They arrived at her supposed destination after a long day's ride. She stayed alert, noting every turn, minutes after entering a large tent, she realized she had been sold.
A blindfold was forced over her eyes, and they walked for several more minutes.
Over thirty minutes passed with the man pulling her forward.
Finally, they stopped inside a building and removed the blindfold.
She was led onto a stage, this was an auction for children sold for slavery, entertainment, and worse.
Other children were there, some in cages, their gazes were empty, they looked like her, except she was well fed and dressed nicely.
The host displayed her, lifting her fingers to show her nails, pressing his thumb to her lips to show case her tooth set.
"A hundred and thirty pieces of gold, going…"
She was sold for over one hundred and fifty gold coins to an old, haggard man. His laughter, it's echos were cruel and filled with nastiness. She could see Master Ski happiness his greed was overturned.
Maurice was released from a thin shackle and pulled to the back with another boy the man had purchased.
The boy was older, a young teen, they sat in silence.
Finally his voice cracked. "What is your name?"
He didn't look like the other children, he was clean, like a noble child she had seen at Hermosa's festivals.
She didn't respond at once.
"It's… it's Maurice."
"Do not give up your name that easily," he said, his voice was sharper now.
"That is the last thing you may ever have that is real and yours. Get a better name for yourself." He added.
She was confused, he had asked her name, and now he told her not to give it.
The room went silent.
Minutes later, she noticed the room was unguarded for a very long time, the thought of escape filled her mind.
The boy was still shackled.
She ignored him at first, pulling tables together to reach the window, she scouted her route something she does whenever she navigates through the crowd in Hermosa.
Then she asked if he wanted to follow, he shook his head and only watched her plan.
The boy heard footsteps coming and rushed to block the handle with a wooden chair and his weight, his hands still bound behind him.
Maurice was already half way through, he rushed at her pushing her over without warning.
Maurice was shocked by the sudden push, she had sprained her ankle in the fall, but she kept moving anyway. She knew from his agonizing screams that they had caught him saving her.
She picked herself up and ran to the forest, not the road, the room was at the back, facing the denser trees, she ran for what felt like an hour or more through the forests .
Maurice walked until night inked the sky as she became tired.
Exhausted, she lost awareness of her surroundings, a few miles on, her legs gave out and she fell down a slope behind a tree.
A few minutes later, a search party combed the area but the vines and bushes hid her, she was not found.
Light pierced her lids, jolting her awake, her body ached and thirst scraped her throat raw.
She was in a moving cart, pressed against a passel of piglets.
The driver was an old man, his weathered hands firm on the reins.
Whether she had been captured or saved, it was by him.
The cart rolled into a clearing, a small cottage came into view through the trees.
She exhaled that he wasn't from Ski.
"Ah, child, you are awake, he said.
"What is your name?" he added, noticing her.
"It's, uhm… Annika."
"Beautiful name, child."
They reached the small hut where the old man lived with his wife, in the forest near Hermosa.
They raised her as their own for years, they had made a home on the outskirts, away from gossip.
She wondered if Ski and his men ever stopped looking for her.
Annika had already been labeled a witch and a whore from an early age for her beauty.
The day began earlier than usual in Hermosa, though it came as no surprise, those who could afford to leave had already moved to safer communities.
The rest stayed out of necessity. Insecurity had taken root across the kingdom, and Hermosa was no exception, evenings came with wary eyes and bolted doors.
The kingdom's borders were unraveling. Disasters, drought, and the risk of invasion surged. War was closer to the heartland.
Hermosa stood at the edge of it all, the last city before the hostile ground.
The provincial order had been clear; evacuate the village immediately, or bear the consequences on your own, most had already fled.
Those who remained now struggled into the mountains, scrambling for shelter in the safest villages they could reach.
Miss Annika kept to her routine, she spent the morning in the village library reading politics and economics, then stopped by the wool store for yarn.
Afterward she returned home to gather logs, milk the cows and feed the pigs.
Annika lived well above the village average. She kept dogs for security, cows for milk, a dozen pigs to sell, and hens for eggs. She saw no reason to leave.
She had no life beyond this one, save for her creative gifts, her drawings and writing were all mesmerizing, at least according to Mr. Arun, the village scholar.
He had taught her drawing maps and urged her to publish her books even advising a pen name, since women were never recognized.
While the villagers crowded into carriages, Maurice was out trying to secure quill and quire.
It had been a rough errand, shop after shop, the shutters were down or the doors half barred. The provincial decree gave them a week and no more than, after that anyone left in Hermosa would face the border's dangers alone.
Walking home that evening, Annika sensed something wrong, the streets felt hollow, stripped of children and market stalls. Screaming and running echoed in the distance.
Still, she shrugged it off as the cost of haste. A great number had already left since yesterday, carts groaning under hasty bundles.
She secured her supplies from the last shopkeeper willing to trade, then took the narrow road through the woods. It was the shorter path, though the undergrowth pressed on her hem and the evening light barely reached the ground.
The air grew heavier with each step, the unwavering scent of copper hit her, thick and metallic.
She halted, searching with her eyes, breath caught in her throat, she imagined a wounded deer, a poacher's kill, a wolf attack, or worse.
Her heart argued to turn back, but her feet moved fast toward her cottage, she believed it was safest at home.
The sight stopped her cold. Trails of blood streaked the dirt, leading to thick, red puddles already darkening at the edges, her compound, once neat with stacked wood and grazing hens, looked like a slaughterhouse.
The door hung on one hinge. Splintered wood framed the around darkness. The fireplace was still on, lighting the place.
She stepped through, pulse loud in her ears, nothing moved, the only sign of life was a faint whimpering from behind the overturned washbasin by the bed.
There, pressed into the shadows, was the wolf cub she had taken in a week ago while fishing at the lower creek. Blood matted its fur scrapes along the wall and smears near the hearth, it looked like the cub had tried to escape, clawing for any crevice that might keep it safe.
She did not understand what happened did invaders do this? Had some beast broken in?
Her thoughts shattered at the sound of heavy galloping outside, hooves struck the earth in a steady rhythm.
She rushed to the ripped door and peered out. A horde of horses crested the rise, their riders in polished armor that caught the dim light.
Each breastplate bore the same engraved crest; the sun-in-splendor sigil of the House of Sunbeam.
Their formation and their steel were distinct, the way they moved as one it was unmistakable.
These were not border militia or wandering mercenaries.
These were soldiers and they were of high rank an A-level, they stopped in front of her home.
One of the soldiers approached.
"Woman, you should leave here immediately."
"It's not safe," said the man without a helmet. There were twelve in total, by her count.
From their build, she identified two females and ten males, they wore dark clothes, the first four, faces covered with dark scarfs and helmets, rode sturdy black horses and seemed to be higher ranks.
She responded after a few minutes of assessment.
"This is my home, I have nowhere else," she replied, standing her ground.
One man who seemed used to dealing with stubborn villagers rolled his eyes in future frustration and she was ready to give him that.
The others dismounted, except the silent four who rode around the area, examining it.
"Do you wish to die here? Look at your home and livestock. You're lucky you survived the attack," he said.
"Do not worry about me, I can fend for myself."
Exhausted from trying to convince her, he left her with a long, pitying look and went to answer one of the soldiers on the black horses.
The men moved in and out of her house, and she felt irritated by the intrusion, she didn't even know if it was truly them that had vandalized her home.
"I will not have it that you and your men intrude on my privacy, for all I know, your group could be the invaders.
"I don't know who you are."
" I do not recognize if you're part of the county or not, sir."
She spoke directly to one of the soldiers on horseback who seemed to be receiving the reports.
The area fell silent at the accusation.
Finally, one of the riders dismounted and walked to her.
A tantalizing, authoritative voice of a woman spoke. She took off her helmet, leaving only the scarf on securing her hair and lower face.