Marcus raised his hands slowly. He kept his palms open and visible.

"Do as he says," Marcus said to the others. He forced his voice to be steady. "Don't make sudden moves. Don't panic."

The young husband, Thomas, grabbed his wife Elara's hand. His knuckles were white.

He looked terrified. He tried to shield her with his body, a futile gesture against a crossbow bolt.

"Out!" the bandit roared again. He gestured sharply with the weapon.

Marcus stepped out of the carriage first.

The fresh air hit him. It smelled of pine needles, horse sweat, and fear. It brought no relief.

There were six of them. Maybe seven.

They stood in a loose semi-circle around the carriage and held the high ground.

They were all armed and looked very serious.

The driver was tied up by the side of the road. He was curled in a ball in the dirt.

He looked bruised. Blood trickled from his nose. He was groaning softly.

"Line up!" the bald man shouted. He stood in the center of the road.

He seemed to be the leader. He held himself with arrogant ease.

He waved a serrated sword with his left hand. The metal glinted in the sun.

The passengers scrambled out and stumbled into the dirt, blinking in the light.

They huddled together by the carriage wheels and pressed close for comfort.

They looked like sheep waiting for the butcher.

The little girl stepped down last. She clutched her one-eyed bear to her chest.

She didn't look scared. She looked bored.

She walked to the end of the line. She stood apart from the others, watching the trees.

Marcus watched the bandits and analyzed them automatically.

They were organized. They didn't chatter or joke.

Two men stood watch on the road, scanning both directions for other travelers.

Their equipment was maintained. No rust on the blades. Leather was oiled and supple.

These weren't desperate peasants looking for bread money. They were professionals.

They were mercenaries. Or... career criminals.

The leader walked down the line of passengers. He peered into their faces with predatory eyes.

He stopped in front of the young couple and grinned. His teeth were rotting stumps.

"Nice ring," he said to Elara. He pointed with his sword. "Hand it over."

Thomas hesitated. He stepped slightly in front of her. His jaw set.

"No. Please anything but tha-"

"Oh, it seems we have a brave soul," Thomas' protests were cut short by the chilling words of the leader who had a grin on his face.

He paused for a while before continuing, "Or a foolish one."

The leader raised his sword. His eyes went cold and flat.

"Give it to him," Marcus said sharply. "It is not worth your life."

"Heh, at least one of you has a brain." the leader said shifting his gaze briefly to Marcus before going back to Thomas.

Thomas looked at Marcus. Then he looked at the serrated blade hovering inches from his face.

He nodded slowly. He stepped back, defeated.

Elara slipped the ring off. She was crying silently. Tears tracked through the dust on her cheeks.

She handed it over with trembling fingers.

The leader pocketed it and moved on.

He stopped in front of Marcus. He squinted against the sun.

"You," the leader said. He poked Marcus in the chest with the tip of his sword. "You're... a fancy one."

Marcus blinked. He looked down at his clothes.

They were simple traveling clothes. Or so he thought.

"I am just a traveler," Marcus said. "Like everyone else here."

"Nice boots," the leader sneered. "And that fabric isn't wool. It's a blend. Expensive weave."

Marcus cursed his appreciation for quality textiles.

He should have worn a potato sack. He should have rolled in mud before leaving.

"Check his bag," the leader ordered a subordinate.

A skinny bandit stepped forward. He ripped Marcus's bag from his shoulder.

He dumped the contents onto the dusty road.

Clothes spilled out. A book landed face down. And a small pouch of coins clinked.

The letter from the Viscount fluttered down and landed in the dust.

The skinny bandit grabbed the pouch. He weighed it in his hand.

"Gold, boss," the bandit grinned. "Decent weight."

He kicked the clothes aside. He ignored the book on negotiation.

He looked at the letter and picked it up.

'Oh shit.'

Marcus's heart stopped. If they saw the seal, things could get complicated.

Ransoms took time. And Marcus didn't have time.

Wait, will his father even pay the ransom?

The bandit turned the envelope over. He looked at the red wax seal.

He frowned. He scratched his head with a dirty fingernail.

"Useless paper," the bandit muttered. He tossed the letter back into the dirt.

He didn't recognize the crest. He was likely illiterate. Or he just didn't care.

Gold was immediate. Paper was work.

Marcus let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Is that it?" the leader asked. He looked disappointed.

"Just clothes and books," the skinny bandit said. "And the gold."

"Fine," the leader spat. "Tie them all up. We are taking them to the camp."

"All of them?" the skinny bandit asked. "All of them are worthless."

"Well... they are witnesses," the leader said. "So can't let them go. We sell the lot to the slavers in the south. They always need labor."

He pointed his sword at Marcus.

"Especially this one. Soft hands. Educated. He will fetch a high price as a scribe or house servant. Or a noble ladies plaything."

The blood drained from Marcus's face.

Slavers.

This had escalated from robbery to kidnapping to human trafficking in under five minutes.

Rough hands grabbed his wrists. Rope bit into his skin.

He looked at the others. They were terrified.

The onion man was weeping openly. Snot ran down his face into his beard.

Thomas was whispering frantically to Elara. They were clinging to each other.

The little girl was just standing there. Watching him with those black eyes.

She didn't look scared. She didn't look surprised.

She looked... expectant?

One of the bandits stepped forward, yanked the worn bear doll from her small hands, and flung it into the underbrush without a second glance.

The doll vanished among the leaves with a soft rustle.

He then roughly bound her wrists with rough ropes, cinching the knots tight.

The girl did not flinch. No tears, no protest, no change in her blank, void expression.

The bandit gave a low whistle and called over his shoulder to the leader, "This one's prime merchandise. Clean, quiet, she is really worth a fortune."

Marcus felt a surge of responsibility. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders.

He had expected to be the main target.

But to them, he was just another product. Just another body to sell.

"Move!" the bandit shoved him hard between the shoulder blades.

They were marched into the woods. The path was steep and rocky.

Marcus stumbled. He kept his footing.

His mind worked furiously. He shut down the fear and turned on the coach.

He needed a plan. He needed leverage.

He looked at the leader's back. The man walked with a swagger. Overconfident.

The scar on his face was jagged. It looked old.

Information. He needed more information.

They walked for an hour. Deep into the forest. The trees grew thicker.

The canopy blocked out the sun. The air grew cooler.

Marcus counted their steps. He tried to memorize the route.

Right at the old oak. Left at the stream.

But everything looked the same. Just endless, dark woods.

Finally, the trees opened up.

The camp was a clearing hidden in a ravine.

There were several tents. A fire pit smoldered in the center.

And there was a large wooden cage. It looked sturdy. It looked permanent.

"Throw them in the coop," the leader ordered.

The bandits shoved the passengers forward.

They were herded toward the wooden cage. It was cramped.

It smelled of rot and old fear. It smelled of despair.

Marcus was thrown in last. He stumbled and fell against the bars.

The door slammed shut. A heavy iron lock clicked.

Marcus pulled himself up. He rubbed his sore wrists.

He looked around the cell.

Twelve people. Panic was rising fast.

This was not a holding cell. This was a warehouse.

And they were the inventory.

Marcus leaned his head against the bars.

He thought of Seraphina. She would have burn this forest down.

He thought of Catarina. She would have these men to execution.

He thought of Vivienne. She would probably find this hilarious, then stab everyone.

And Iris...

'Hmmm... now that I think of it what would and Iris done?' Marcus thought to himself. 'I really miss her, the date although spicy was good.'

But they weren't here. He let out a quiet sigh.

Marcus was alone. And he was in trouble.

He looked at the little girl. She had found a corner.

She sat down. She smoothed her white dress.

She looked at Marcus. She didn't blink.

Marcus looked away. He checked his left eye.

It had finally stopped twitching.

"Too late," he whispered. "The bad thing already happened."

He slid down to the floor.

He needed to wait. He needed to watch.

He needed to survive.

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