The interior of the carriage was a sensory nightmare.

It was designed to hold eight people comfortably. There were twelve people inside.

Marcus was squeezed onto a bench.

To his left sat a burly farmer who reeked of raw onions and sweat. Every breath Marcus took felt like inhaling a salad gone wrong.

To his right was a woman holding a large wicker cage, inside which were three chickens.

The chickens seemed personally offended by Marcus's presence. They clucked aggressively every time the carriage hit a bump.

Which was often.

The suspension on the carriage was nonexistent. Every rock on the road sent a jolt through Marcus's spine.

Marcus tried to make himself small. He pulled his cloak tight to avoid touching the onion man.

It was futile. Every sway of the vehicle pressed them together like sardines in a tin.

The onion man was sweating. It soaked into Marcus's sleeve.

Marcus adjusted his legs. His knees knocked against the person sitting opposite him.

It was a young man with a basket of tools. He glared at Marcus.

"Watch it," the tool merchant snapped. "These are my livelihood."

"Sorry," Marcus said, shrinking further. "Tight in here."

The man huffed and shifted his basket directly into Marcus's shin. Pain flared sharp.

Marcus bit back a yelp. He sighed and said internally.

This was going to be a long journey.

He scanned the other passengers. It was a diverse group of misery.

There was an elderly woman asleep in the corner. Her mouth hung open. Her snoring rattled the window pane.

Two merchants sat near the door. They were arguing in sharp whispers.

"The taxes are killing me," one hissed. "The Duke raised the grain levy again."

"It is for the defense fund," the other argued. "You heard the rumors."

"Rumors," the first scoffed. "Stories to scare children."

"Whole villages near the Darkwall gone quiet," the second insisted. "That isn't a story. That is a warning."

Marcus stiffened, ears pricking. Darkwall. Demon realm border.

"Demons?" The first merchant rolled his eyes. "We haven't seen a demon in fifty years."

"Doesn't mean they aren't there," the second muttered.

Marcus stiffened. The rumors were closer to the truth than they knew.

The invasion was three years away. Or it was supposed to be.

With the timeline changing, who knew?

He shifted his gaze. Near the window sat a young couple. Newlyweds, perhaps.

They were squeezed into a corner. They didn't seem to mind the lack of space.

They were newlyweds, Marcus guessed. Or deeply in love.

The husband had a protective arm around his wife. He rubbed her shoulder gently.

The wife rested her head on his chest. She looked tired but content.

"Are you warm enough?" the husband whispered. He tucked a blanket around her.

"I am fine," she whispered back. She smiled up at him. "Just happy we are going home."

"Me too," he said. He kissed her forehead.

It was a simple, quiet intimacy.

Marcus felt a pang in his chest. A mix of warmth and jealousy.

His own romantic life was a disaster zone.

Seraphina was intense and intellectual.

Catarina was strategic and demanding.

Vivienne was bold and overwhelming.

And Iris was... Iris.

None of it was simple. None of it was quiet.

He watched the couple share a piece of bread. They split it evenly.

'Maybe I am doing this wrong,' Marcus thought. 'Maybe simple is better.'

He looked away, feeling like an intruder on their moment.

He turned his head to the other side. And then he saw the girl.

She sat directly across from him, squeezed next to the grumpy tool man.

She looked to be about seven or eight years old.

Her hair was pitch black

She wore a pristine white dress which was spotless. In this grimy hell, it almost glowed. Defying dust and spills.

On her lap sat a stuffed bear. It was worn and grey. And was missing one button eye.

The girl was staring at him.

Her eyes were as black as her hair. They were large and unblinking. And they drilled into Marcus's forehead.

They seemed to see right through his skull.

Marcus looked away quickly. He focused on the passing scenery outside the window.

Trees. Fields. More trees. A cow.

He glanced back and the girl... was still staring.

She hadn't moved a muscle. Even as the carriage jolted over a massive rut, she remained perfectly still.

The tool man next to her bounced. The onion man swayed.

But the girl sat like a statue.

It was deeply unsettling.

Marcus tried to be friendly. He was good with kids. Usually.

He offered a small, polite smile and gave a little wave with his fingers.

"Hi there," he mouthed silently.

The girl did not smile. She did not wave.

She just stared. Her dark eyes were devoid of any childish curiosity. They were empty.

Like a doll's eyes. Or a shark's.

Marcus felt a shiver run down his spine. It was colder than the morning mist.

He looked at the stuffed bear. Its single eye seemed to be judging him too.

'Stop it,' Marcus told himself. 'She is just a kid. She is probably bored out of her mind.'

He tried to distract himself. He forced his brain to work.

He thought about his plan for the Viscount.

Step one: Establish rapport. Find common ground.

Step two: Identify the grievance. Why was the letter so angry?

Step three: Negotiate. Find a win-win solution.

It was a solid plan. Standard conflict resolution. He had used it a thousand times.

But he couldn't focus. The weight of the girl's gaze was physical.

It felt like a pressure on his skin.

He glanced at the onion man next to him. The man was happily picking his teeth with a splinter.

He looked at the chicken woman. She was cooing at her birds. "Hush now, Henrietta."

'What the hell is up with those names?' Marcus screamed inside head. 'And when did chickens began having names.'

No one else seemed to notice or rather they just didn't give a damn about the creepy child.

Marcus felt like he was in a horror movie. The kind where only the protagonist sees the ghost.

He checked his left eye. It began twitching again. Rapid fire.

'Great,' he thought. 'Just great.'

The carriage rattled on. The sun rose higher. The air grew stuffy and hot.

The smell of onions intensified.

Marcus closed his eyes. He tried to meditate.

Breathe in through the nose. Hold. Breathe out through the mouth.

Visualize a calm stream. The water flows over smooth stones.

The carriage lurched violently. Brakes screeched.

Marcus's eyes snapped open.

They were slowing down rapidly.

This wasn't a scheduled stop. They were in the middle of a wooded pass.

Trees loomed close, branches clawing at the roof. Sunlight filtered weakly through leaves.

The eye stopped twitching. But Marcus felt it.

Both his instincts and intuition were telling him something was wrong... really, really wrong.

"Why are we stopping?" the tool man grumbled. He craned his neck to look out the window. "This better not delay me."

"Probably a wheel," the onion man suggested. "This thing is a piece of junk."

"Or a tree across the road," one merchant said, voice pitching nervous. He clutched his coin purse tighter. "Bandits use those tricks..."

The other merchant scoffed, but weakly. "In daylight? Unlikely."

The carriage came to a complete, jerking halt.

The driver shouted something from above. Words garbled, but laced with raw fear. "No... please—"

Then there was a thud. The sound of a heavy body hitting the ground.

Dust rose outside the window.

Silence fell over the cabin. Even the chickens stopped clucking.

The young wife whimpered, clutching her husband. "What was that?"

"Hush," he whispered, arm tightening. But his face paled.

The snoring woman snorted and woke up. She blinked blearily.

"Are we there?" she asked loudly, oblivious.

Before anyone could answer, the door was ripped open with violent force.

Wood splintered. Daylight flooded in.

A massive figure of a man filled the frame. He blocked the sun like an eclipse.

He was huge. A mountain of muscle in rough leather armor.

A thick, ugly scar ran from his ear down to his chin. It pulled his lip into a permanent sneer.

His head was completely bald. It shone with sweat and grease.

He held a heavy crossbow. It was cocked and loaded.

It was pointed directly at Marcus's chest.

Marcus's heart slammed. Breath caught.

"Everyone out," the bald man barked. His voice was like gravel."Now. Hands high where I see 'em. No funny moves."

The chicken woman screamed. It was a high, piercing sound.

The chickens joined in, flapping wildly in their cage.

The young wife buried her face in her husband's chest. He raised trembling hands. "We-we have nothing worth taking!"

"Shut it," the bandit snarled. He stepped closer, crossbow steady. "Out. All of you."

Marcus felt his stomach drop.

Bandits. Of course.

Why settle for just a sick horse and a twitching eye? Why not add armed robbery to the list?

The universe was really piling it on today.

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