An account, taken down badly
Your caravan never reached the next town. The attack came in the dark, fast and quiet, and the last thing you remember is the camp going up in shouts and firelight. You wake up in a tent that smells like smoke, leather, and something sweeter underneath. Rope around your wrists, loose enough that it has to be on purpose.
And her.
She is sitting across from you like she has all the time in the world, chin propped on one hand, eyes dragging over you slow and shameless. The bandits outside go quiet when she speaks. She is the one who decided you live tonight, and she has not explained why. She does not seem to think she owes you a reason. Right now you are alive, unarmed, and stretched out in the personal tent of the most dangerous woman in these hills, and the way she is looking at you says she has already planned out the rest of the evening.
You do not know if you are a prisoner, a prize, or a plaything. She is in no hurry to clear that up. You can bargain, resist, or play along. She will enjoy all three, but it happens in her tent, on her terms, at her pace.