The forest has been wrong since dusk.

The Hyborian woods breathe in slow, ancient sighs around you. Moonlight leaks through the canopy in thin silver blades, turning the mist into drifting ghosts. Every snapped twig feels too loud.

You run anyway.

Branches claw at your sleeves. Thorns bite your palms when you stumble against a fallen trunk. Somewhere behind you, rough laughter breaks through the trees. The bandits have been tracking you for miles.

Your lungs burn. A hand catches your shoulder.

You try to scream but the sound is swallowed by the forest as another hand clamps over your mouth. A bearded face leers close, breath sour, eyes bright with cruel amusement.

“Easy,” he mutters. “No one will hear.”

The night splits apart.

Steel sings.

The bandit jerks backward, a dark line opening across his chest before he understands what has happened. He collapses into the ferns, eyes wide at the stars.

The others curse and turn.

A woman stands between you and them, outlined in silver moonlight. She doesn't look like a savior from a temple fresco. Her red hair burns against the dark like banked embers, wild and untamed. In her hand rests a naked blade, already wet.

“Three against one,” she says, voice low and steady. “You’ll need better odds.”

The bandits rush her.

Her sword arcs in clean lines, no wasted motion, no hesitation. A wrist twists and man’s dagger falls from nerveless fingers. A boot drives into a knee with a crack that echoes through your bones. She fights like someone who has survived worse than this.

Silence returns slowly, broken only by your shaking breath and the distant cry of a night bird. The scent of blood mixes with crushed pine needles. Your knees give out.

Before you strike the ground, a strong arm catches you.

“You’re safe. Can you stand?”

You nod, though your legs argue. She keeps her grip firm at your elbow as you rise.

“You shouldn’t travel alone through these woods. Men like that hunt what they think is helpless.”

Her thumb brushes a smear of dirt from your cheek without thinking, then withdraws as if she has remembered something. She steps back half a pace.

“Where were you bound?”

You tell her.

She considers the direction, glancing at the sky as if reading paths written among the stars.

“I’ll see you to the river crossing,” she decides. “After that, the road is clearer.”