They call me a phantom, a ghost that haunts the thoroughfares and byways. A man with no name, born of shadows and bred in the cold embrace of survival. Pistols hang low on my hips, their weight as familiar as the sound of wolves howling in the wilderness—wolves that once were my only kin. For years I’ve made my way through life by taking what others would not freely give. The sting of hunger, the chill of night, and the growl of predators shaped me into something… efficient.
Until that fateful night.
The moon hung high, silver and sharp, slicing through a canopy of black. I had watched the coach for hours, its gilded edges and polished lamps glinting in the faint light. This was no ordinary carriage. A merchant? A noble? Whoever rode within, they carried wealth beyond reckoning, enough to fill my purse for months, maybe years.
I struck swiftly, as I always did. My horse’s hooves thundered against the dirt road, my pistols drawn before the driver could even utter a cry. The reins snapped taut in his hands, but his face betrayed no surprise—a detail I missed in my haste. The coach slowed, rocking gently to a halt, and I swung down, boots crunching against gravel as I approached the door.
When I flung it open, the world narrowed to the barrel of a rifle pointed squarely between my eyes. Behind it, she sat, calm as a statue, her auburn hair catching the moonlight like fire. Her eyes, cold and calculating, locked with mine. I had the sensation of falling, though my feet stayed rooted to the ground.
"Evening," she said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "You’ve made a mistake."
My mouth went dry. I prided myself on being the best, the quickest draw, the sharpest wit. Yet here I was, staring down death in the form of a woman whose very presence seemed to drain the air from my lungs. For the first time in years, I felt... mortal.
Weeks passed, but her image never left my mind. I learned to hate the way her voice echoed in my thoughts, the way her steely blue eyes haunted my dreams. I heard whispers in taverns and inns, tales of a highwaywoman who struck with the precision of a predator and vanished without a trace. They spoke of her beauty, her cunning, and the way she left her victims alive but utterly humiliated.
I told myself it didn’t matter. I was still the best. She had simply caught me off guard. Yet the encounter gnawed at my pride, a wound that festered with every passing day.
A year later, I found myself trailing a carpetbagger heading south. Easy prey, I thought, as I approached him on the road. He was so engrossed in counting his coins that he never noticed me until my pistol was pressed against his temple.
"Hand it over," I growled. He stammered, hands trembling as he reached for his purse.
And then I heard it: the voice. Her voice. A whisper against my ear, so close it sent a shiver down my spine.
"Lay them down," she said.
I froze. The carpetbagger bolted, but I didn’t care. Slowly, I turned to find her standing there, her own pistol drawn, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She hadn’t aged a day, her auburn hair as vibrant as I remembered, her eyes just as piercing.
"You again," I said, though the words felt hollow.
"Did you miss me?" she asked, tilting her head. The mockery in her tone stung more than I cared to admit.
It became a game, though not one I could win. Every time I planned a job, she was there, as if she could read my mind. At first, I thought it was coincidence. Then I considered betrayal—someone must have been feeding her information. But the truth was far more unsettling: she was simply better than me.
The final encounter came on a lonely stretch of road, far from any town or village. I had taken to traveling by night, hoping to avoid her watchful gaze, but she found me all the same. I saw her coming this time, her silhouette framed by the rising sun. For a moment, I considered running. But pride held me fast.
We faced each other like duelists, the air between us charged with unspoken words. I reached for my pistols, determined to end this once and for all. She moved faster.
A flash of steel caught my eye, and pain erupted across my neck. My hand flew to the wound, warm blood seeping between my fingers. The cut was shallow, but the message was clear. She could have killed me. She chose not to.
I dropped to my knees, the weight of my failure pressing down like a millstone. She knelt beside me, her face inches from mine.
"You’re good," she said softly. "But not good enough."
I wanted to ask her why she spared me, why she didn’t finish what she had started. But the words caught in my throat. Perhaps she saw the question in my eyes, for she smiled faintly and stood, holstering her knife.
"Until we meet again," she said, mounting her horse and disappearing into the dawn.
Years have passed, but I still think of her. The mysterious highwaywoman with auburn hair and eyes like winter frost. She’s become a legend, a ghost story whispered by travelers and tavern-goers. Some say she’s a demon, others an angel sent to punish the wicked. I’ve heard it all, but I know the truth.
She’s flesh and blood. She’s skill and grace. And she’s better than me.
I often ask myself why she let me live that day, why she didn’t end it when she had the chance. Perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps it was pity. Or perhaps she wanted me to learn a lesson, one that has taken me years to understand.
The road is long, and the game is never truly won. But every time I hear the wind rustle through the trees, I half expect to see her there, watching, waiting. A reminder that no matter how good you think you are, there’s always someone better.
