Chapter 1: Awakening in the Cottage

 Awakening in the Cottage

The air inside the cottage was damp and stagnant, carrying the faint, unpleasant tang of mildew. Wooden walls, warped and weathered by time, were patched with mismatched planks that didn't quite fit together, leaving jagged gaps where the wind howled through. A lantern, perched precariously on a crooked table, sputtered weakly, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the uneven floorboards. The roof sagged slightly, its weight pressing down on the dim, suffocating space, while the chill of the night seeped in through every crack.

In the middle of the room, a lone figure sat slumped in a chair, tied securely with thick, coarse ropes. Her head hung low, dark strands of icy black hair cascading over her face like a curtain. She was eerily still, save for the faint rise and fall of her chest. The flickering light caught the sheen of sweat on her temple and the raw abrasions on her wrists where the rope had bitten into her skin.

Her breathing was steady but shallow, each exhale marked by a subtle wince that hinted at the pain wracking her body. The tattered sleeve of her once-sturdy coat revealed a gash along her forearm, the edges of the wound angry and swollen. Blood had dried in uneven streaks down her fingers, staining the floor beneath her. Her left cheek bore a darkening bruise, and the torn fabric at her shoulder exposed the faint outline of another.

The stillness broke when her fingers twitched against the rope, and a low groan escaped her lips. Her head tilted slightly, and the dim lantern light caught the edge of her jaw—a sharp line that seemed defiant even in her current state.

Outside, muffled voices carried through the thin walls, their tones agitated.

"She took down five of us alone," one man growled, his words harsh and clipped. "How the hell is she still breathing?"

A snort followed. "You're asking the wrong question. What I want to know is what the boss plans to do with her. She's dangerous."

"Not so dangerous now, is she?" a third voice jeered. "Tied up like that, she's nothing but a—"

"Enough!" a fourth voice barked, cutting through the din. It was sharper, more commanding. "She's worth more to the boss alive than dead. Unless you want to answer to him, keep your mouths shut."

Inside the cottage, the figure stirred, her head lifting slightly. Strands of dark hair parted, revealing a sliver of her face—angled cheekbones streaked with dirt and blood, and lips pressed into a tight, grim line. Her eyes, still hidden in shadow, snapped open, but she remained still, listening.

The door swung open, and a gust of cold air rushed in, accompanied by the heavy tread of boots. A massive man filled the doorway, his presence almost too large for the cramped space. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew he had nothing to fear from his surroundings. His sharp, dark eyes swept over her like she was nothing more than a broken tool.

"She's awake," he muttered, stepping closer.

The ropes creaked as she shifted, tilting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes, a startling shade of turquoise blue, gleamed like fractured ice in the flickering light, unyielding despite the pain etched into her features.

"You've been causing us a lot of trouble," he said, crouching until his face was level with hers. His breath was sour, but she didn't flinch. "Five of my men won't walk straight for weeks. Fenn's still spitting teeth. You must be proud of yourself."

Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to make his expression darken.

"Not proud," she said, her voice hoarse but steady. "Disappointed. Twenty men and none of you could do the job right."

His fist clenched, and for a moment, she thought he might strike her. Instead, he leaned closer, the malice in his eyes sharp enough to cut.

"Keep talking, girl," he growled. "The boss won't care what shape you're in when he gets here."

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't respond. The sound of footsteps outside the door caught his attention, and he straightened, muttering something under his breath. Without another word, he turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

As the lock clicked into place, Elara exhaled slowly, her hands testing the ropes once again. Her injuries throbbed with every movement, but she welcomed the pain. It was better than the hollow feeling in her chest, the one she had no time to confront right now.

Her gaze flickered to the window, where the faintest sliver of moonlight seeped through a crack in the boards. The odds weren't in her favor, but they never had been.

And she wasn't dead yet...

The muffled voices outside quieted as the sound of polished shoes clicked against the creaky wooden floor. The door swung open again, this time without the brute force of before, but with a controlled precision that seemed at odds with the dilapidated cottage.

A man stepped inside, his tailored suit immaculate despite the grimy surroundings. His slicked-back dark hair gleamed under the dim light, and a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on his nose added a veneer of intellect. He carried himself with the ease of someone used to commanding attention, a faint smirk playing on his lips as his calculating gaze settled on Elara.

The men who followed him into the room didn't need to announce his arrival—the atmosphere shifted immediately, tension coiling tight in the air.

"Well," the man said, his voice smooth and unhurried, as though he were greeting a guest at a business meeting. "The infamous intruder. Or should I say, the cause of my current headaches?"

Elara's icy blue eyes snapped to his, narrowing as she assessed him. This was no common thug. He was different—too polished, too composed. The way he moved, the way his words dripped with calculated amusement, reminded her of the high society types she had spent her childhood avoiding.

"You don't look like the boss of a gang of smugglers," Elara said, her voice dry despite the hoarseness from her injuries. "I was expecting someone… rougher."

His smirk widened, as if her defiance amused him. "And you don't look like someone who's spent the last few hours tangling with twenty men," he replied, gesturing to her bloodied form. "Yet here we are."

He stepped closer, hands casually in his pockets, and studied her as though she were an interesting puzzle. "I'll get straight to the point. What were you doing in my warehouse? And before you answer, let me remind you that lying won't end well for you."

Elara tilted her head, the movement slow and deliberate. "What do you think?"

His expression didn't falter. "You've got the training of a professional. The way you fight—it's not instinct; it's experience. So, tell me. Are you a detective? Special forces? A reporter with a death wish, perhaps?"

Her lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "None of the above."

"None?" he echoed, chuckling as if she'd told a joke. He turned to one of his men. "You hear that? She's none of the above, yet she managed to leave five of you limping and take on fifteen more without dropping dead. Doesn't that sound like someone with training?"

The man beside him shifted uncomfortably, but the boss waved him off and turned back to Elara. "You say you're none of those things, but you're trained. That much is obvious. So, indulge me—what are you, then?"

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Elara's gaze didn't waver, and her mind raced as she weighed her options. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but firm.

"I was looking for someone."

The amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sharpness that made the air in the room grow colder. He took a step closer, looming over her, and his voice dropped an octave. "So you were sneaking around to find something. Or should I say, someone?"

Before he could press further, Elara's glare stopped him cold, her defiant eyes daring him to continue. For a brief moment, neither spoke, and the tension crackled like static.

Then he sighed, a faint chuckle escaping as he straightened. "You're bold, I'll give you that. Few people would meet my eyes with a stare like that in your situation." He adjusted his glasses with a calm precision, the sharpness in his gaze returning. "Tell me, then. Who is it you're looking for?"

Elara hesitated, her injuries throbbing as she shifted in her chair. Her voice remained steady. "That's my business."

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by her audacity. "Your bravery is admirable, and your fighting spirit even more so. I'll make you a deal."

Her eyes narrowed. "A deal?"

He smiled, sharp and predatory. "You've made me lose quite a bit of money tonight. Five of my men are bedridden, and you've caused quite the commotion. So, here's my offer. I'll let you have what—or whoever—you're looking for, but in exchange…"

Elara's brow furrowed. "What's the catch?"

"You work for me," he said simply, his tone almost casual. "I could use someone like you. Strong. Skilled. Unpredictable. You'd make a valuable asset."

She scoffed, the sound sharp despite her exhaustion. "Work for you? Not in this lifetime."

Before she could say more, a voice from outside interrupted them. "Sir, we need you!"

The boss frowned, his irritation evident. "What is it now?"

"It's urgent!" the voice called.

Muttering a curse under his breath, he turned back to Elara, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer. "This conversation isn't over."

With that, he turned and strode out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him and leaving Elara alone once more.

The muffled commotion outside seeped through the wooden walls, barely audible over the relentless howl of the wind. Elara strained her ears, focusing on the distant voices. It wasn't just voices—there was a sharp clatter, followed by panicked shouts.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the aching throb of her injuries as she concentrated. The rustling of leaves and the occasional creak of wood told her she wasn't in the city. The air was cooler, sharper, and the subtle scent of damp earth hinted at a jungle. They were somewhere high, perhaps on a mountain, far from the concrete and chaos she was used to.

Her attention snapped back to the voices. Something about the vehicles. Damaged. She caught snippets of curses and hurried commands. An animal? she thought, frowning. But the mountain near the city had no predators large enough to take out their vehicles.

Whatever it was, it had bought her time.

Elara began tugging at the ropes binding her. Earlier, when they'd dragged her inside, she'd felt one of the ropes loosen. She'd filed the information away, waiting for an opportunity. Now, as the noise outside grew louder, she pulled at it, her breath shallow and deliberate to avoid detection.

Her fingers brushed against the frayed strands of the rope, and she suppressed a triumphant smile. But just as she felt the rope give way slightly, the door flew open.

Elara stilled, her body tense.

The man who stepped inside wasn't one of the thugs. His violet-grey eyes locked onto hers with a piercing intensity that made her halt mid-motion. Recognition flared, followed swiftly by a surge of anger that sent a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"You—" she began, her voice rising with fury, but he crossed the room in long, purposeful strides.

Before she could shout, his rough hand clamped over her mouth.

"Quiet, you fool," he hissed, his voice low but sharp, like a blade slicing through the tension.

Elara struggled against his grip, her glare burning into his stoic face. He didn't flinch. His silver-grey hair, tousled by the howling wind outside, framed sharp, angular features. Unlike the other thugs, his attire was polished—a grey tunic under a tailored black coat, paired with fitted trousers. It was a stark contrast to the chaos around him, making him look more like a gentleman caught in the wrong place than someone belonging to this group.

The commotion outside began to fade, the voices growing distant, but his gaze flickered to the door repeatedly as though expecting someone to burst in. His stoic mask betrayed no fear, yet his movements were hurried, deliberate.

"If you value your life, keep your voice down," he said, his tone as cold as his gaze.

Elara continued to struggle, her anger bubbling over. Only when he added, "They'll be back soon, and I don't have time to explain," did she stop, her reluctant nod granting her temporary freedom.

Relief washed over his face as he lowered his hand. Without wasting a moment, he reached into his coat and pulled out a dagger. The blade gleamed even in the dim light, intricate markings running along its surface.

"What are you—" Elara began, but his sharp gaze silenced her.

He knelt beside her, cutting at the ropes with precision. Her mind raced, torn between fury and confusion. The moment her hands were free, she lunged, grabbing him by the collar.

"Traitor," she hissed, her voice venomous.

The man didn't react. His focus remained on the door, his posture tense.

"Are you happy now?" she demanded, her voice low but shaking with restrained rage. "Making me look like this? Making me go through all this?"

This time, his gaze shifted to hers, fierce and unyielding. "It's your foolishness that put you in this situation," he snapped, his words sharp enough to cut. "Couldn't you wait a little longer?"

"Wait? For what? More lies? More false leads?" Her voice rose, though she fought to keep it from carrying. "It's been five years, Riven!" She spat his name like it was poison. "And wasn't it you who sent those goons after me?"

His jaw clenched, a flicker of exasperation flashing in his eyes. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't be here, risking my life to help you."

She scoffed, her grip on his collar tightening. "Help me? You're working for that man, too! You were the only one who knew I was in the warehouse. You were the only one who found me there! So tell me, what the hell were you doing there?"

Riven raised a hand, signaling her to stop. His attention snapped back to the door as distant voices grew louder, approaching rapidly.

"We don't have time," he said, his voice urgent. He grabbed her shoulders, his grip firm but not harsh. "You need to run."

She glared at him, unmoving.

"Run toward the denser jungle," he instructed, thrusting the dagger into her hand. "Hide there. I'll distract them. I can't afford to be found out as a traitor, not yet. I need to learn more."

Her piercing gaze didn't waver, her mistrust evident.

"I'll explain everything," he said, his voice softening. "I promise. But not now. If you don't move, they'll find us both."

Elara hesitated, her grip on the dagger tightening.

"I swear to you," he added, his voice steady. "He's alive. I'll find him. I promise."

Her resolve faltered, her gaze flickering with something unspoken. Finally, she relented, her voice barely above a whisper. "You'd better not be lying this time, Riven."

With that, she turned and slipped out into the shadows of the jungle, disappearing into the night without a backward glance.