The gates of Mosswood creaked wide under the weight of the night. Charles led the way, lean and grim, guiding seven horses laden with the weakest of the rescued and whatever scraps they had managed to carry. Behind him, twenty men, women, and children trudged, dust and blood clinging to their clothes and skin, the visible marks of Syndicate cruelty.
Elder Mosswood stood at the gate, oak staff planted firmly on the ground, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. "So many," he muttered, scanning the ragged group. "And all of you?"
Charles's voice was steady. "Every one. I cut them free. I brought them here. They'll live—and they'll fight if they must."
The rescued stirred uneasily, whispering thanks or clutching one another. Mosswood's jaw tightened. "You've brought danger to my village, Mansour. But you've also saved it. Tonight, we care for your people. Feed them, tend their wounds, give them shelter. The rest… will wait until morning."
Charles's eyes narrowed. "Morning? By then the Syndicate will regroup, reinforce their farms and caravans. We'll lose the advantage."
"The farmers cannot ride at night," Mosswood said firmly. "Messengers will go at first light to call allied villages—Hawthorne, Eldridge, Briarwood. They'll prepare, and then we strike together. That is the prudent course."
Charles shook his head, stepping closer. Tension coiled in his voice. "Prudent? Waiting gives the Syndicate time to recover. We hit them now—village by village, strike where they're weakest, before they rally. Before they destroy what we just freed."
Gerart crossed his arms, uneasy. "The elder is right. If we rush, we risk isolation. We don't know how many soldiers remain hidden in the field."
Farren's hands tightened into fists. "We need allies at our back. This is too sudden."
Freya's eyes hardened. "No. I know them. I was inside. Their farms were scattered after their last defeat. Reinforcements haven't arrived. This is the moment to strike—supply lines, caravans, even villages they've 'bought.' We can bleed them dry before they realize what's happening."
Mosswood's eyes narrowed. "And you would gamble lives on the word of a former Syndicate member?"
"I'm not guessing," Freya said, calm but precise. "I know their systems. Their weaknesses. Their response times. If we wait, they rebuild and strengthen. We move now, we hit fast, and we can cripple them."
Charles's jaw tightened. "Every day we wait, they grow stronger. Every caravan moved, every farm rebuilt, advantage slips away. Strike first. Strike fast. And we can win."
A tense silence fell. Villagers leaned from the walls, the rescued huddled closer, all aware of the storm gathering.
Mosswood exhaled slowly, striking his staff against the ground. Thud. "Fine. You may move, but only with what you can manage. If you falter, I pull my village back, and the others will fall in line. Agreed?"
Charles inclined his head once. "Agreed. But we move fast. Before reinforcements arrive. Before this chance slips away."
Night around Mosswood's village was heavy and quiet, but electric. Messengers would ride at dawn, the rescued tended, horses readied, and villagers preparing for what might be the first of many strikes against the Syndicate. The line was drawn. The plan set. Beyond the horizon, the Hollow Coin Syndicate stirred, unaware that their opportunity to strike had already arrived.
---
Dawn broke over Mosswood in soft gold, dusting rooftops with light. Horses whinnied, saddles creaking as villagers hurriedly loaded supplies. The air smelled of woodsmoke and sweat. Charles stood with the seven leaders—Gerart, Lira, Syrien, Farren, Oswin, Freya, and himself. Around them, fifteen volunteers mounted nervously but determinedly.
"Remember," Charles said, voice low but firm, "we move fast, strike hard, and leave nothing the Syndicate can use. Horses, cattle, supplies… everything of value comes back here. And anyone who resists… is dealt with."
Freya's gaze swept the group. "No mercy for those who fight. But those who surrender, I'll make sure are treated properly. Three of them should know me." Her eyes lingered on the memory of the men.
The villagers shifted uneasily. Horses stamped, leather saddles creaking, and the seven leaders mounted first, followed by the volunteers. Charles led, map in hand, eyes scanning the rolling plains ahead. The target lay two days away: one of the first villages the Syndicate had bought underhandedly.
The ride was tense and silent. Dust rose in clouds behind hooves. By midday, the village came into view—small and walled with weak palisades. Smoke rose from chimneys, unaware that danger approached.
Charles signaled a halt. "Split into two groups. Gerart, Lira, and Syrien with me. Farren, Oswin, and Freya take the flank. Volunteers stay back, ready to secure the perimeter."
They approached on foot, weapons ready. Freya's eyes scanned the village. "Three," she whispered. "John, Pete, Leslie."
Three figures emerged from the gate, faces pale, eyes wide. Recognition dawned. "Freya?" John breathed, lowering his weapon. Pete and Leslie followed, surrendering instantly.
Freya's lips twitched. "Go inside. Leave your weapons. You're under my protection… for now."
The rest of the village was less compliant. Charles raised a hand. "Move!"
Chaos erupted. Spears and swords clashed. Screams cut through the air as the strike team moved like shadows. Gerart and Syrien disarmed and subdued, Lira guided the rescued and villagers to secure key points. Farren and Oswin forced Syndicate members into tight positions. Freya moved like a ghost, cutting off escape routes.
Within an hour, resistance crumbled. Those who refused to surrender were killed. Every corner was checked, every hiding place cleared. Horses, cattle, grain stores, and valuables were rounded up, prepared for transport to Mosswood.
Charles surveyed the aftermath, chest heaving. "Good. Quick, clean, no mistakes."
Freya walked past him, eyes lingering on the captured items. "This is just the start. They'll know someone is hunting them now. The others will be alert, but they won't expect the next strike so soon."
The three childhood friends of Freya stood aside, a mix of fear, relief, and awe on their faces. "I… never thought I'd see you again," John muttered.
Freya's lips twitched, soft but unreadable. "I told you… I don't forgive betrayal lightly. But I remember who you were."
As the sun rose higher, the seven and their fifteen volunteers began moving people, animals, and goods back toward Mosswood. The plains stretched wide and quiet behind them. Charles knew this was only the first blow. The Syndicate's shadow was still long, and the war to bleed them dry had only just begun.