The Welcome Party

The promise of safety was a tangible force, pulling her forward on trembling legs. The last half-day's walk was a blur of pain and desperate hope. Every step was a negotiation with her own body, a promise of rest just a little further. Her mind raced with a thousand scenarios.

How would they react? Would they see a person in need or a filthy beggar stumbling out of the cursed woods? Should she give her full name, Kaliyah Solomon? It sounded so foreign, so alien. Maybe just Kali. Less weird. And the people… please, just let them be people. Not monsters with ember eyes or shifting shadows. Just… people.

As the palisade wall grew from a line to a towering structure of sharpened logs, her heart soared. She could see individual thatched roofs now, hear the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, smell smoke and baking bread. A tear, clean against the grime on her cheek, traced a path downward. She’d made it. She had actually survived.

A farmer in a field near the road straightened up, wiping his brow. He saw her. His eyes widened. Kaliyah forced a weak, hopeful smile, raising a hand in what she hoped was a universal gesture of peaceful greeting.

The man’s face didn’t soften with curiosity or pity. It contorted in pure alarm. He dropped his hoe, turned, and sprinted for the village gate, shouting something she couldn’t understand.

Her smile faltered. The cheerful glee on her famished face shattered.

A voice, sharp and commanding, rang out from the gate’s watchtower. A single word that cut through the air like a knife.

“Stad!”

It meant nothing to her. The sound was harsh, guttural, completely alien. But its meaning was crystal clear. Stop.

The reality of her situation hit her with the force of a physical blow. This wasn’t a cutesy anime. This was a civilization with its own language, its own customs, its own fears. Her rehearsed speech was useless. Her name was meaningless. She was a stranger, and from the looks of it, an unwelcome one.

More shouts echoed. Farmers abandoned their fields, fleeing inside the walls. The heavy wooden gate groaned open just wide enough to allow a squad of six armed men to pour out. They wore boiled leather and chainmail, their faces set in grim masks of duty and fear. They leveled their spears at her, shouting commands in that same, incomprehensible tongue. A seventh guard turned and ran frantically back through the gate.

“Definitely for more back-up,” she thought, her mind strangely calm despite the terror freezing her veins.

The guards moved to surround her, but cautiously, in pairs, leaving her a clear path back to the forest. The message was undeniable: Go back. You are not welcome here.

A cold resolve washed over her. “I can’t go back there,” she whispered. “I need food, water, rest. I’m not going back.”

Slowly, carefully, she knelt on the packed earth of the road. She placed her hands on her thighs, palms down. “Where did I see this? Was it to show dogs you’re not a threat? Damn it, I’ll take anything.”

She began to mutter, her voice a broken, desperate rasp. “Please, don’t hurt me! Please, help me. I’m not a threat. Please.” She knew they couldn’t understand the words, but maybe they’d understand the tone.

She let herself sink lower, until she was prone on the ground, turning her head to the side to look at the nearest guards. And she saw it. The same look she’d seen in the eyes of the adventurers. The same look she’d once seen in a cornered alley cat before it lashed out. It wasn’t just caution. It was raw, undiluted terror. They were afraid of her. But they were more terrified of letting her pass.

“I get it,” she thought, a strange empathy blooming amidst her fear. “You’re facing your fear to protect the ones you love.” Then a colder thought followed. “What if they think I’m a witch? Cursing them in a foreign tongue. Shit. I hate language barriers.”

She forced herself to stop speaking. She plastered a weak, hopefully non-threatening smile on her face and tried to make her body go limp, a picture of submission. I will comply. Just don’t kill me.

The seventh guard returned, followed by five figures obscured by heavy, dark cloaks. They moved with an authority that made the soldiers straighten up. More shouting, different tones. One of the cloaked figures hung back, and a low, rhythmic muttering began. It wasn't the same chant that had brought her here, but it had the same ancient, oily feel, scraping against the edges of her perception. Magic.

A man with a sword and another—a huge, burly man wearing only leather breeches and intricate metal gauntlets—approached. The burly one carried a heavy coil of rope. They weren't gentle. They tied her hands behind her back, then her ankles, leaving just enough slack between them to shuffle. Finally, a loop was placed around her neck, not tight enough to choke, but a stark reminder of control. The man with the gauntlets gave the rope a tug, and she stumbled forward, obediently following them through the village gate.

Kaliyah was scared out of her wits. Humans, she knew, could be far worse than any wild creature. But exhaustion had hollowed her out. There was no fight left. She had reached her goal. It was a prison, but it was a prison with walls, and that was more than the forest had offered.

She was pulled through the village. Faces peered from windows and doorways, eyes wide with fear and curiosity. She was a spectacle. A monster dragged in on a leash.

"Oh look, Kali," she mockingly said to herself, her voice a dry croak. "That's the town hall. They'll give me the village key and I'll live happily ever after."

The joke was a mistake. The burly man with the gauntlets—Iron-hands, she named him in her mind—glanced back, his eyes hard. Without breaking stride, he drove a gauntleted fist into her stomach.

The air exploded from her lungs. Agony lanced through her core. She crumpled to the dirt, vomiting up the scant remains of the raw fish-thing, heaving until there was nothing left but bile. Shouting erupted above her. She looked up through tears of pain to see Iron-hands being glared down by one of the cloaked figures. A brief argument, then strong hands—metal-covered hands—hauled her roughly back to her feet.

"Oh, so that's what it feels like to be a damsel in distress," she wheezed internally. "Note to self: keep mouth shut to keep insides in."

They reached a sturdy, two-story building and entered. It was spacious inside, with a large hearth cold and empty. A tavern, maybe, but no patrons, no food. They guided her further back, to a heavy door, and down a narrow flight of stone steps. The air grew cold and damp.

"Oh, so giddy. Jail time." The humor was a thin shield against despair.

She was shoved into a cell. The door, a grid of solid iron bars, clanged shut with a finality that echoed in her soul. Iron-hands stepped close to the bars. He said something, his voice a low rumble. Behind him, another guard nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring and aiming it directly at her head through the bars.

She didn't flinch. She didn't breathe. She just waited. This was the test. After a long, tense moment, Iron-hands grunted and the archer lowered his bow. The man turned to leave.

As he reached the door, some insane, desperate impulse took hold of Kaliyah. She needed to communicate. Something, anything. She clutched the damp, tattered edges of her stolen robe. As Iron-hands glanced back one final time, she gave a slight, terribly awkward bow, imitating something she’d seen in a historical drama.

"Thank you," she said softly.

The man stopped. His expression was unreadable, a mix of deep curiosity and hardened wariness. He stared at the strange, smiling, bowing creature in the cell for a long moment, then turned and left, locking the heavy door behind him.

Alone, the act fell away. Kaliyah stumbled to the prison cot—a wooden plank piled with musty straw—and collapsed. The world didn't go black; it just finally, mercifully, stopped.