She watched them from the trees.
A group of men traveled along the forest road in lavish, gold-trimmed carriages weighed down with jewels and treasures. Their convoy was heavily guarded—forty men dressed in black-and-gold uniforms, caps perched on their heads, weapons at the ready. They laughed, talked, and cheered, but beneath the surface, their tension was palpable.
They weren't just waiting for something.
They were waiting for someone.
An enchantress?
A spirit?
A ghost?
A witch?
No.
The Huntress.
The Huntress.
A living myth whispered across kingdoms. The elusive mystery that haunted the dark forest. A beauty said to light up the shadows—and vanish into them just as quickly.
Stories claimed that those who saw her face either died… or swore an oath of silence that lasted until their final breath. To the poor, she was an angel—an avenger, a giver. To the rich, she was a demon sent to strip them of their gold and pride. Countless guards and search parties had been dispatched to capture her. Some returned wounded. Others came back in coffins. Many never returned at all.
The survivors said the same thing:
They never saw her face.
Only her arrows.
Red.
Yellow.
Green.
Each color carried a message.
Green: Pass in peace.
Yellow: Turn back. This is your warning.
Red: Death with no mercy.
Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, a yellow arrow zipped through the trees and struck the ground just inches in front of the lead carriage.
The procession pressed forward anyway.
That's when the red arrows came.
They rained from the canopy above, swift and brutal. The guards scattered. Screams filled the air. Men fell. Chaos reigned. But the true fear began when her guns rang out.
Shots cracked through the forest like thunder. Some fell dead. Others fled, lucky to escape with their lives.
Then she emerged.
Evangeline Belle Angélique descended silently from the trees, landing with feline grace. She moved to the wreckage, eyes scanning, confirming the carriage was clear. Then, with a subtle gesture, she signaled the others.
The Huntress wasn't alone.
At her signal, five women and a teenage girl emerged from the shadows to join her—Vivian, Lilian, Amaya, Gracie, Teresa, and Beatrice.
Vivian and Lilian were Mexicans, both rescued from a brutal conflict in a hacienda. Amaya, an Indian girl, had escaped from slavery, running from a master who treated her worse than an animal. Gracie was Roman, a survivor of a deadly shipwreck where few lived to tell the tale. Teresa was British—sharp, quiet, and calculating. Beatrice, Italian, had an infectious spirit and a rare gift for joy, the kind of light that could pierce through the darkest night.
Evangeline had found each of them during the worst chapters of their lives. She hadn't just saved them—she had given them a purpose. A sisterhood.
Unlike the others, Evangeline's past was more tangled. She was Seminole—half Indian, half Mexican. Her grandfather had been a proud Indian warrior who married her Mexican grandmother, and from that union came the bloodline she carried.
But Evangeline had barely known her parents. They were good people—peaceful and kind—but goodness had never been enough in a world like theirs. She was stolen from them at the age of five, sold into slavery before she even learned to read. The slave house where she was held eventually burned to the ground, but she found no freedom in the flames.
She was taken again—this time by a vicious order of warrior women known as the Amazons.
And there, Evangeline met hell.
She had been whipped while hanging upside down—eight times, maybe more—punished for speaking, for resisting, for simply existing. Each scar told a story she never voiced aloud.
But she had survived. And now she hunted.
She started hunting for meat at the age of seven.
By the time she was twelve, she could kill a bear with nothing but a dagger. She was the strongest girl in the Amazon camp—young, fierce, and feared. But even strength has its breaking point.
It came the day they killed the only person she had ever cared about. Then they brought in more girls—young, scared, innocent. And Evangeline couldn't watch them suffer the way she had.
So she did what had to be done.
She burned the camp to the ground.
She saved as many of the girls as she could. Surviving afterward had been nearly impossible, but luck—or perhaps fate—led them to an orphanage.
Not long after, she was adopted by a wealthy Parisian couple—Richard and Jacqueline Chasseur Angélique. They adored her, spoiled her, and raised her as their own. She gained a little brother, Antonio, and a sister, Charlotte.
For the first time in her life, she knew warmth. Love. Safety.
Life became a blessing. A paradise.
But peace? That never came.
The ghosts of her past still clawed at her soul. She knew she couldn't truly rest until she returned to her homeland—to the shadows where it all began. She had to face what had been done to her. And she had to help the poor, the broken, the voiceless.
She didn't steal for herself.
Not a single coin.
Every jewel, every gold bar, every silver chest—she took it all from the rich and corrupt, and returned it to the people it had been stolen from. She was their vengeance. Their fury. Their justice.
To hurt those who hurt them.
"Gather the bodies," she ordered coldly, her voice like ice.
"The Baron got away," someone said behind her.
She paused. Her jaw clenched.
And then… she heard it.
Their bitter cries.
The cries of the dead.