The thing about victory is that it always looks better from the outside. From the inside—when you’re bruised, bloody, and bent over sucking air like a fish dragged onto the dock—it feels a lot less like triumph and more like indigestion mixed with survival guilt.
I stood over Malrick’s limp body, sweat dripping down my nose, stomach still aching from where his fist had tried to turn my innards into a new rug, and I had this sudden thought: gods above, if this is what winning feels like, losing must be absolute hell.
The bastard was out cold, bloodied to a pulp, and still somehow managing to look smug even in unconsciousness.
If he so much as twitched the wrong way, I was fully prepared to kick him again, partly for safety and partly for the sheer therapy of it.
Freya didn’t hesitate.
She swooped down on him like a golden hawk, rope already in hand—because of course she carried rope, and no, I didn’t ask why—and began binding his arms with brutal efficiency.
Every pull of the knot was sharp, precise, almost surgical, as though she was one wrong tug away from tearing his arms clean off. Her scarred hands worked fast, her eyes narrowing with the kind of quiet fury that made me very glad we were on the same team.
I leaned on a crate, arms crossed, trying to look like I was in charge of this operation while mostly being in charge of keeping my legs from wobbling.
"Careful with him," I muttered, though my tone was more for show than conviction. "If you tie him too tight, he might not be able to wriggle free later and haunt us like a vengeful poltergeist."
Freya didn’t even glance at me. "If he wakes, I’ll break his jaw."
I considered that, then nodded. "Fair. Make it symmetrical though. It’s important to keep a sense of artistry in these things."
She didn’t laugh. She never laughed. At best, I got a twitch of her lip, which I decided was her personal form of comedy.
Meanwhile, Brutus and Atticus had already started their favorite shared hobby: rummaging through other people’s hard-earned belongings like overgrown raccoons with no sense of property law.
Brutus cracked open crates with his bare hands, splintering wood like it was soggy bread, while Atticus hovered behind him with the kind of feverish interest I’d only ever seen in priests describing miracles or drunks describing the invention of beer.
"Oh," Atticus breathed, crouching low to run his fingers through a pile of dried herbs, his cracked glasses catching the lantern-light like twin crescents of fire. "Oh, oh—by the gods, this is... this is extraordinary. Do you see this? Valerian root. Stjarni moss. Dried frost-thistle from the north—this alone could fetch hundreds on the open market. And—oh, sweet heavens—they’ve powdered phoenix ash. Powdered. Do you have any idea what that means?!"
I raised a hand. "That Malrick had better connections than us, better taste in groceries, and possibly better hair products?"
Atticus shot me a glare, but it lacked venom.
His hands were trembling as he dug deeper into the crate, pulling up vials, powders, and neatly bound bundles of rare goods. "This—this is beyond fortune. Enough to found an apothecary chain, or fund an alchemical war effort. Gods, even one of these crates alone could’ve set us up for years. But this—" His voice cracked as he swept a hand toward the towering stacks of supply crates, dozens upon dozens, looming like silent, splintered treasure chests. "This is madness. This is the kind of hoard nobles murder each other over. With this... with this, the entire prison could tilt in our favor."
I blinked, then offered a thin smile. "So... good news then?"
Before he could reply, a groan from the floor interrupted us. I glanced over my shoulder and found Malrick’s men—the ones still alive, though admittedly they looked more like half-cooked stew left too long in the sun—scattered across the floorboards.
Some writhed, clutching broken limbs. Others moaned dramatically, which I strongly suspected was less agony and more performance.
A few had the brilliant idea to play dead, stiff and silent, which would’ve been far more convincing if one of them hadn’t sneezed.
"Charming," I said, pushing off the crate and striding toward them with as much authority as a man in a ripped skirt and dried bloodstains could muster.
My boots thudded against the stone, each step a deliberate sound. I let my eyes sweep over them, slow and sharp, letting the silence stretch until I could practically hear their heartbeats tripping over themselves.
One of them, a lanky fellow with a nose bent at least twice by fists, tried to avert his gaze.
His mistake. I pounced.
"You," I said, crouching down and jabbing a finger into his chest. He flinched like I’d stabbed him with a spear instead, which was flattering, honestly. "What’s your name, friend?"
He stammered. "S-Silen."
I tilted my head, feigning curiosity. "Silen. Lovely. Rolls right off the tongue. Now, tell me, Silen—do you enjoy playing dead?"
His eyes bulged. "N-no, sir."
"Sir," I repeated, savoring it. "Oh, that’s delicious. I’ve never been called sir by someone bleeding from both ears. Do it again."
"Sir?" he squeaked.
I grinned. "Perfect. Now, Silen, I need you to deliver a message to your lovely comrades here. You all work for me now. Not Malrick—me. And before you ask, yes, I pay better, because I pay in not breaking your other limbs. Tempting, isn’t it?"
They exchanged glances. A few nodded frantically. One groaned "yes" like he was confessing sin at the temple. Even the sneezer tried to look enthusiastic, though his face was mostly a mess of blood and regret.
"Excellent," I said, straightening with a flourish and dusting off my skirt. "Congratulations, gentlemen. You’ve just been promoted from disposable thugs to disposable thugs with a future. Work hard, obey, and you might even get dental."
I was about to launch into another brilliantly improvised monologue when something behind me stirred. Not the groaning kind of stirring, but the slow, deliberate movement of someone waking from a long and painful sleep. My head whipped around, heart skipping.
"Dregan?"
Sure enough, the big, sorry, little bastard was pushing himself up from the floor, blinking blearily through a mask of blood and bruises. His beard was crusted red, his nose looked like it had been flattened by an anvil, and yet somehow, impossibly, he smiled.
"By the gods," he croaked, voice rough as gravel. "Did we win? Or am I in hell, surrounded by your face for eternity?"
Relief surged through me, so sharp it nearly knocked me back down. I rushed to him, kneeling at his side, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "Oh, thank the gods. You’re alive. Don’t scare me like that. I was just about to start auditioning new drinking partners, and trust me, the competition is slim."
He chuckled weakly, then winced. "Still breathing, lad. Still ugly too. Guess that’s proof enough."
I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, I settled for squeezing his shoulder and muttering, "Don’t you dare die before me. I’ve invested too much sarcasm in you."
Before he could reply, Brutus’s booming voice shattered the moment. "Loona! Over here!"
We both turned, and I half-carried, half-dragged Dregan across the warehouse toward the corner where Brutus and Atticus crouched around yet another crate. The lantern light flickered across their faces, Brutus’s massive bulk blocking half the glow while Atticus’s cracked glasses reflected the other half like twin moons.
Brutus reached into the crate, hands vanishing into what looked like an innocent pile of grain. My brows rose. "Really? You’re excited about wheat? Unless that’s a new euphemism, I’m failing to see the drama here."
Brutus said nothing. He just dug deeper, grunting, before pulling something long and metallic from beneath the grain. It slid free with a hiss of shifting kernels, gleaming faintly in the lantern glow.
I froze.
It wasn’t a sword. Wasn’t a spear. Wasn’t even a crossbow.
It was a gun.
A double-barreled shotgun, heavy and polished, its twin barrels staring out at us like the eyes of some mechanical god of thunder.
For a long, stupid moment, my brain refused to process it. Then it did, and I nearly choked on my own tongue.
Atticus leapt back as though the weapon had sprouted fangs, his hands trembling, his voice a tangled mess of stammers.
"You’ve got to be shitting me. I—it—impossible—this is—no, this shouldn’t—gods, no one has seen—" He broke off, running both hands through his silver hair like a scholar who’d just discovered the scriptures were written in fart jokes. "This is impossible."
I tilted my head at him, who began pacing in a tight little circle, muttering like a priest caught in a whorehouse. I squinted at him, tapping my chin, before finally blurting: "Why do you look like someone just pissed in your porridge? It’s just a gun."
The words slipped out too casually, and for a moment everyone in the room froze. Brutus blinked. Freya paused mid-knot, her rope tight around Malrick’s wrists. Even Dregan, still leaning half-dead against the crate, lifted his head like I’d just confessed to sleeping with his sister.
Then it hit me.
Oh. Right. Contraband. Outlawed. Forbidden toys of an ancient age. Of course they’d all stare at me like I’d just called it "a shiny broom with a trigger." I scratched the back of my neck and gave a sheepish grin, the kind that said: yes, I’m stupid, but I’m also pretty, so maybe forgive me.
Atticus, meanwhile, was still spiraling, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Just a gun? Just—a gun?! You imbecile, do you not understand? Firearms were purged from Norwin decades ago! Destroyed, forbidden, eradicated! The penalties for possession are execution—instant execution. Even the faintest rumor of one in circulation is enough to summon inquisitors from across the continent. And you—you’re standing there with your painted lips and devil-may-care smile calling it just a gun!"
I shrugged. "Well, yeah. Where I came from, they were everywhere. Little ones, big ones, shiny ones. Some people had whole collections. Honestly, I’m more shocked you’re shocked."
That earned me a full-body shudder from Atticus. "Ah, that’s right, you must have been reincarnated. How curious though. You remember you’re past life?"
"Uh... yeah? I mean, what did you think I was doing when I started calling Brutus a linebacker? Or when I said Freya looked like she could star in a shampoo commercial? You think those are local phrases? No, darling, that’s imported content. Premium. Straight from another world."
He pressed his fingers into his temples like he could rub the memory of my words out of existence. "This... this is madness," he whispered.
Dregan’s face, on the other hand, lit up like a boy seeing fireworks for the first time. His wide eyes shimmered with awe, his cracked lips parting in wonder. "A gun," he breathed, the syllables reverent. "By the gods... so this is what they looked like."
Of course, to him and the others, it was a legend made flesh. But to me? Just another dusty piece of history.
What did surprise me however, wasn’t the sight of it but rather its implication. If Malrick had one tucked away like a dirty secret beneath sacks of grain, then he wasn’t just dabbling in forbidden trade—he was swimming in it. Which, honestly, only made me more smug about us beating his skinny, teleporting ass.
Brutus, ever the practical one, hefted the weapon in his thick hands. The thing looked almost delicate against his bulk. He turned, extending it toward me with the kind of solemnity you’d expect if he were handing over a crown.
"It’s yours, Loona," he said simply.
I blinked. Then blinked again. My mouth opened and closed, a fish out of water.
"Mine?!" I squeaked. My voice hit an octave so high I swear only dogs could’ve heard it. "No, no, absolutely not. Do you know what happens when you give me something like that? I shoot my own foot off. Or worse—I shoot your foot off, and you’d never forgive me. I can’t even be trusted with forks, Brutus. Forks. You want me to hold this?!"
Brutus frowned, clearly confused by my refusal. "You sure?"
"Positive," I said quickly, patting him on the shoulder like a benevolent saint refusing temptation. "All yours, big guy. You and this shotgun deserve each other. May you have a long, passionate relationship filled with violence and emotional stability."
He nodded, satisfied, and slung the weapon across his back as though it belonged there all along. I sighed in relief, because frankly, I’d rather flirt with Malrick’s dagger than try to handle a double-barrel death stick.
Behind us, Freya gave Malrick’s final rope a vicious tug, cinching it so tight his unconscious body twitched. She stood, hoisting his limp form onto her shoulder as though he weighed no more than a sack of flour. The sight of her carrying him—our grand prize, our trophy—was a thing of beauty.
Fierce, terrifying beauty.
And just like that, it was time to move.
We began gathering the supplies, stuffing sacks with herbs, powders, and rare contraband, our laughter bouncing off the warehouse walls.
Brutus and Atticus whispered over ingredients like scholars at a feast. Dregan limped beside me, still bruised but refusing to slow down. Freya stalked at the front, Malrick still draped over her shoulder like a gutted pig.
When we emerged into the courtyard, the air shifted. The other prisoners—merchants, thieves, killers, whores, and drunks—all froze at the sight. Their eyes bulged, jaws slack, as they took in the parade.
The silence cracked when someone snorted. Then another. Then a ripple of laughter broke free, spreading like fire across dry grass. Men and women bent double, cackling, pointing, jeering.
I grinned, reveling in it. "Oh, don’t mind us," I called out, strutting with a flourish, smacking Malrick’s ass as I passed. The meaty slap echoed through the courtyard, followed by a roar of laughter. "Just cleaning up the trash!"
Malrick, still unconscious, twitched in indignity. I smacked him again for good measure.
By the time we made it back to Brutus’s old storage room, the spectacle had carved itself into legend. Prisoners would talk about it for days, maybe weeks—Loona and his band parading the kingpin like a prize hog, laughter and mockery trailing them like a victory march.
Inside the room, the atmosphere shifted back to business. The cracked table groaned under the weight of our spoils, sacks of ingredients spilling across its surface, powders glittering in the dim light. Atticus leaned over it like a priest before an altar, hands trembling, eyes wide with reverence.
I leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, skirt swishing. "So... what now?"
Brutus dropped his massive hands onto the table with a thud that rattled every vial. His jaw was set, eyes gleaming with purpose.
"Now," he said, voice low and heavy, "we start mixing."
And just like that, the sacks of powder and herbs, the crates of grain, the gleaming forbidden steel Brutus held like a promise—they weren’t just supplies anymore.
They were bricks.
And with them, we weren’t just prisoners scavenging scraps in the dark. We were architects. Builders. Scheming bastards about to lay the foundation of something that would make this entire godforsaken prison choke on its own chains.
I pushed off the wall, my grin curling sharp and wicked. "Well then," I said, voice dripping with theatrical flair. "Let’s cook ourselves an empire."