Gerart never imagined that the bagger-looking, beaten boy he'd once used for quick cash would turn his life upside down.
At first, it had been simple—the crops deal. Smooth, easy money. No danger. Then came the pest hunts attacking the farms. Again, no problem; he was a hunter, after all.
But after that… everything went to hell. Fighting a syndicate. Battle after battle. In just a few weeks, Gerart had seen more death and destruction than he had in decades. And now a mage had appeared. They would all have been dead if the thugs had been even slightly smarter. A proper guard around Baltazar would have made their strike impossible—without dying themselves first.
After a battle that would leave him shivering for a lifetime, they were planning to strike the same syndicate scum inside the city—their own territory.
Gerart had never been born for battles and bloodshed. His father, a famed artisan, cared little for wealth. Hunting had been a diversion. Hunting people? That was different.
If he survived the next few days, he swore he would not leave the pleasure district for months. Wine, food, indulgence—he had earned it.
He studied his hands, calloused and bruised from the last fight. Even now, the memory of the mage's fire and Baltazar's sudden death tightened his chest. Sleep had been impossible, replaced by the endless replay of screams, steel, and blood.
---
They had made every preparation they could. Now it was time to move.
Their cover was simple: a farmer's caravan. Everything they had raided would pass as ordinary goods, while they slipped past the city gates to strike the Hollow Coin.
The plan hinged on Freya. From thirty captured syndicate members, she had chosen ten she deemed trustworthy. Her four companions from the first farm raid were among them. Their mission: infiltrate the syndicate's main base, strike from within, and open the gates for the main assault.
Charles surveyed the ten turncloaks. Fear kept them loyal—that, and the knowledge that failure would mean death. He could read the subtle tremor in their hands, the flicker of hesitation in their eyes. They were skilled enough, but fear could make even the best falter.
"Are you sure they won't rat us out?" he asked, voice low and sharp.
"Yah," came the reply. "They want the syndicate gone. They can't return without being branded traitors. Not to mention, we won't release them for free."
Charles let the words settle. Fear was a tool. But discipline? Discipline was the edge that would carve victory.
---
The "trading" caravan would move first: twenty wagons, thirty guards. Sell the loot, maintain the illusion.
The ten turncloaks would follow on foot, a day behind. Pretend to be survivors of the raided farms, hide until the streets were safe, then strike from within.
If luck—or skill—favored them, Durgan would die, and the Hollow Coin would crumble.
Charles studied the ten again. One slip, one betrayal, and the city itself would become a battlefield. Precision, timing, nerves of steel—that was all that stood between success and annihilation.
He ran through the plan in his mind again, step by step: the side entrances, the timing of the fires, the placement of his own crew. Every alleyway, every guard shift, every potential mistake. His heart thudded with anticipation, but he remained calm. The calm before a storm was dangerous, but it was a storm he intended to control.
---
Durgan sat slumped at his table. His head pounded. Wine burned like ash, scorched his throat.
There should have been news from his men. With Baltazar and the fighters, it should have been easy. Yet days passed without a whisper.
A sharp knock cut the silence. One of his men stepped inside.
"There's news, boss. Ten men returned… obliterated."
Durgan pushed himself up, knees weak. "Show me."
But before they could move, the sounds of combat rolled over the walls—steel clashing, shouts, chaos. Durgan's knees buckled.
The man returned, pale as chalk. "Boss… they're here. The returned… they attacked from inside. They let the rest in."
Durgan's eyes widened. Hollow Coin's invincibility was an illusion. The manageable fight had become a nightmare.
He tried to summon guards, but the panic had already taken hold. Commands echoed into empty hallways; his men were scattered or falling. Sweat stung his eyes, heart hammering. For the first time, Durgan felt the true weight of fear.
---
Charles crouched on a rooftop, eyes fixed on the gates below. The city hummed around him, oblivious. Ten turncloaks slipped through alleys, past guards, shadows in motion.
Every second counted. Every glance, every step, timed. This was no raid—it was precision.
Through a slit in the battlement, he saw disruption ripple through the base. A scream. A clash. A guard dropped without warning. Charles's pulse quickened, but his face stayed calm. Focus absolute.
The turncloaks moved like whispers of death. Behind them, Freya commanded, steady and unshakable. Charles signaled the main group. From the shadows, they advanced. Gates erupted in chaos, fire blazing in the storage hall. Smoke carried panic through the compound. Soldiers scrambled, shouting orders they could not obey.
And then he saw him—Durgan, architect of so much suffering. Guards fell around him. Turncloaks moved like phantoms. Charles's hand went to his blade. Retribution was close.
Every second counted. Every misstep could cost lives. But the plan unfolded exactly as he had envisioned. Tonight, the Hollow Coin would bleed. And Durgan would pay.
---
City streets trembled with shouts and clatter. Smoke streaked the night sky orange and black. Charles scanned alleys. His crew moved like shadows.
Lira, the rabbitkin, darted forward first. Small, nimble, ears twitching. Syrien followed, bow drawn, silent grace. Farren and Gerart carried the bulk of firepower, measured, coiled, deadly.
The farmers—once terrified, now hardened—moved like ghosts, weapons ready. Fear lingered, but loyalty and survival instincts outweighed it. The ten turncloaks were the backbone of the operation.
"Spread out," Charles hissed. "Freya, take point. Everyone else, follow the plan. No mistakes."
The turncloaks split, securing side entrances, neutralizing guards. Charles signaled the crew to fan out.
Lira slipped into a narrow alley, striking guards with dagger and elbow—silent, precise. Syrien's arrows whispered death. Farren smashed gates, sending enemies sprawling. Gerart disarmed foes quietly but effectively.
Charles led the farmers, coordinating movements, setting traps, creating chaos. Every move synchronized. Panic ruled Durgan's forces.
A scream echoed from the courtyard. The plan held. Every turncloak, crew member, and farmer had a role. Every strike timed.
Charles glanced at his team—Lira low, alert; Syrien's bow deadly; Farren and Gerart unyielding. The farmers, once simple villagers, now fought with grim resolve.
Above it all, Freya orchestrated the chaos. The Hollow Coin's fortress was no longer safe. Every movement brought them closer to Durgan, closer to the heart of the syndicate.
Charles allowed himself a single thought amid the controlled chaos: they had turned fear into a weapon. And tonight, that weapon would strike true.