Early the next morning, Patch started his trip back to Dawnstead. The road was familiar now, and he walked it with a lot more confidence than the first time. He didn't flinch at the sound of birds or shift his eyes at every gust of wind. Just a steady stride.
It would've taken thirty minutes on foot, but luck—or something close to it—came trotting up behind him.
"Patch!" someone called out.
He turned to see a buggy approaching, creaking along the road. At the reins was none other than Joran Status, riding his usual workhorse and giving Patch a tired but amused look.
"Didn't expect to see you again so soon," Joran said, pulling the reins to slow the horse. "Heading to Dawnstead?"
Patch nodded. "Yeah. Bounty work."
"Well, hop on then. Might as well save you the steps."
Patch climbed aboard, settling into the creaky bench beside the old farmer. The horse started moving again with a gentle nudge.
"So," Joran said after a moment, "what bounty drags you back this way?"
"Cara the Fang. You know her?"
Joran's expression darkened immediately. "Mean devil, that one. Comes around once a month, picks a different farm every time, demands 'protection money.' If you don't pay up, she comes back with backup. Nasty kind."
"Why doesn't anyone fight back?" Patch asked.
"Because anyone who did ain't standing anymore," Joran grunted. "We tried. About a dozen of us. Got halfway to her hideout before the traps started. Lost good men just getting near it."
Patch was quiet for a while.
"Where is she staying now?"
"There's an old barn, just outside town. Used to be a trapper's place, back before my time. Now she camps there with a couple of thugs. You'll know it when you see it—roof's half gone and the damn thing creaks if you breathe too hard near it."
Patch narrowed his eyes. "And the Marines?"
Joran spat to the side of the road. "Marines don't care. Not about folks like us. Unless someone puts a noble's name on the bounty, they don't lift a damn finger."
The rest of the ride was quiet. As they reached town, Joran slowed the horse to a stop.
"You be careful," he said. "She's fast, and she likes making people bleed slow."
Patch nodded. "Thanks for the ride."
"Don't die," Joran added with a dry chuckle.
---
Before he left town to find Cara's hideout, Patch made one stop.
He didn't plan on running in blind again—not after Remo. This time, he needed supplies.
He walked into a small general store tucked between a stable and a tailor's shop. A bell chimed as he entered.
The interior was cramped but orderly—shelves lined with dry goods, rope, lanterns, flints, old tools, and cheap weapon oil. The shopkeeper was a wiry man with thick glasses and a nervous energy that filled the room.
Patch grabbed what he needed without saying a word. A basic trail ration pack—dried meat, some kind of pressed fruit bar, and a flat canteen. He added a flint and steel to his pile, then a spool of string and a stub of charcoal.
The shopkeeper finally broke the silence.
"Heading out of town?"
Patch didn't look up. "Something like that."
"Be careful. Bandits are getting bolder lately. That Cara woman's part of the reason. People say she's cursed."
"Is that right?" Patch said, setting down exact change on the counter.
The man shrugged. "I just sell beans, friend. I don't ask questions."
Patch nodded once and left.
Outside, he took a moment to check his gear. The gauntlets were secured tight under his sleeves. The holster with his pistol was in place, though he hoped he wouldn't need it. His jacket had an inside pocket he could tuck the string and charcoal into—easy access.
He slipped the rations into his bag and started walking again.
The weight on his shoulders wasn't heavy—not physically. But the tension built with each step toward the treeline.
I can't take her head-on. Not without knowing what she's capable of.
This wasn't just another job anymore. He had an advantage now—knowledge. Strategy. Patience. Braga had drilled that into him.
He was going to watch. Learn. Wait for the moment.
Then strike.
Patch stepped off the road and into the woods, the noise of town fading behind him.
The trees closed in. The forest thickened.
And somewhere ahead, his next fight was waiting.
---
The barn wasn't hard to find.
It was a sad, crumbling thing half-swallowed by weeds. Holes in the roof, planks sagging, and the faint scent of smoke from an old fire pit. But the most telling sign was how Cara left it.
Patch spotted her exiting through a side entrance, stepping in a zigzag motion—carefully weaving around what had to be traps. Pressure plates? Tripwires? She was avoiding something, and Patch committed her exact path to memory.
From the shadows of the trees, he followed her. Always at a distance, always quiet. For the next two days, Patch became a ghost.
He watched her shake down farmers—taking coin, food, sometimes tools. He watched her beat a man who hesitated. Fast fists. Always leading with the right.
Back at her hideout, she lounged with two thugs. One tall and wiry, the other squat and thick. Both carried rusted swords that looked more like decoration than danger. Lazy. Sloppy. She barked orders, they grumbled and half-listened.
He noted patterns.
Cara liked to talk during fights. Always running her mouth. She got cockier when someone flinched. She ended fights with flair—spinning strikes, leaping blows. She craved control. She demanded an audience.
She's fast, Patch thought, but she's loud. Predictable. Leads with her right. Always performs when she thinks no one can touch her.
By the end of the second day, Patch was ready.
---
When Cara finished her next shakedown and started heading back to the barn, Patch stepped out from the trees and blocked her path.
She froze, brow furrowed. Then she laughed.
"Aw, come on. Look at you. What, did your daddy send you to get his coin back?"
Patch didn't move. Just stared.
"You're lucky I'm in a good mood today, kid," she went on. "Turn around, and I won't bury you."
Patch tilted his head. "Cara the Fang. You sure do talk a lot."
The amusement drained from her face.
Her tone changed. "Watch your mouth when you speak to your betters."
Patch said nothing. His silence pulled at her nerves. She sneered and jerked her chin toward her men.
"Teach him a lesson."
The tall one stepped forward.
He got two.
A left hook to the jaw and a hammering uppercut to the gut. Patch's gauntlets made sure the man didn't get up again.
Cara's smirk returned. But it was sharper now.
"Fine," she said. "You want my attention? You've got it."
She lunged.
Patch was already moving. Right hook—parried. Counterpunch—missed by inches.
She was quick. Lighter on her feet than her size suggested. But he'd seen her fight. Watched her dozens of times. She always opened the same way.
They danced in and out of striking distance. Fists flew. Forearms clashed. For the first few exchanges, neither landed anything clean.
Then—her foot hit a rock.
She stumbled.
Patch capitalized instantly, throwing a tight right hook. It connected flush with her mouth. Blood sprayed.
She staggered, stunned—then grinned through it.
Before Patch could press, the short thug—silent till now—rushed forward, swinging his blade in wide, desperate arcs.
Patch ducked the first. Dodged the second. But it was enough of a distraction for Cara to slip back in, her left hook catching him across the jaw.
His head snapped sideways, and he stumbled back, blood starting to drip from his nose.
No time to breathe.
She was on him again. Sharp jabs, tight kicks. The henchman flailed beside her, his swings growing sloppier by the second.
Patch blocked low. Swung his elbow into the lackey's side—once, twice—then drove a fist into his liver.
The man dropped like a sack of grain.
Now it was just them.
They both took a moment—breathing heavy, blood on their skin. The air between them pulsed with tension.
Cara licked the blood from her lip and let out a low chuckle.
"Not bad," she said. "Haven't had a fight this good since I landed on this dirt pile."
She reached into her jacket.
Patch shifted his stance, ready.
Out came a pair of spiked brass knuckles, gleaming dully in the fading light. She slipped them onto her fingers, flexed her hands, and smiled like a shark.
So that's where the nickname comes from, Patch thought grimly. Not just the attitude.
"Let's see how pretty that face of yours looks when I peel it off," she said.
And then she charged.