Dragon Touched

Instead, five armed women stood in the torchlight—helmets on, mail half-fastened, weapons already in hand. Their posture was rigid with purpose, the kind that came from orders given without room for interpretation. They looked less like escorts and more like collectors.

One of the matrons stiffened beside Al. “These are your fiancées?” she asked quietly, disbelief edging her voice as the household women manning the gate retreated, eyes downcast.

“I’ve never seen these women in my life,” Al said flatly.

That answer drew a sharp inhale from more than one throat.

The woman at the front stepped forward, her spear haft striking the ground once in emphasis. “You are to surrender the man in the name of the Queen.”

The words landed like a dropped blade.

Around them, the household began to peel away—slowly, carefully. Not cowardice. Prudence. Every woman there understood exactly what a wrong move would cost them.

Al exhaled through his nose. “I’m really not in the mood for this.”

The leader’s eyes hardened. “Surrender yourself,” she ordered. “These women will not stand for you.”

He felt it then—the subtle shift as the last of the family stepped aside. All except one.

He caught the whisper, sharp and furious, just behind him.

“I promised him we would get him out of our lands,” Rowena hissed at her mother. “He would have been further from our door, further from the laws—”

“Hush,” her mother snapped softly, fear threading her voice. “Now.”

Al heard their footsteps retreat into the house. Not abandonment. Retreat. He understood the distinction well enough.

This is my fight, he thought. Not theirs.

He sighed once, long and weary, and reached out.

The pistol settled into his hand, solid and familiar, the weight grounding him. The women at the gate froze—not at the weapon itself, but at the way it appeared, seamless and wrong.

“What sorcery—” the leader began.

Al didn’t let her finish.

The shots cracked through the night—sharp, controlled, terrifyingly precise. The first woman went down before she could raise her shield, a neat bloom of red spreading across her chest. The second staggered back, screaming, spear clattering from her hands.

The remaining three reacted at last—one diving for cover, another charging, the third raising her weapon too late.

Al moved on instinct, not anger.

Two more shots. One body fell. Another collapsed against the palisade, sliding down with a wet sound. The last woman turned to run.

He didn’t chase her.

The silence afterward was worse than the gunfire—thick, ringing, unreal. Smoke curled faintly in the torchlight. The smell of burnt powder mingled with blood and pine.

Al lowered the pistol slowly, heart hammering but hands steady.

From inside the house, someone sobbed.

From the shadows beyond the gate, the survivor fled into the night—carrying with her a message no herald could have delivered faster.

Al looked on another notification as the feud claimed more victims.