It was the surge in adrenaline that sparked Praxis into action. Within a matter of seconds, he’d jumped out of the wagon and unsheathed his sword, running to the front of the caravan where the brigands had surrounded the leading group.

The scene there was one of absolute chaos. No one had been paying proper attention to the terrain, and these heavily-wooded areas were ideal hiding places for those with nefarious intentions.

As he neared the front, Praxis saw that the odds weren’t on his side. There were between twenty and thirty brigands altogether, surrounding the caravan that was full of fat merchants and their families. The few fighting men that were in the caravan had sprung into action but several of them had already fallen, being dispatched quickly by the vengeful raiders.

And yet, these were the kinds of moments that Praxis lived for. It was a chance to prove himself one more time.

He launched into an attack on the closest brigand—a ragged man that was holding a sword too big for his body. The size of the blade delayed his response and prevented him from striking before it was too late. Praxis dug the tip of his sword into the man’s belly, tearing all the way across until his entrails were falling out the front.

This brigand was going to be the first but certainly not the last.

The next two men were fat and suffered from the same issue of slowness. Praxis darted between them, letting his blade do all the work as he made quick swishes of his wrist, taking them both down.

By that time, he’d attracted plenty of attention. A small gang of brigands approached him, wanting to deal with him quickly before he had the chance to strike again. They surrounded him and closed the net, keeping their blades in front of their bodies.

It was the scream from the rear of the caravan that caught his attention. Praxis could only spare a split-second’s glance behind him to see more brigands were now surrounding the part of the caravan where he’d been, and that was when he began to panic.

Astara.

He had to get to her before something happened.

Finding some innate strength, Praxis targeted the shortest and weakest man in the circle around him and made an all-out dash toward him. Instead of relying on the safety of the defensive circle, the brigand panicked and stepped back, breaking the lock on him. The same brigand screamed when Praxis’ blade penetrated his throat next, causing a geyser of blood to erupt from the wound.

Now that he’d escaped, it was time to get to the rear. Praxis ran at full speed to Astara’s caravan, not stopping until he reached them.

He found a sight that chilled his blood. Three of the brigands had grabbed her and were now dragging Astara back to the forest, with only the gods knowing their true intentions.

All the while, Astara screamed for help.

Moving with a speed that surprised even him, Praxis was on the three men faster than lightning. The trick was how to free Astara without hurting her. Unfortunately, taking the legs out of the rear man caused them all to nearly drop her, but once she was on the ground, Praxis was able to dispatch the second man in a hurry.

It was the third man that proved to be the most trouble. He moved quickly and had good fighting instincts.

“Go find your own whore,” he growled at Praxis. “This one belongs to me!”

“Not a chance,” muttered Praxis, lunging for a high thrust. The brigand deflected it and attacked back, forcing Praxis to cede ground.

The man fought well but Praxis found out that he definitely favored his right side, keeping it protected more than anything else. It was revealed why when he lunged for attack, as there was some wound in his left leg that kept him from having total mobility.

It was this knowledge that Praxis used against him, unleashing a devastating series of attacks against his left side, culminating in a hacking thrust that severed his leg just below the knee.

The brigand screamed as he fell to the ground, clutching his wounded knee. Ordinarily, Praxis would let nature take its course but it was something about his intentions with Astara that spurred his next course.

He took his sword and jammed it into the brigand’s stomach, twisting the blade once it was inside.

The brigand died almost instantaneously.

Wiping his blade clean on the grass, Praxis returned to find Astara huddled behind a nearby tree, clutching one of the blades of the dead brigands.

“Are you okay?” he asked her. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, but to which question, he did not know.

“Come on, let’s get you back to your family.”

She let herself be led by him, but by the time they reached the main caravan again, the situation had changed.

Most of the brigands had melted away, and those that remained were being mopped up. A new arrival at the scene had sent several of his guards to track down any of the men without the good sense to flee.

And it quickly became apparent just who the newcomer was.

“Astara! Astara!” he yelled, seeing her emerge from the forest alongside Praxis.

“Father!”

She ran quickly into his arms, hugging him tightly as he looked at Praxis, no doubt trying to decide if he was friend or foe.

Luckily, Astara’s mother called out to him to rejoin their group, making the necessary introductions to her father and her older brother, who had caught up at just the right time.

“You’re the stepson of King Damian then?” asked Astara’s father. “Perhaps you might want to tell him about this fight today. Brigands used to never venture this close to the road in this part of Argolis. Not until your father took over and removed the men who used to guard the road. It’s his fault that this even happened today.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” replied Praxis. “My stepfather has made many decisions that I don’t agree with, this being one of them. Yet, he is not inclined to listen to me. He always thinks he knows what’s best for his family and for Argos.”

Astara’s father grunted. “Pride and arrogance are often a man’s downfall. I hope the same cannot be said for your father.”

He had a point, one that Praxis wasn’t about to argue. Though he looked at Praxis warily, he still allowed Praxis to continue on with their caravan, especially since it was his actions that saved Astara.

Not long after the fight, the group settled down for the night, picking a flat clearing that offered plenty of security for the caravan. Many of the men were set up on watch that night, but the overwhelming opinion was that the brigands wouldn’t dare attack again.

Not after they’d lost so many men attacking the first time in ideal conditions.

That evening, Praxis sat around the fire with Astara and her family. More specifically, he sat with Astara and Nico, her youngest brother, who was in awe at watching Praxis fight that afternoon.

“Will you teach me how to fight like you someday?” asked Nico, brandishing a small sword that his father had given him. “Those brigands didn’t stand a chance today, not with how quickly you moved. How do you move so fast?”

“I don’t know,” replied Praxis, smiling at Astara in the process. “I was just born this way. I’ve always been fast.”

Nico made an imaginary lunge. “Well, hopefully you can teach me how to be fast too. Then I can be the best warrior in Argos someday as well. Maybe tough enough to fight some Spartans!”

“All right, Nico, that’s enough,” said Astara as she gestured to the wagon. “Go get some sleep. It’s late.”

Nico went reluctantly (only after making Praxis promise to teach him some moves), leaving Astara alone with Praxis for the moment.

“I’m sorry about my brother,” she said, turning her attention to him. “He’s young and he means well but he can be a little annoying at times.”

Praxis chuckled. “I think that’s the nature of siblings unfortunately. They always seem to know how to get under your skin.”

“You have younger siblings as well?”

“Not from my mother, but I have a younger stepbrother, Ariston. He can be a handful. Let’s just say that I like him much better than my other stepbrother, Xanthos.”

Astara stiffened at the mention of Xanthos’ name. She looked toward the wagon, checking on her father’s whereabouts before she replied.

“I don’t like that man,” she whispered, looking at the fire. “I don’t like him one bit.”

“So obviously you’ve met him, I take it?” joked Praxis.

Astara didn’t laugh. “Oh, I’ve met him all right. And I pray to Hera that I never have to associate with him again. The problem with that is my father.”

Again, Astara looked at the wagon to make sure what she was saying was kept private.

“My father thinks about the family before everything else. He thinks that a betrothal to your family, in the form of Xanthos, will enhance our reputation. I’m told that King Damian and your stepbrother are in agreement to that, which makes my situation even worse.”

Astara started to rub her shoulders with her own hands. “I don’t like the way that he looks at me. He doesn’t look at me like a man would look at a potential wife. He leers at me, like he wants to parade me around the city so that everyone knows what he has.”

“You probably get that attention a lot,” said Praxis, forcing Astara to give him an alarmed look. “I only meant that you’re very attractive, Astara. I’m sure most of the men in Argos look at you because they can’t help themselves.”

“That’s very kind of you to say that,” she said, a hint of a smile on her lips. “But it’s been very obvious to me that I’ll never be allowed to marry a man that I want. I’m just another pawn to my father, as are my siblings. Any man that I’m given to will only strengthen our family, nothing more. It’s not the best way to live life.”

“I agree with you,” replied Praxis. “Nobody wants to believe they’re not in charge of picking their own fate. Especially someone like you.”

“What do you mean someone like me?”

“I just meant someone so beautiful like you,” said Praxis, finding his inner strength to utter the words. “You could have any man that you like. It’s a shame that you won’t get a choice in the matter.”

A range of emotions appeared on Astara’s face at that moment. The first one that he saw was secret satisfaction—an appreciation for the compliment and for him for giving it. The second emotion was fear as she looked back at the wagon. Finally, Praxis saw surrender in her eyes, as if she’d accepted she had no say in her fate.

Astara sighed loudly and looked into the fire. After a minute of silence, she looked over at Praxis. “I bet you can say the same thing too.”

“What’s that?”

She smiled at him—a beautiful sight that nearly stopped his heart. “About having any woman you want. I’ve heard the stories about you in battle. I’m sure you have no shortage of women willing to occupy your bed.”

For some reason, Praxis’ thoughts turned to Lysandra at that statement, mostly because she was the last woman that he’d had. It was a funny thing to admit to himself that he liked both Lysandra and Astara, even though the women were vastly different. Lysandra was more passionate. She felt her emotions and let them guide her on whatever path they set out for her. She was also bolder, and Praxis suspected that Lysandra would never let anyone tell her who she could and couldn’t see.

It wasn’t a slight against Astara. She seemed more on the thinking side when it came to personalities, not that it was a bad thing. There was a softness about her that Praxis found comforting but even still, he saw the stirrings of rebellion against her father for the life that she wanted to live.

Praxis was still analyzing both women when he realized that he never answered her question.

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that,” he said finally.

She gave him a small smile. “Why is that?”

“Astara!”

She nearly jumped when her name was called. Across the way, her father had emerged from the other side of the wagon and was now waving her in his direction.

“It’s probably time for me to sleep,” she said, nodding in his direction. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” replied Praxis. “Looking forward to it.”

She gave him another small smile, one that he found he never wanted to look away from again. Astara made her way to the wagon, leaving him alone at the fire briefly.

He wasn’t alone for long. Her father made his way toward him, sitting down next to him and warming his hands by the flame. Astara’s father was a stern-looking man. He had just a few too many extra pounds around the midsection, evidence of his wealth, but there was something peculiar about him that Praxis couldn’t quite figure out.

“I thank you for saving my daughter today,” said the father, his voice gruff and to the point. “If you weren’t there, she might have been taken by the brigands.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” replied Praxis. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

Astara’s father gave him a long, searching look. It was a look that made Praxis uncomfortable, only because he thought he was being secretly scrutinized.

“My daughter has a future already,” he said, squinting his eyes at him. “I thank you for rescuing her today but don’t get any ideas about where that might go. She’s promised to another.”

His words were sharp and they didn’t sit well with Praxis.

“Don’t you think she has the right to say who she marries?” he asked. “From the little that I’ve talked with her, Astara sounds like a capable and intelligent girl.”

Her father glared back at him. And his next words left no doubt of his fury.

“Stay away from my daughter, foreigner. By tomorrow morning, I want you away from my family. Do not make me ask you this twice.”

With those final words, her father sat up from the fire and moved closer to the rest of his family near the wagon, leaving Praxis thoroughly confused.

Any chance with Astara was almost certainly over.