Buttercup watched the road snaking through the dense Redwood forest toward Vadda, its winding path swallowed by shadows where the massive trunks stood thickest. In the far distance, through the shifting veil of leaves, she could make out the silhouette of a ruined house. Once a snug little cottage, it had been her home for years—a base, a sanctuary, a place of warmth on the coldest nights. Now it was just another husk, waiting for the final indignity. A few more days, and the vultures would come, the two-legged kind, eager to strip it of whatever scrap they could find.
Not that there was anything left worth taking. She had made sure of that.
Buttercup had risked slipping in once, just long enough to check the place, timing her movements between the passing of three-man guard patrols. A joke of a force, once—easy pickings for highway entrepreneurs like herself. But times had changed. Now they came in numbers, moving in rigid patterns, leaving little room for a clever thief to slip through unnoticed. The very road that had once been a golden vein, rich with fat merchants and green adventurers ripe for the plucking, had become a death trap for anyone still clinging to the old ways.
She sneered, watching the way the road curved past the ruins. Once, that stretch had been hers. A fine spot for an ambush—where the towering trees bent close, casting deep shadows even at midday. Where Daisy had scuttled out from her stable, silent as the grave, before springing upon prey too foolish to look up.
She turned her gaze downward, running a gloved hand along the chitinous ridge of the massive Clothos Maiden crouched beside her. Daisy twitched at the touch, eight beady black eyes reflecting the light like polished stones, mandibles clicking in the familiar rhythm of anticipation. Buttercup let her fingers linger for a moment, then withdrew.
She had spent months training the monstrous spider, molding it into the perfect hunter. And now? Now she had to lie in wait like some skulking rat, watching the road, gnashing her teeth while armored brutes trampled through her old hunting grounds, as if they had earned the right to be there.
The law was everywhere now. Not just holed up in towns, hiding behind thick stone walls, waiting for trouble to come knocking. They had spread like a plague, iron-shod boots crushing the free roads under their weight, their righteous presence as smothering as their heavy plate.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Life was supposed to be hard for travelers, crafters, farmers—easy prey, living soft, plodding through the world with no fear in their hearts, until she gave them a reason to feel it. That was the order of things. And now? Now it was just as hard for her. For the ones who had chosen to carve their own path with steel and nerve instead of cowering behind town gates like frightened children.
As Buttercup shifted in her saddle, preparing to leave, movement on the road below caught her eye.
Three travelers rode at an easy pace. A merchant, by the look of the lead rider, hunched slightly over his reins, his saddlebags bulging with trade goods. Two others trailed behind—a woman in a long cloak, and some hapless farmer or prospector, his mule laden with supplies.
Once, they would have been hers.
Her pulse quickened, a deep and familiar hunger rising in her chest.
She had hunted this very stretch countless times, knew every dip and bend, every blind spot where a kill could be made quickly and without fuss. This was where Daisy struck, silent and lethal, before the victims could even scream.
She could almost see it now—Daisy lunging from the underbrush, the travelers shriek of shock, the panicked flailing as her mount’s razor-tipped legs cut through flesh and bone. The sheer delight of watching their faces contort in terror, their final moments belonging to her.
Her fingers twitched on the reins.
Just one lunge, one command…
Daisy shifted beneath her, sensing the tension, eager. Her legs coiled. Her mandibles clicked. She could feel it too.
But Buttercup’s jaw tightened.
A sharp, ugly pang of restraint lashed through her, so foreign it clawed at her gut like a caged beast. Her fingers twitched on the reins, her breath quickening as the old hunger roared in her chest. Every fiber of her screamed to act, to pounce, to take. But the memory of her last mistake—the blood, the chase, the narrow escape—stayed her hand like a chain.
She forced herself still.
She could see the problem—a shadow moving the other way, back toward Fabernum.
The three-man patrol they had spotted earlier. The very same ones who had passed through her old hunting ground just moments ago.
They were barely a few minutes down the road.
Were she foolish enough to cave to her urges, to tear those travelers apart as she had done so many times before…
The guards would be upon her before the blood had even dried.
She hissed through her teeth, squeezing her fists tight enough that her nails dug into her palms. She had never had to hold herself back before.
This wasn’t right.
The travelers ambled on, unaware of how close death had been, how easily they could have been skinned alive in the underbrush, their corpses looted and forgotten.
Buttercup glared after them, her muscles still tight, her breath shallow.
And then, slowly, she exhaled.
She had been reckless before. It had cost her.
Now, she would have to be smarter.
Her grip on Daisy's reins loosened, and she leaned forward, pressing a hand to the spider’s carapace, grounding herself.
With one final, sharp glare at the oblivious travelers, Buttercup wrenched her gaze away, then spat in the dirt, scowling. Daisy shifted beneath her, watching her with those alien, glittering eyes.
Buttercup exhaled slowly, forcing herself to think. The guards had made life harder, that much was true. But they hadn’t made it impossible. She wasn’t some blundering amateur, snared by the first change in the wind. If the road was closed, she would find another. If the hunt had changed, she would change with it.
She placed a hand on Daisy’s thick carapace, tracing the fine ridges of its armored shell. “Don’t worry, girl,” she murmured. “We’re not finished yet.”
The spider clicked its mandibles in agreement.
And far below, on the distant road, three more guards rode past, oblivious.
Buttercup curled her lip, casting one last, disdainful glance at the road before turning away. She swung herself onto Daisy’s back with practiced ease, gripping the coarse ridges of the spider’s thick carapace as her mount shifted beneath her. With a barely perceptible squeeze of her legs, she sent Daisy skittering forward, the spider’s long, chitinous legs carrying them over the forest floor in near silence.
She didn't bother looking back.
There was nothing left for her here.
She pointed Daisy’s course southeast, toward Rash’Kel—the so-called refuge of outlaws, the rat’s nest where every killer and thief who had been pushed out of "civilized" lands gathered to sulk, lick their wounds, and carve out their own petty hierarchies in the shadows.
Her new home.
She sneered at the thought.
Buttercup had never been one for fraternizing with her own kind. Too many outlaws spent their lives trying to impress each other, puffing themselves up like peacocks, boasting about their kills, their heists, their grand escapes from the law’s clutches. It was all meaningless. She had no interest in measuring the length of her rap sheet against another cutthroat’s, nor in swapping stories over mugs of stolen ale like some kind of grotesque guild of criminals.
Besides, she didn't much like her own kind.
She had spent too many years preying on the weak, looking into the wide, fearful eyes of the doomed, savoring their last, panicked moments. It was the fear she fed on, the raw terror in their faces, the knowledge that they had no chance, that they were hers. But among the brigands of Rash’Kel? There was none of that. No fear. No panic. Just cold, calculating eyes sizing her up in turn, measuring her worth the same way she measured theirs.
A mirror held up to her own nature. She hated that.
Hated seeing herself reflected in their ruthless smirks, their easy cruelty, their cold indifference to life and death. It was like staring into a cracked mirror, the image distorted but unmistakable. She had no illusions about what she was, but at least she had style. At least she had purpose. These men? They were nothing but animals, gnashing at each other in the dark.
Rash’Kel was nothing but a pit of vultures, circling each other, waiting for weakness.
More importantly, thieves were terrible prey. Difficult to kill, unlikely to have anything worth taking, and always watching their backs. Even if she could stomach their company, mingling with them would be a waste of her time.
Still, there was nowhere else for her now. The law had driven her out, and Rash’Kel—disgusting as it was—offered one thing she needed.
Sanctuary.
Daisy’s legs moved effortlessly over the uneven terrain, gliding between the towering redwoods like a whisper of shadow.
The journey would take time, but Buttercup had nothing else left to lose.
Not that there was anything left worth taking. She had made sure of that.
Buttercup had risked slipping in once, just long enough to check the place, timing her movements between the passing of three-man guard patrols. A joke of a force, once—easy pickings for highway entrepreneurs like herself. But times had changed. Now they came in numbers, moving in rigid patterns, leaving little room for a clever thief to slip through unnoticed. The very road that had once been a golden vein, rich with fat merchants and green adventurers ripe for the plucking, had become a death trap for anyone still clinging to the old ways.
She sneered, watching the way the road curved past the ruins. Once, that stretch had been hers. A fine spot for an ambush—where the towering trees bent close, casting deep shadows even at midday. Where Daisy had scuttled out from her stable, silent as the grave, before springing upon prey too foolish to look up.
She turned her gaze downward, running a gloved hand along the chitinous ridge of the massive Clothos Maiden crouched beside her. Daisy twitched at the touch, eight beady black eyes reflecting the light like polished stones, mandibles clicking in the familiar rhythm of anticipation. Buttercup let her fingers linger for a moment, then withdrew.
She had spent months training the monstrous spider, molding it into the perfect hunter. And now? Now she had to lie in wait like some skulking rat, watching the road, gnashing her teeth while armored brutes trampled through her old hunting grounds, as if they had earned the right to be there.
The law was everywhere now. Not just holed up in towns, hiding behind thick stone walls, waiting for trouble to come knocking. They had spread like a plague, iron-shod boots crushing the free roads under their weight, their righteous presence as smothering as their heavy plate.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Life was supposed to be hard for travelers, crafters, farmers—easy prey, living soft, plodding through the world with no fear in their hearts, until she gave them a reason to feel it. That was the order of things. And now? Now it was just as hard for her. For the ones who had chosen to carve their own path with steel and nerve instead of cowering behind town gates like frightened children.
As Buttercup shifted in her saddle, preparing to leave, movement on the road below caught her eye.
Three travelers rode at an easy pace. A merchant, by the look of the lead rider, hunched slightly over his reins, his saddlebags bulging with trade goods. Two others trailed behind—a woman in a long cloak, and some hapless farmer or prospector, his mule laden with supplies.
Once, they would have been hers.
Her pulse quickened, a deep and familiar hunger rising in her chest.
She had hunted this very stretch countless times, knew every dip and bend, every blind spot where a kill could be made quickly and without fuss. This was where Daisy struck, silent and lethal, before the victims could even scream.
She could almost see it now—Daisy lunging from the underbrush, the travelers shriek of shock, the panicked flailing as her mount’s razor-tipped legs cut through flesh and bone. The sheer delight of watching their faces contort in terror, their final moments belonging to her.
Her fingers twitched on the reins.
Just one lunge, one command…
Daisy shifted beneath her, sensing the tension, eager. Her legs coiled. Her mandibles clicked. She could feel it too.
But Buttercup’s jaw tightened.
A sharp, ugly pang of restraint lashed through her, so foreign it clawed at her gut like a caged beast. Her fingers twitched on the reins, her breath quickening as the old hunger roared in her chest. Every fiber of her screamed to act, to pounce, to take. But the memory of her last mistake—the blood, the chase, the narrow escape—stayed her hand like a chain.
She forced herself still.
She could see the problem—a shadow moving the other way, back toward Fabernum.
The three-man patrol they had spotted earlier. The very same ones who had passed through her old hunting ground just moments ago.
They were barely a few minutes down the road.
Were she foolish enough to cave to her urges, to tear those travelers apart as she had done so many times before…
The guards would be upon her before the blood had even dried.
She hissed through her teeth, squeezing her fists tight enough that her nails dug into her palms. She had never had to hold herself back before.
This wasn’t right.
The travelers ambled on, unaware of how close death had been, how easily they could have been skinned alive in the underbrush, their corpses looted and forgotten.
Buttercup glared after them, her muscles still tight, her breath shallow.
And then, slowly, she exhaled.
She had been reckless before. It had cost her.
Now, she would have to be smarter.
Her grip on Daisy's reins loosened, and she leaned forward, pressing a hand to the spider’s carapace, grounding herself.
With one final, sharp glare at the oblivious travelers, Buttercup wrenched her gaze away, then spat in the dirt, scowling. Daisy shifted beneath her, watching her with those alien, glittering eyes.
Buttercup exhaled slowly, forcing herself to think. The guards had made life harder, that much was true. But they hadn’t made it impossible. She wasn’t some blundering amateur, snared by the first change in the wind. If the road was closed, she would find another. If the hunt had changed, she would change with it.
She placed a hand on Daisy’s thick carapace, tracing the fine ridges of its armored shell. “Don’t worry, girl,” she murmured. “We’re not finished yet.”
The spider clicked its mandibles in agreement.
And far below, on the distant road, three more guards rode past, oblivious.
Buttercup curled her lip, casting one last, disdainful glance at the road before turning away. She swung herself onto Daisy’s back with practiced ease, gripping the coarse ridges of the spider’s thick carapace as her mount shifted beneath her. With a barely perceptible squeeze of her legs, she sent Daisy skittering forward, the spider’s long, chitinous legs carrying them over the forest floor in near silence.
She didn't bother looking back.
There was nothing left for her here.
She pointed Daisy’s course southeast, toward Rash’Kel—the so-called refuge of outlaws, the rat’s nest where every killer and thief who had been pushed out of "civilized" lands gathered to sulk, lick their wounds, and carve out their own petty hierarchies in the shadows.
Her new home.
She sneered at the thought.
Buttercup had never been one for fraternizing with her own kind. Too many outlaws spent their lives trying to impress each other, puffing themselves up like peacocks, boasting about their kills, their heists, their grand escapes from the law’s clutches. It was all meaningless. She had no interest in measuring the length of her rap sheet against another cutthroat’s, nor in swapping stories over mugs of stolen ale like some kind of grotesque guild of criminals.
Besides, she didn't much like her own kind.
She had spent too many years preying on the weak, looking into the wide, fearful eyes of the doomed, savoring their last, panicked moments. It was the fear she fed on, the raw terror in their faces, the knowledge that they had no chance, that they were hers. But among the brigands of Rash’Kel? There was none of that. No fear. No panic. Just cold, calculating eyes sizing her up in turn, measuring her worth the same way she measured theirs.
A mirror held up to her own nature. She hated that.
Hated seeing herself reflected in their ruthless smirks, their easy cruelty, their cold indifference to life and death. It was like staring into a cracked mirror, the image distorted but unmistakable. She had no illusions about what she was, but at least she had style. At least she had purpose. These men? They were nothing but animals, gnashing at each other in the dark.
Rash’Kel was nothing but a pit of vultures, circling each other, waiting for weakness.
More importantly, thieves were terrible prey. Difficult to kill, unlikely to have anything worth taking, and always watching their backs. Even if she could stomach their company, mingling with them would be a waste of her time.
Still, there was nowhere else for her now. The law had driven her out, and Rash’Kel—disgusting as it was—offered one thing she needed.
Sanctuary.
Daisy’s legs moved effortlessly over the uneven terrain, gliding between the towering redwoods like a whisper of shadow.
The journey would take time, but Buttercup had nothing else left to lose.