The fire burned for hours, painting the night sky with a hellish glow. Sparks drifted up like lost souls, fading into the darkness. Even after the last tent collapsed into glowing embers, the stench lingered—burnt hide, scorched flesh, charred wood. It clung to skin and hair, heavy as guilt, and no one moved without feeling its weight.
Villagers crept into the ruins. Their hands shook as they searched. Some scavenged weapons and armor from charred corpses, dragging shields that were little more than blackened splinters. Others scavenged for food, clothing, or anything that had survived the fire. A woman uncovered a scorched toy and collapsed, clutching it to her chest, her sobs cutting through the smoky silence. A man dragged his friend's body to a shallow grave, staring at it as if hoping to find life where there was none. Charles walked past them, feeling the ghost of every loss pressing against him.
A boy approached, clutching a bundle of bloodstained arrows. Charles' thigh throbbed with every step, but his voice stayed steady.
"Keep them. Clean the shafts. Fix the feathers if you can. We'll need every one before this is over."
The boy nodded but didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he stared at the horizon, aware of the truth that everyone tried to avoid: the thirty who had fled weren't gone. They would return, and they would bring reinforcements.
Farren stomped into view, soot streaked across his face, grinning wide. In one hand he carried a grisly trophy—the severed head of the skinny orc who had bragged before the fight.
"At least this loudmouth won't lead anyone against us again," he boomed.
Some villagers cheered. Others turned away, gagging or staring at the ground. Charles' frown was cold.
"He was nothing but a braggart. Not the real leader. That one's still breathing. And after tonight…" His words hung in the smoke. "Maybe fear will find him before we do."
No one spoke. No one could.
They didn't linger. Graves were dug, prayers whispered, bodies laid into the earth. The villagers moved silently, weighed down by ash, smoke, and blood. Bandit corpses lay where they fell. There would be time for them later.
---
The road back to the Free City wound through small, cautious villages. At each stop, they shared captured weapons and warnings about the Hollow Coin. Many villagers were grateful, but some looked at them as if they were ghosts returned from the fire. The children watched wide-eyed, the parents whispered warnings, and Charles noticed that fear had begun to linger even in those safe places.
It was at one such village that a boy approached. Broad-shouldered for his age—fifteen, maybe sixteen—but soft-faced, with restless, curious eyes, he introduced himself as Oswin.
"I want to come," he said. "I want to fight. Learn. Help."
His parents argued, pleaded, tried to drag him back. Oswin refused to leave.
Farren welcomed him immediately, clapping him on the back, spinning tales of the battle as if Oswin were already a veteran. The boy's eyes shone, drinking in every word. Charles watched silently.
He saw Oswin's potential—and his recklessness. He saw a mirror of himself as a child, desperate and raw. Leaving the boy behind would be easier than taking him along. But easier didn't mean right. Compared to the teacher who had taken him in when he was broken and unwanted, Oswin was nothing.
So he stayed.
---
On the last night before the city, they camped under a cold, star-pierced sky. The fire burned low, sending shadows dancing across tired faces. Conversation was sparse until Syrrien finally broke it.
"This is madness," he said flatly. "Too dangerous. One day someone will find our corpses in an alley."
Farren smirked. "And you think the Hollow Coin will just let us walk? We've butchered too many of their men for that."
Charles lay back on his bedroll, arms crossed. "I'm not walking away. Best pay I've ever seen. Better coin than glory—and I've no taste for a grave."
Gerart remained silent for a moment, Lira at his side. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of experience, the kind of calm that made others listen.
"If we want to keep this up, we'll have to deal with the Hollow Coin. Not just their men—the ones pulling the strings."
"That won't be easy," Farren muttered. "They have more men than they can feed, and more gold than they can spend."
Gerart's gaze hardened. "Then we hurt them where it counts. Drain their gold. Starve their bellies. Make them bleed like everyone else."
The fire snapped, sending sparks into the night, carrying unspoken threats with them.
---
The Free City greeted them with chaos. Hawkers shouted over one another, beggars clawed at coins, guild banners flapped from every balcony. Eyes followed them. Not all were friendly.
Their first stop was the guild, where they sold the beasts they had captured. The payout was heavy; the clerk hesitated, reluctant to release so much silver. Gerart walked away looking like a man already halfway drunk.
Charles was saddled with Oswin. If anyone was going to keep the boy alive, it was him. He dragged him to the Wandering Heart Inn. Matilda was startled but pleased to see another paying guest. Oswin lingered awkwardly at the threshold until he spotted Miranda.
The boy froze, staring as if he had stumbled on treasure. Charles jabbed him with an elbow.
"Careful. Her father's dangerous. Mean bastard, too."
Oswin flushed, mumbling apologies even as his gaze kept returning. Charles smirked. Better the boy learned from experience than from Clovis' wrath.
"Come on," he said. "I'll show you somewhere… interesting."
---
Over the next three days, Oswin clung to Charles like a shadow. He never stopped talking—questions, jokes, theories, endless chatter. Charles tried to shake him off, showing him the city, teaching him bits of survival, but the boy only grew more attached. Like a stray dog, he had found a master.
By the third afternoon, Charles was worn thin. He marched Oswin toward the guild, ready to hand him over to Farren.
They arrived to Farren's booming laughter.
"Boys, you won't believe this," Farren grinned. "The Hollow Coin's tearing itself apart. Remember that sly dwarf we crossed? He just slit Boss Marlo's throat and is taking over everything."
The words hit like sparks on dry tinder. Charles laughed shortly, eyes narrowing. "Easier? Maybe. Or maybe a cornered rat fights harder than we think. Either way, we'll be ready."