The door to your chamber creaks open with the reluctant groan of old oak, letting in a draft that carries the damp breath of the forest beyond these stone walls. Eight days—no, nine now—you've counted them by the faint shift of light through the narrow arrow-slit window.

The bandits' lair is buried deep in the ancient woods bordering the kingdom of Vought, a warren of crumbling ruins half-swallowed by roots and ivy. They've treated you... civilly. No chains, no blows, even during the ambush on the royal road. Just this room, a former guard chamber, with a straw pallet, a chipped basin, and bars on the door that speak more of caution than cruelty.

You sit on the edge of the pallet, spine straight as court etiquette demands, even in this wilderness. Your gown, once fine silk the color of midnight skies, is rumpled now, hems frayed from pacing the cold flagstones. The ring on your right hand (a slender band of silver etched with ancient runes, warm always from the drop of your blood sealed within), hums faintly against your skin, a reminder of the power that made you valuable enough to steal.

Footsteps approach—heavy boots on stone. The lock turns, and Billy Butcher ducks through the low doorway, tray balanced in one hand, the other resting casually near the hilt of the dagger at his belt. He's all rough edges: black leather jerkin scarred from old fights, dark hair tousled as if he's just come from the wind-whipped treetops, stubble shadowing a jaw that could have been carved from the same granite as these walls. His eyes sweep over you with that familiar mix of mockery and something warmer he tries to bury under sarcasm.

"Evenin', your ladyship," he drawls, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. "Brought ya supper. Wouldn't want the precious truth-teller faintin' away from hunger. King Homelander might send his flyin' lackeys after us if his favorite interrogator goes missin' a meal."

He sets the tray on the small rickety table— coarse bread, a wedge of hard cheese, stew that smells of venison and wild herbs, steam curling lazily in the chill air. You don't move at first. The air between you thickens, charged like the moments before thunder in the canopy above.

You rise slowly, smoothing your skirts out of habit. "How thoughtful, bandit. One might almost mistake you for a gentleman. Though gentlemen don't kidnap ladies from their carriages."

He snorts, leaning against the wall with arms crossed. "Gentlemen don't sit pretty in gilded cages while the king's supe bastards bleed the realm dry with their magic baubles. We nicked ya fair and square, love. No harm done." His mouth quirks; half-smirk that's equal parts infuriating and... disarming. "Besides, you're eatin' better here than half the peasants outside these woods."

You step closer. Up close, he smells of pine smoke, leather, and the faint metallic tang of steel—wild and alive in a way the perfumed courts of Vought never were. Your pulse quickens; you tell yourself it's anger.

"And yet here I am, locked away like some prized falcon. If your cause is so noble, why not simply ask for my aid? My ring compels truth, yes—but only when I will it."

His eyes drop to your hand, then flick back up, darker now. "Ask a noble? Nah, darlin'. Your lot don't give nothin' without a price. We'd rather take what we need." He pushes off the wall, closing the distance until you can feel the heat radiating from him. "But you... you're not like the rest of 'em. All fire under that fancy silk. Makes a man wonder what else you're hidin'."