The redwoods loomed overhead, their towering trunks swallowing the morning light, leaving the ground beneath them a kingdom of shade and silence. Buttercup crouched low behind a weathered boulder, pressing herself against the rough stone, peering just high enough to see over the top.
She had heard them first—long before she saw them. The distant clatter of hooves, the metallic clank of armor stripped from fresh corpses, the raucous laughter of men who had just spilled blood and won.
Jack’s lot.
Buttercup’s lip curled as she scanned the approaching band. At least two dozen left, riding or walking, some carrying fresh spoils—helmets dangling from saddlebags, swords gleaming with fresh oil and blood, one bastard even had a severed guard’s hand tied to his belt like a grotesque trophy.
Typical.
They were a loud, jostling, undisciplined pack, their enthusiasm infectious to each other but sickening to her. A celebration of lawlessness, of unchecked cruelty, of men too convinced of their own invincibility to realize how vulnerable they were making themselves.
A proper killer knew better.
And Buttercup was a proper killer.
Daisy shifted beside her, the massive spider’s body still as stone, her many eyes watching the approaching outlaws with eerie calm. Buttercup ran a hand along the ridged plates of her chitinous body, pressing lightly to keep her from twitching. Easy, girl.
Jack’s band rolled on, dragging victory behind them like a bloody banner. Five of their own lay dead, dumped carelessly over horses like sacks of grain. No mourning, no reverence—just bodies. Some might have been their brothers-in-arms for years, might have shared their fires, their spoils, their blood. But now? Now they were just another source of loot.
Jack himself rode at the head, his grin wide, his axe freshly cleaned, the weapon twirling absentmindedly in his grasp. He was pleased with himself, that much was obvious.
“Ho, Lucky Bob,” Jack called over his shoulder, his voice thick with amusement, “you still got all yer fingers?”
A grumble from the back. “Aye, Jack.”
“Good, good,” Jack said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t want ya matchin’ the poor bastard we left behind. Bloody shame, losin’ a hand.”
Laughter rippled through the group. Someone lifted a severed head and jostled it like a puppet. “Didn’t seem to mind much, in the end!”
More laughter.
Buttercup exhaled slowly through her nose.
Jack Vance. The Outlaw King of Fabernum’s Gutters. She had never liked him, never trusted him. Too loud, too showy, too obsessed with the performance of being a rogue.
That was why he needed his merry band—an audience for his own legend.
Men like him got women like her killed.
She saw Jack's horse suddenly start, as if it withered something and then, to Buttercup's horror, Jack yelled out “Woah Buttercup! Here girl!!!”.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She’d been discovered! But how? Horses didn’t talk, and she and Daisy had done this a thousand times without so much as a whisper of suspicion. Her mind raced—had she slipped up? Had Daisy shifted too loudly? No, impossible. They were shadows, ghosts, invisible to anyone not born of the same darkness.
A split decision was called for, or Jack's band of cutthroats would tear them apart in seconds. She could try to outrun them, Daisy was FAST, but even so, this was going to be close. Buttercup was about to vault up onto the spider when she realised that none of the outlaws, other than Jack, who was tugging on the reigns of his horse, were moving. Or rather, they were moving just like before, towards Rash'Kel, but there was no drawing of weapons, no cries of “Get that bitch!” or “Your stuff's ours now!”. No, they were carrying on just like before. Confused, Buttercup went back to merely observing.
“That's it, calm down girl. Good girl, Buttercup! What ya spooked about eh?” said Jack, then looked about. His eyes seemed to almost meet some of the ten eyes of the two observers, but as Buttercup knew, they were invisible in the deep shade, to anyone on the sunlit road. Buttercup breathed a sigh of relief, then her momentary panic was replaced by rage flooding through her. Her blood boiled. “That son of a bitch named his damn horse after me,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. Her fingers twitched toward her dagger, the urge to carve her name into his flesh almost overwhelming. “One day,” she thought, her jaw tightening, “I’ll make him pay for that insult in blood.”
She pressed lower against the boulder, her fingers twitching toward her dagger. For a moment, she considered it—considered taking a shot. A thrown blade, a single poisoned dart—maybe just wait for him to ride past, pounce from the shadows, and open his throat before his men could react.
But no. Not here. Not now.
Jack had too many bodies around him, and she had no interest in fighting that lot for sport.
Besides… A small, cold smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
…why get her hands dirty when the law would do it for her? Jack was too loud, too reckless. It was only a matter of time before he bit off more than he could chew. And when he did? The law wouldn’t just hunt him—they’d tear him apart. She’d be there to pick through the scraps.
Jack was too bold, too brazen. Sooner or later, he’d go too far. And when he did? The guards wouldn’t just hunt him. They’d throw the entire bloody empire after him.
She would wait. She would watch. And when the time came? She’d be there to take whatever was left.
Daisy’s legs flexed beneath her, muscles coiling, ready to move at a single signal. Buttercup gave her a slow, firm pat. Not yet.
The caravan rolled past, their laughter echoing through the trees like the cawing of crows. Boasts and curses spilled from their lips, their voices thick with stolen wine and hollow bravado. The stench of sweat and blood clung to them like a second skin, their arrogance radiating like heat from a forge. Buttercup watched them go, her expression unreadable, her fingers still resting lightly on her dagger.
Rash’Kel would take care of them soon enough. And if it didn’t? Well, she’d be there to finish the job.
