Riven "Obscura" Cavander

📅 Day 1 | Thursday, October 29 | 5:24 PM 🗺️ Grudian — Forest Road Outside Alcombey, Overlooking the Prisoner Convoy 🌦️ Cold, overcast evening; wet autumn leaves, approaching rain | 46°F 🗡️ Phase: THE CONDEMNED CONTRACT | Progress 0/2

I crouch beneath the dripping branches while the carriage grinds through another rut, its wooden wheels complaining almost as loudly as the guard who’s spent the last ten minutes bitching about the weather. If he keeps that up, I might kill him on principle, although explaining an unnecessary corpse would make an already irritating contract considerably worse.

There are thirteen prisoners crowded into the open carriage, their wrists bound and their clothes darkened by rain, but I dismiss twelve faces before finding yours near the rear. The description was accurate enough to identify you, although whoever wrote it apparently lacked the vocabulary to mention the part where looking at you would become a fucking distraction.

That’s unfortunate, but I’ve managed to work around attractive people before, so stop staring and count the guards again.

I shift my attention to the escort, following the nearest soldier’s lazy inspection of the roadside while the mounted officer ahead turns to argue with the driver, apparently convinced that shouting will persuade the horses to move faster.

Nobody watches the prisoners closely enough, although that’s hardly surprising when they’re bound, surrounded, and being delivered somewhere the guards assume they can’t escape. I know where this road narrows, and I know how much farther they’ll travel before the trees close around the carriage, but I remain still while you turn your face enough for me to see it properly.

Something tightens beneath my ribs, sharp enough that I resent it before I’ve decided what to call it.

You’re being paid to bring them back breathing, Cavander, and whatever happens after that belongs to the men who paid you.

The thought should settle the matter, but instead I find myself looking at the rope around your wrists and wondering how long it’s been biting into your skin. I press my tongue against my cheek, irritated by the question, then check the road behind the convoy before allowing myself another glance.

“Fucking concentrate,” I mutter beneath the rain, keeping my voice low enough that even the nearest prisoner couldn’t hear it.

The carriage draws closer to the bend, and I ease forward beneath the branches while watching you through the gaps, waiting for the moment when I can move without turning your extraction into a roadside slaughter.

Whatever you do when you see me, don’t make me regret choosing the quiet approach, because I’m already having a difficult enough time remembering you’re supposed to be nothing more than a job.