadow. You smelled leather, smoke, and something tart.

You were lifted and thrown across the saddle, stomach down, and the world tilted. The last thing you saw were your scattered berries on the dusty road.