It felt like a waking nightmare—one of those cruel dreams where every turn dragged him deeper into ruin. Why did it always fall on him? Years of sacrifice, blood spilled for every step, clawing through filth and danger… and now this.
The raid had come sudden, chaotic, and brutal. Smoke coiled through the streets like living serpents. Flames licked the edges of roofs, the air thick with choking, acrid smoke. Screams tore through the chaos, high and jagged, while the scent of burning flesh and spilled blood made his stomach twist. Out of thirty men, barely half remained. Loyalty was thin ice, ready to crack beneath the slightest weight.
And worst of all… Freya still lived. That girl, with her sweet ties to the boss, could turn the city against him with a single smile.
He had been so close to toppling the old bastard, tasting victory on the horizon. Now? Luck might be enough just to survive. The rules had changed. Take everything—or die trying.
"We head straight for the city," he said, voice low and hard. "The boss needs to hear what happened."
Inwardly, he whispered a promise wrapped in threat: Just wait, Marlo. Wait and see who's standing at the end of this.
---
"So, you remember that sly little dwarf? Durgan," Farren sneered, leaning back, the shadows of the alley cutting across his face. "Didn't hide, didn't sneak through shadows. No—he marched straight into the city, straight to old Marlo's place. Met the boss alone… and by the time he left, he carried Marlo's head like a trophy."
Charles arched an eyebrow. "And everyone just let him?"
"Not everyone," Farren said darkly. "Freya—left in the forest—made it back. She rallied the men, called them to arms. They lost, sure—but they made him pay."
Charles' smile was thin and bitter. "We should thank her properly… maybe plant a flower on her grave."
"She's not dead," Farren said with a low chuckle. "Durgan wouldn't waste her. She knows too much."
Gerart stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That's his undoing. If she knows that much, others can use her… including us."
---
They spent a week chasing whispers, following false leads, slipping coins into the right hands. Even then, certainty was a luxury—they might have been chasing a ghost.
Five hooded figures huddled in a shadowed alley. Damp stone walls pressed close, the smell of stale ale and rot heavy in the air. Only the faint drip of water and their low murmurs broke the silence.
"Are you sure it's that house?" one asked, voice tight, barely more than a breath.
"I can track anything—or anyone," Lira said sharply, eyes blazing. "So yes."
Charles noted the change. The timid girl he remembered was gone, replaced by someone sharp, precise, and unflinching. He admired her focus, even if he wouldn't admit it aloud.
"Alright," he muttered. "Quick… before Oswin decides to come looking for us."
---
The house was lightly guarded. Perfect. They moved like shadows, slipping along walls, ducking under windows, their feet making almost no sound against wet cobblestones. Every sense was alert—ears straining for footsteps, eyes scanning for movement, hands ready on weapons.
Inside, six men waited—or didn't. Three slumped, drunk or exhausted, snoring softly in the haze of alcohol. The others barely had time to react before daggers flashed and silent bolts flew. Bodies fell, a metallic clang or muffled grunt punctuating the instant strikes.
Charles kicked open a door, heart hammering. There she was: Freya, bruised and cut, lashes marking her skin like cruel tattoos. Dark rivulets of blood ran down her arms and face. She didn't stir.
"Freya!" Lira hissed, shaking her lightly.
Charles checked her pulse—weak, but alive. Relief struck him like a cold wave. "She's alive," he muttered.
The remaining guards lunged. Charles swung, Farren elbowed a man backward into a table that tipped and clattered. A chair splintered, shards scattering across the floor. Seconds later, the room was silent, the fight over.
Charles draped his coat over Freya's shoulders. "She's beaten… cut, lashed nearly to death," he murmured. "But alive. That's what matters."
Lira brushed blood from her own face. "Barely. But alive is enough. Let's move before anyone else shows up."
---
Before they could leave, a familiar voice rang out from the inn's direction.
"Wait! Don't leave without me!" Oswin came sprinting, chest heaving, eyes wide and desperate.
Charles crossed his arms, scowling. "What do you want, Oswin? You've already caused enough trouble."
"I'm coming with you next time! I can help! I'll stay out of trouble!"
Charles ground his teeth. "Stay out of trouble? You can't stay in one place for five minutes!"
Gerart stepped forward calmly. "Charles, ease up. The kid wants to learn. Let's not scare him off."
Charles shot him a glare, muttering, "Lucky we aren't leaving him behind like a sack of coins." He turned back to Oswin. "Promise me you won't shadow us, and I'll see you next mission."
Oswin's face lit up, eyes sparkling. "I promise! I'll be ready!"
Gerart gave a small nod. "Good. Now let's move before anyone notices what we've done."
---
Durgan sprawled on his bed, chest rising in heavy, satisfied breaths. The aftermath of celebration lingered—wine, candle smoke, and the scent of his favorite mistress. Hair spilled across his chest, fingers twining through the strands as his mind raced over power, freedom, and the city now under his control.
Then came a knock—sharp, deliberate, urgent.
Pulse spiking, hand tightening in her hair, he swung his legs off the bed and strode to the door. "I hope it's important," he muttered.
The second knock was harder. A messenger shoved a scroll under the door. Durgan snatched it, ripped it open—and his face twisted in fury.
"Impossible!" he roared, hurling the parchment aside. Chairs skidded, candles flared. His fists clenched, nails biting into palms.
Blood pounded in his ears. "They dare—dare defy me?!"
A twisted grin split his lips. "They'll pay. Every last one. Pain, fire, death… all of it. I'll make them wish they'd never drawn breath under my sky."
His mistress gasped, but he barely noticed. Rage and power fused into a promise: vengeance was coming—and it would be absolute.