Chapter 15: Fire
Isolde was dragged into the bandits' stronghold on Wolf Mountain. In another life, she’d been here before—only after the bandits were long gone. The structures, built entirely of wood, weren’t much to look at, but they were solid. Back then, she’d seen the right wing scorched by fire, yet the rest stood firm. This place wasn’t just a hideout—it held a dungeon. The dungeon, once a natural cave, had been reinforced by the bandits with iron bars and gates. Now, it served as her prison.
She lay still on the cold stone floor, listening as the heavy footsteps of the bandits faded into the distance. When all fell silent, she finally opened her eyes. The only light came from a flickering oil lamp, its glow faint and uneven, barely illuminating a few paces around her. Her hands were free, and the gag had been removed. The bandits must’ve decided she was no threat. Up here on Wolf Mountain, after all, what could one woman do? Even a hundred soldiers wouldn’t stand much of a chance against these brutes.
The quiet was broken by the faint sound of breathing—hers. She strained her ears, but no other noises reached her. Carefully, she pressed herself to the ground and peered into the dark. When she was sure no one else was near, she crawled toward the sound. What she found made her heart lurch: a small figure. A child. The boy was alive. Even in the dim light, she recognized him: Lord Theodric. Relief coursed through her.
But his face was filthy and swollen, his skin flushed red with fever. His breathing was shallow, and she couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious. She reached out, her hand trembling, and touched his forehead. It was scalding hot. Fear clenched in her chest—he was burning up. The light touch woke him. His eyes fluttered open, wide and panicked. Before he could cry out, she clapped a hand over his mouth, her voice urgent but gentle. “Shh! It’s alright, my lord. Your mother sent me to get you out of here. Don’t be scared, and stay quiet. Understand?”
The boy froze, staring at her with wide, tear-filled eyes. Slowly, his fear ebbed, replaced by silent sobs. Isolde lowered her hand and pulled him close. “Hush now,” she murmured, stroking his back. “You’re safe. I’ll take you home. I swear it.”
Lord Theodric clung to her, his small arms wrapped tightly around her neck. His body shook with suppressed sobs, and silent tears soaked her tunic. Such courage from a child so young tore at her heart. For a moment, guilt overwhelmed her. How could she have considered abandoning him? The thought…
“You’re a brave lad,” she whispered. “Listen carefully now. When the bad men come, pretend to be asleep. Don’t make a sound, don’t move—nothing. You only act when I say so. Got it?”
His voice came small and shaky. “I… I got it.”
“That’s my good boy.” Her throat tightened. She thought of Princess Aveline and Lord Garraway, imagining the torment of parents who didn’t know if their child was alive or suffering. Their pain felt almost tangible now.
The odds were grim, she knew. Escaping alone would be hard enough. Taking Theodric with her? Almost impossible. She might not make it out alive. But none of that mattered. The hatred she carried from her past life faded into insignificance. Right now, all that mattered was this boy.
Her mind raced. If her memory was right, Theodric’s death came on the seventh night of the New Year. That gave her two, maybe three days to act. But waiting was a luxury she didn’t have. She needed to move, and soon.
Her fingers brushed her belt. The whip was still there—a sliver of hope. These bandits were ruthless, the worst of their kind. If they were truly working with Milton Blackwell, then Blackwell would never let her leave alive. But why hadn’t they killed her yet? If Blackwell wants me dead, why waste time?
The answer hit her: leverage. She was worth more alive. The bandits could use her to squeeze Blackwell for ransom or favors. That gave her a slim chance, but it wouldn’t last.
Her eyes shifted to the flickering oil lamp, then to the dry straw scattered across the floor. A plan began to form. Setting the place ablaze seemed like the best plan. Risky? Sure. But if the bandits hadn’t already killed her and Lord Theodric, it meant they hadn’t ironed out their deal with whoever had hired them. Until they struck a bargain, neither she nor the boy would be touched.
Isolde sat in silence, biding her time. Were there guards outside? If not, any escape attempt would be futile. She waited. Time dragged until, after what felt like hours, Lord Theodric finally drifted into a restless sleep.
Then, a flicker of movement—small and swift. Her heart leaped. Leonis. But it wasn’t just him. A taller shadow followed close behind, resolving into a familiar figure. Her pulse quickened. In every life she’d lived, this man had been her saving grace.
Oliver stepped into view, his dark eyes sharp and intense. “Keep quiet,” he whispered. “I’ll find somewhere to lay low. This isn’t the time to bolt.”
“Fire,” Isolde replied, her voice barely audible. She nodded toward the oil lamp, then knelt to stroke Leonis’ sleek head.
Oliver had pieced the story together on his way here. When he saw the figure heading for the mountains, he realized Isolde hadn’t run off with a lover but had been called… He’d shadowed the bandits ever since, waiting for the perfect moment. Leonis, true to form, had created that moment. The hound had drawn the men away just long enough for Oliver to sneak into the lair. From there, the dog had led him straight to Isolde, as it followed an unbreakable bond.
The hour of the boar approached when she heard footsteps echoing in the hallway. Isolde, perched beside Lord Theodric, gave a low whistle. The dungeon erupted in flames. Two bandits burst through the door, weapons in hand. They barely had time to shout before Oliver’s sword sliced through their throats. They crumpled silently, blood pooling beneath them.
Oliver crouched, rummaging through the bodies until he found a ring of keys. He unlocked the gate with practiced speed, glancing at Isolde. “Now. Move.”
She scooped up Theodric, the boy’s feverish weight heavy in her arms, and hurried to the door.
“You’ve got someone with you?” Oliver’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the child. In the firefight, the boy’s pale, terrified face came into view.
“It’s Lord Theodric,” Isolde murmured.
Oliver’s expression darkened. He stepped forward, an arm outstretched to take the boy, but Theodric clung to Isolde with desperate strength, his small arms locked around her neck.
“I’ve got him,” Isolde said firmly. “You lead the way and clear a path.”
Oliver hesitated for only a moment before nodding. There was no time to argue. The dungeon was scarcely guarded—likely because the bandits considered themselves untouchable in their mountain stronghold. They hadn’t planned for an intruder, let alone a fire.
With Leonis close on their heels, the three slipped out. The halls were eerily quiet, but the glow of flames and distant shouts warned them that time was running out. Oliver led them toward the right wing. He’d scouted it earlier and knew it was less fortified. They moved quickly, the boy’s quiet breathing and the crackle of flames the only sounds between them.
They reached the edge of the stronghold just as chaos erupted behind them.
“They’ve spotted us,” Isolde muttered, glancing back. The sky glowed red, and the shouts of angry men echoed in the distance. Torches bobbed like fireflies in the dark, carried by a mob of over a hundred bandits.