Dragon Touched

Al sat on his heels, staring at the heap of dead women at his feet.

Torchlight painted them in harsh, uneven strokes. Armor dented. Cloaks tangled. Blood darkening the dirt where it pooled and soaked away. The smell hung heavy now, iron and smoke and something sharper beneath it.

“Elowen,” Al said quietly. “Do we even know who they were?”

His voice was calm. Too calm. Flat in a way that made the women near him exchange quick glances. It was the tone he used when something had crossed from immediate danger into something worse.

Catrin let out a slow breath. “We thought they were agents of Sexanheim,” she said. “Or one of their vassal states.”

Thought.

Al’s eyes did not leave the bodies. “Thought based on what.”

“Equipment. Discipline. The way they moved,” Catrin replied. “They fit the pattern.”

Silence stretched again.

Then Rhyosyn spoke.

“The voice was wrong.”

They turned toward her.

She stood a few paces back, arms folded tight across her chest. Her words were measured, dispassionate, but her eyes were not. They were too bright, fixed on the dark beyond the gate as if expecting something to step out of it.

“It was not a continental accent,” Rhyosyn continued. “Not coastal either. The cadence was clipped. Formal. Like someone taught to speak correctly rather than naturally.”

Catrin frowned. “You are certain.”

Rhyosyn nodded once. “I am.”

Al finally looked up.

“Foreign,” he said.

“Yes,” Rhyosyn replied. “But not from where we expected.”

The torches crackled. Somewhere beyond the wall, an injured horse screamed and then went quiet.

Catrin’s jaw tightened. “If they were not Sexanheim, then they were closer.”

“Or higher,” Rhyosyn said.

Al rose slowly to his feet. “Collectors lie. Hunters posture,” he said. “These didn’t do either.”

“No,” Catrin agreed. “They announced authority.”

That settled it.

Al looked back down at the bodies one last time. “Then this wasn’t probing,” he said. “It was confirmation.”

Rhyosyn swallowed. “Confirmation of what.”

“That I’m worth the trouble,” Al replied.

No one contradicted him.

Because standing there, with the dead at their feet and the night pressing in, every one of them understood the same thing.

Whatever line had existed before tonight was gone.

Al let out a slow breath and looked at the flashing notifications hovering at the edge of his vision.

More names. More tallies. More dead women added to a ledger he never asked to keep.

On Earth, the memory came unbidden. Fire and noise. Men screaming. Men shooting back. He had felt nothing then beyond focus and the need to keep moving. That had been war. Clean, in its own brutal way.

This was different.

He looked down at the bodies again. Women in armor. Women with orders. Women who would have dragged him in chains if he had let them.

It still sat wrong in his gut.

“I’m going to have to get over it,” he muttered.

Rhyosyn heard him. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Al straightened. “We need to get going.” He swept his gaze over the yard and the dark road beyond. “Try to round up any of their horses. We have ten minutes. Then we’re gone.”

No one questioned it. They scattered immediately, moving with urgency now, not caution.

Catrin paused only long enough to lean toward Rhyosyn, lowering her voice. “What’s a minute?”

Rhyosyn blinked. “A… minute.”

“Yes,” Catrin said patiently. “he keeps using it like a measure.”

Rhyosyn glanced toward Al, then back at Catrin. “I don't know, I think it’s a short span of time. but i don't know how long.”

Catrin frowned.

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Al watched them go, then forced his attention back to the road, the bodies, the dark beyond the torches.

Ten minutes.

He let the ladies handle the horses.

That was not humility. It was practicality.

He had seen mounted patrols used in Afghanistan, usually for terrain vehicles could not manage, but he had never ridden one himself. He trusted his feet more than a creature that could panic at noise, blood, or the wrong shadow. The women moved with easy familiarity, voices low, hands steady as they worked to calm, catch, and assess what mounts could still be used.

Al stayed where he was, eyes up, watching the dark beyond the torches.

Catrin returned first.

She knelt where he had laid the recovered items earlier and gathered them with brisk efficiency. Rings. Badges. Papers. She produced a rough sack from somewhere, likely a grain bag pressed into new purpose, and dropped everything inside without ceremony.

Then she turned to the bodies.

Rhyosyn glanced over. “Looting already.”

“Recovering,” Catrin replied, already at work. “They do not need it anymore. We might.”

Al exhaled. “Fair.”

With a sigh, he moved to help.

He started with weapons.

Spears first. He checked shafts for cracks, points for bends, stacking usable ones apart from the rest. Swords next, testing balance, edge, weight. A few were poor quality. One was good enough that he set it aside deliberately.

He left the armor on the bodies.

Too slow to remove. Too noisy. Too much time with his hands down and his focus elsewhere. If they survived the night, they could come back for it or strip it somewhere safer.

Catrin worked methodically, checking boots, belts, pouches. No glee. No hesitation. Just necessity.

“You’re not taking the armor,” she noted.

“Not yet,” Al said. “Weapons travel. Armor anchors you.”

She nodded, approving.

From the yard came soft whickers as the women managed to secure two horses that had not bolted far. Another was limping and was left where it stood. No one argued about it.

Al stacked the last usable blade and straightened, wiping his hands on his pants. The sack was heavier now. Useful heavy.

“Five minutes,” he said.

Catrin cinched the sack closed and slung it over her shoulder. “Plenty.”

Al looked once more at the bodies, at the armor still gleaming dully in torchlight.

Then he turned away.

“I should gather food,” Elowen said as she led two of the recovered horses toward the stable.

The animals balked almost immediately, hooves scraping as they caught the scent. Their ears pinned back, eyes rolling white as they shied away from the dark splatters staining the packed earth.

Al watched them carefully. “They don’t like the blood,” he noted.

“Horses remember,” Elowen said quietly, steadying them with practiced hands. “They always do.”

“I’ll handle the food,” Al said.

The confidence in his voice made Elowen pause. She glanced back at him, then at the yard, then at the sack of salvaged gear already slung over Catrin’s shoulder.

“You know what you’re looking for,” she said, not quite a question.

“I know what we need,” Al replied. “Calories. Protein. Something we can carry and eat without stopping.”

Elowen studied him for a moment, then nodded. “The larder’s through there,” she said, gesturing toward the house. “Left of the hearth.”

Al shook his head. “Save it.”

That stopped her.

“I’ll handle food,” he said. “All of it.”

Elowen frowned. “We still need—”

“I’ve got it covered,” Al said, already turning away. “Trust me.”

She hesitated, then returned to the horses. Time mattered more than understanding right now.

Al stepped into the shadow between the stable wall and the outer fence and exhaled once.

Then he reached inward.

The summons came quietly. No flare. No scent. No disturbance in the air at all. Just weight appearing in his hands, one item after another, solid and sealed.

Brown pouches. Hard plastic. Crimped edges. Markings that meant nothing here.

Meals, Ready-to-Eat.

He stacked them quickly. Beef. Chicken. Pasta. Energy bars. Drink mixes. Every pouch airtight, inert, giving off no smell that the horses could catch or that the night could carry.

When he stepped back into the yard, Elowen was fastening the stable door. She turned and stopped short.

“That’s… not bread,” she said.

“No,” Al replied, setting the stack down. “It’s better.”

Catrin approached, lifting one of the pouches and turning it in her hands. “There’s no scent,” she noted. “Nothing at all.”

“They’re sealed,” Al said. “Individually. They don’t spoil. You can eat them cold. You can eat them while walking.”

Rhyosyn crouched beside the pile. “This much food,” she said slowly, “would usually announce itself.”

“It won’t,” Al replied. “No fires. No cooking. No trail.”

Elowen reached out, hesitated, then pressed her thumb against the pouch. She looked up at him, something uneasy settling behind her eyes. “You plan like someone who expects pursuit.”

“I plan like someone who’s survived it,” Al said.

Catrin straightened. “How long will this last.”

“As long as we need it to,” he replied. “We ration smart, we keep moving.”

They broke the stack down quickly, distributing the pouches among packs. The horses remained uneasy, but the absence of scent helped. No fresh blood smell added to the air. No food to draw attention.

“Two minutes,” Al said.

No one argued.

The torches burned low as they finished loading, shadows stretching across ground already marked by violence. Al took one last look at the gate and the bodies they had left armored and unstripped.

“We head east,” Al announced as they rode out through the gate, hooves thudding softly on packed earth. “Then south.”

No one questioned the choice. They adjusted their reins and fell into line as the farmstead slipped behind them, torches dwindling to dull embers against the night.

Rhyosyn rode up beside him. “East first puts us closer to settled roads.”

“Yes,” Al said. “Which is why we won’t stay on them.”

Catrin glanced back once, toward the dark shape of her family’s land. She understood without needing it spelled out. “You’re laying a trail.”

“A bad one,” Al replied. “One they’ll follow hard.”

Catrin frowned slightly. “That puts the Stanton family under scrutiny.”

“They already are,” Al said evenly. “Kidnappers died on their soil. That question gets asked no matter what we do.” He shifted in the saddle, eyes scanning the dark ahead. “If we vanish clean, the Crown squeezes them until something breaks. If we leave noise, confusion, and a clear direction, the pressure follows us instead.”

Rhyosyn exhaled slowly. “You’re giving them a story.”

“I’m giving them certainty,” Al said. “East means trade roads. South means border traffic. It looks like flight, not planning.”

Catrin nodded. “And when they question the family.”

“They answer truthfully,” Al replied. “We left in haste. We fled east. I said we would turn south.” He paused. “None of that will be a lie.”

The horses settled into a steady pace as the land opened up, fields giving way to hedgerows and low stone markers half-lost in shadow. The night air cooled further, carrying only the sounds of movement and breath.

Rowena rode near the rear, silent, shoulders tight. She knew what this meant. The blood debt had just deepened, not lessened.

“How long do we keep it up,” Elowen asked.

“Long enough for them to commit,” Al said. “Once they move assets south, we cut west and vanish into ground that doesn’t support cavalry.”

Catrin gave him a sharp look. “You’ve done this before?”

“No, I've read about it.” Al said.