Lanterns perched on rotten wooden railings and hanging from porches illuminate the way as they ride through, slowing to a trot. The stallion’s grunting and huffing, the repetitive thudding smack of the saddlebag against his side, and clopping of hooves fill the silence. Wooden houses with sloping moss-covered thatched rooftops, riddled with cobwebs and dirt, loomed on either side of the path. Their windows dark and curtains drawn, not a soul to be seen. She pulls on the reins and slows them to a stop, peering into the narrow nooks between the houses stretched long with darkness untouched by the amber light’s glow. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as another gust of wind howls through the decrepit village. She rolls her shoulders back and holds her head high, kicking her heels lightly into Bartolomeo’s sides.

He continues down the path. Her gaze, while focused forward, periodically shifts to the windows and doors of the houses they pass. When the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise, she glances over her shoulder measuring the distance between them and where they’d come. Shifting the reins to one hand, the other rests on her thigh, her little finger resting on top of the hilt of her dagger. Bartolomeo halts and her head whips forward, shoulders stiffening. A flower bed, wither with petals curved towards the ground, and armed with needle sharp beige grass surrounds a cobblestone well. Vines coil around the well’s base, stretching over into the top of the well and out of sight.

Glancing down one path then the other, few silhouettes walked the streets. Some adults, others children, cajoling and laughing until they notice the lone figure perched upon a horse near the well. The woman watches as a gaunt-faced woman grabs hold of her approaching son’s arm, wheeling him away as he protests loudly. She hushes him, sparing wide-eyed glances at the woman before disappearing into a nearby home, the door slamming shut and curtains drawing together. The woman clicks her tongue and climbs down from her perch, watching as some of the children huddled together further away from her take turns peeking over one another.

She catches their eyes, unblinking and unmoving, and they quickly avert their stares, their whispering becoming faint buzzing in the back of her mind as she turns her back to them.

“Not the welcoming party I expected,” the woman mutters, petting Bartolomeo between the ears. “But we’ve had colder greetings, haven’t we?”

The decrepit village has a lack of armed guards pointing blades at her and threatening bodily harm unless her whereabouts are made clear. Just children mumbling about her behind her back and people hidden in their homes behind shifting curtains, quiet and watchful. She isn’t sure which is better or worse.

“Well, a promise is a promise,” she mutters, meeting Bartolomeo’s dark eyes with a wry smile. “A bath and food.”

Bartolomeo snorts and blows at the back of her head as she approaches the well. Unsheathing her dagger, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, frowning as the dead fauna crunches beneath her boots. The vines loop around her fingers, leaves brushing against her palm as her hand travels further down to the dirt. She pulls the vine taught and cuts into it, sheathing her dagger after it slices through, both hands pulling the vine from where it loops around the others and disappears into the top of the well.

Winding it around her hand like rope, she leans over the side of the well, pressing her hip and leg firmly against its side. A russet iron-banded wooden bucket hangs by one of the ropes, dangling precariously by four or six threads, one half of the handle holding the ropes taut splintered and broken in half. With the vines wound around one hand, she pulls the bucket towards her and sets it on the edge of the well.

 Voices whisper-yelling nearby makes her raise her head and look to the side as the children from before take turns pushing each other forward then running back. They throw up their arms, bickering back and forth with one another, before another is shoved forward. The woman leans away from the well as one of the children topples over and hits the dirt while the others argue.

“Hey,” the woman calls out, and the children freeze in place, turning towards her slowly then breaking into a mad dash down the road before she can utter another word. “Where are—”

She sighs, looking down at the child trying to pick themselves off the ground. Her nose wrinkles and she sets the bundles of vines on Bartolomeo’s saddle, preparing to step over until the child staggers to their feet and looks behind them. The other children are out of sight to both the woman and child, and when the child turns back to look at her, they turn tail and run as well albeit slower than the others.

The woman watches quietly until the child is out of sight then grabs the bundle of vines. “At least the ill will isn’t only reserved to strangers,” she sighs, sitting cross-legged on the ground, and cutting a third of the vines off. “Though it must be harrowing coming from a friend.”

Bartolomeo snuffed and she shook her head.

“I know, you want your reward, and less philosophy. Be patient.”

She loops the remaining length around her arm as she stands, taking the shorter part to the rope and holding them side by side. The rope was thinner than the vine and barely hanging onto the spool. The woman presses the vine against the rope, holding them tightly and interlacing her fingers. Taking a deep breath, she exhales and squeezes her palms together. The air sizzles and crackles, red sparks springing forth from between her closing palms until they press flush against one another touching at the heels. She exhales, her breath coloring the air soot black. Pulling her hands away, black scorch marks streak across her palms. The rope, tawny with a greenish twinge, loops to the bucket. She wipes her hands along the sides of her trousers. undoing the bundle of vines around her arm.

Winding it around the spool, she hold sit tight between her hands and sucks in a sharp breath. One hand pressed against the wound vines while the other held the dangling remains tight. The vines glow, a reddish hue traveling up from her hands covers them entirely, the air sizzling and vibrating around her fingers. She snatches her hands away, exhaling harshly and shaking her head, pressing the heel of her hand to her eyes.

“I hate doing that,” she grumbles, grabbing onto the vine and pulling it taut, looping it into one of the bucket’s holes and tying it. “You’d best be grateful.”

Though the woman speaks to no one in particular, she knows there are others listening. She’s aware of the eyes watching her as she lowers the bucket into the well, fist clenched around the splintered handle. Thumb tucked into the loop of her belt and knee bouncing as she waits a moment before lifting the bucket again. Offering some of the water to her horse then taking the rest for herself. She sets the bucket on the edge of the well, climbs onto her saddle and takes up the reins, looking into the drawn curtains and dark windows surrounding her.

“Not much of a bath but you know as well as I, old friend,” the woman says, spurring Bartolomeo into a trot. “Leisure is a liability in itself.”

The stallion grunts in response and the woman chuckles, shaking her head. They travel down the path right of the well, the woman chancing glances over her shoulders and towards the homes they pass. Despite the lanterns glow, the winds howl through the streets without a soul beside theirs to hear. Her palms itch and burn as she rubs them against her thigh, curling her fingers and uncurling them, nails scratching against her skin.

 “I should have dipped my hands into the water,” she mumbles. “But we lingered enough already.”

Loud fumbling footsteps thumped against the dirt behind them. Her ear twitches, the hair on her nape standing on end and shoulders tensing as she whips her head around, a silhouette quickly approaching catches her eye. The woman grabs the hilt of her dagger, clutching the reins in her other hand. Her nostrils flare though before she can call out a warning, the person trips and falls face first to the dirt. Her parted lips shut and she cocks her head to the side.

“Are you alright?” The woman asks after a pregnant pause, waiting as the person shuffled about on the ground. 

When no response comes, she pulls at the reins and starts Bartolomeo down the path again, putting distance between herself and the fallen. 

"A town of falling shadows and hiding souls," she says, glancing over her shoulder as the silhouette staggers to its feet. "Next time, I'll just kill them."

“Hey, slow down please!” A small high-pitched voice cries from behind them.

The woman looks over her shoulder as the approaching silhouette steps into the light, revealing a little girl, panting and struggling to catch up. She stumbled over her feet a few times and the woman pulled at the reins, bringing Bartolomeo to the side.

“Let’s see what this is,” she murmurs to the stallion, keeping her eyes on the little girl.

Bartolomeo turns his head to the side as the little girl slows down in front of them, hunched over and gasping for breath. The woman stills, glancing up at the darkened windows and over her shoulders, watching the shadows as the girl composes herself. After a few seconds pass, the girl stands to her full height, looking at the stallion and the woman with a grin a few teeth short and bright brown eyes. The woman's eyebrows quirk as the girl opens her mouth to speak then snaps it shut as if second-guessing herself.

"One second please," the girl insists, pulling her curly dark hair over her shoulder and combing her fingers through it a few times.

The woman watches as she straightens her tunic, the once white fabric now a dingy shade of grey and the left sleeve tied at the shoulder. Streaks of dirt and mud smudge across her freckled cheeks as she wipes her hand along the side of her face. The woman glances down at the girl's bare feet, frowning at the cuts and marks marring her dark-brown skin. Some healed while the others were barely scabbing, a deep purple bruise around her knee. 

"Excuse me, miss," the little girl says, bowing low at the waist then springing up, her fist clenched. "Are you a magician?"

The woman's gaze snaps up to meet the little girl's, the words sitting on her tongue dying as the child crowds into her space with questions springing forth faster than she can process.

"Or are you a soldier?"

"My mom's friend?"

"Did you fix the well too?"

The woman blinks rapidly, leaning as far from the girl as she could while staying on the saddle. It wasn't often that someone came to her with so many questions without threat of bodily harm. Bartolomeo grunts and snorts, shaking his head wildly as she recoils, glaring at him pointedly. 

"You're the one from earlier," the woman answers lamely, her shoulders falling and hand slipping away from the dagger's hilt.

"I'm sorry for running away before," the girl says, rubbing the back of her neck. "You really scared me, showing up like that."

"And your friends left you."

The girl looks down, her smile dissipating. "Nah, they're not my friends," she mumbles, tugging at the hem of her tunic, her voice so quiet that the woman barely catches it. "So are you?"

"Am I what?" 

"C'mon, don't play dumb," the girl huffs, and the corner of the woman's lips twitches upwards. "Are you a magician or a soldier or something?"

The woman looks askance and says nothing for a long while. She catches the shifting of curtains from one of the nearby houses and glances towards it, huffing once the movement idles. Her shoulders rise and tense, fist clenching the reins and jaw setting until she lays eyes on the bright-eyed child awaiting her response. With a sigh, she lowers her shoulders and allows a ghost of a smile to grace her lips.

"What would make you say that?"

"You're riding a horse," the girl points out and Bartolomeo's ears perk. "And you fixed the well, didn't you?"

"Did I?"

The girl puffs her cheeks and stamps one foot in the dirt, fist balled at her side. 

"I'm sure you did, it was broken ever since those guys came to town, and they wouldn't let my mom fix it."

The field of weapons come to mind and the woman frowns. The girl is about the same height as the person she'd been chasing but she approached too quickly. And certainly not quietly.

"You asked if I was a soldier," the woman interrupts. "What do you think makes a soldier?"

"A horse and a sword," the girl rolls her eyes. "What else would you use to beat monsters?"

The woman thinks of a few things but says nothing, shrugging instead.

"So where is your sword?"

"Who knows."

While the girl peeks around Bartolomeo's saddlebags, the stallion bows his head and takes a deep whiff of her hair then exhales hard. Her hair sticks up at an angle and for a moment, she stares wide-eyed at Bartolomeo then breaks into raucous laughter. The stallion neighs, his ears perking up, licking the girl's hand when she holds it in front of his muzzle. 

"I like your horse," the girl says, patting Bartolomeo's cheek. "He's really big but nice."

"Try not to compliment him too much, he'll get a big head."

A ghost of a smile played on her lips when the little girl laughs. She watches as the little girl resumes her search, pointing at the dagger on the woman's thigh.

"Is that it?"

The woman shakes her head. "No," she replies, keeping her leg firmly against Bartholomeo's side as the girl's hand draws nearer. 

"Why do you have that if you have a sword?"

"Maybe I have it because I don't have a sword."

The girl's eyebrows furrow and the woman's eyebrow raises, the two staring in a deadlock before the girl shakes her head, eying the straps on the saddlebags instead. When she reaches for the leather buckles, the woman lays a finger on her wrist.

"Don't touch those," she warns, plucking the girl's roving hand off the strap. 

The girl smiles triumphantly. "So your sword is in there, miss?"

"Among other things," the woman muses, glancing over her shoulders. "It's late, shouldn't you be home?"

The little girl rocks back on her heels, looking away. "Maybe but my mom isn't back yet," she looks over her shoulders then leans closer, whispering. "She went to help the fake soldiers."

The woman straightens up. While it'd been difficult to breathe before, now it was downright impossible. 

"Fake soldiers," the woman repeats, a grim scowl etched onto her face as she looks away. "Are they the monsters?"

The girl's lips part and then shut, eyes searching for something that the woman can't put her finger on. She climbs down from the saddle and kneels in the dirt, looking at the girl eye to eye.

"Everyone else ran at the sight of me, I assume you know why."

She nods. 

"Will you tell me?"

She opens her mouth then shakes her head.

"Why not?" 

"They'll take my mom," she whispers.