When Ser Ward finally rallied his men, Matthew and his group were already sprinting north, leaving the burning village behind.
Only when the last roofs disappeared behind the hill did Matthew stop to look back.
The night sky churned with firelight; the roar of chaos rolled like waves across the fields—villagers screaming, soldiers shouting, animals crying in fright.
He frowned, spat dust from his mouth, and muttered, "They're so damn noisy."
Behind him, several mercenaries broke into shaky laughter.
Matthew turned, scanning their faces. "How many didn't make it out?"
They glanced at one another, none willing to answer. Finally, all eyes turned to Euron.
The assassin only shrugged. "No idea."
Matthew sighed through his nose, too tired to press the matter. "Then forget it. We move north—rendezvous with the others."
With that, he started downhill, his pace brisk and unhurried, as if the mob of armed men behind them were an evening breeze instead of a threat.
The rest hesitated, casting uneasy glances back toward the flames, but followed.
After several hundred meters, dark figures emerged out of the tall grass—the scattered remnants of his earlier group.
Bors ran up first, grinning with all his teeth and throwing his massive arms around Matthew.
Matthew thumped his back a few times until the man released him, still panting.
"Lord, what now?" Bors asked. "How do we find Sir Haven?"
Matthew pointed toward the darkness ahead. "Keep north. If we see anyone before dawn, it'll be them."
It was a vague answer, deliberately so.
Someone braver—or perhaps just dumber—spoke up. "We're going empty‑handed then? No loot, nothing?"
That was, after all, the only reason most of them had fought so fiercely in the first place. They'd thought there'd be plunder in the Ward brothers' lands.
Now there had been fighting, losses, and smoke—but no spoils.
Euron snorted softly, his grin carrying contempt.
Pathetic, he thought. Save their skins, and they still whimper for coin.
Matthew turned toward the complainer. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Hound," he said evenly, "I know what you're thinking. I don't need your reminder. Just keep walking."
The name fit—the man's long, narrow face really did resemble a hound's muzzle.
The mercenary rubbed his nose awkwardly. "Right… right, my lord. Just asking."
He smacked himself lightly twice in the cheek, pretending regret. "Fool's mouth, that's all."
Matthew ignored him. The others didn't.
Laughter and mockery rippled down the line. "Good one, Dogface!" someone called. "Still yapping after nearly dying?"
The Hound's jaw tightened; he cursed back under his breath.
Euron drifted up beside him, voice smooth as silk.
"They're right, you know. You've got courage. Tremendous courage."
The Hound glanced sideways, suspicious.
Euron's eyes glinted in the dark. "You're not afraid the lord might test that courage? Maybe with a crossbow bolt. Or a knife—nice and quiet, when no one's looking?"
The man froze mid‑step. The darkness around him suddenly felt thicker, heavier.
Euron walked on a few paces, then called back casually, "Keep up."
Alone, the Hound stared into the night—then hurried after the group. The wind on his back suddenly felt like breath.
They marched north, cresting another low slope. The hill was shallow, the path soft and uneven, flanked on both sides by patches of tall grass and scattered brambles—plenty of room to hide in.
Matthew crouched at the base of the slope, brushed his palm over some bent grass stalks, and called quietly, "Anyone here?"
A faint rustle answered.
Then, from the right side, a voice boomed softly, "Lord! Here! He's here!"
Haven's head popped out from among the weeds, grinning.
The bushes came alive as the rest of his men rose, one by one, like phantoms emerging from the dark.
Matthew climbed quickly toward them, smiling as he reached the ridge.
"Nice hiding spot," he said, patting Haven on the shoulder.
The knight chuckled. "Wasn't much choice, my lord. This was the only place deep enough to stay unseen."
Matthew nodded in approval and immediately got to business. "Where's Miro?"
A shout answered from the shadows: "Here, my lord!"
Matthew gestured for Bors. "Take the wagons. Roll them around the hill again, leave new tracks."
Bors obeyed without question, Miro leading him to the concealed carts. Together, they maneuvered them up and down the slope, the wheels carving fresh marks in the soil.
It looked sloppy, intentional—tracks leading nowhere and everywhere. Perfect bait.
When they finished, Matthew beckoned Miro closer. He smiled faintly, but his voice was steel. "You guard the wagons. I want the treasure in them under trusted eyes."
No room for misunderstanding.
Bors nodded, repositioning the carts near the crest.
Then Matthew sat down in the dirt among his commanders, calm and unhurried.
"The Wards will come for us," he said. "We'll be ready. Keep low. Bows ready. And if you've no bows—use stones."
That earned a dry laugh from Haven. "Already ahead of you, my lord," he said, grinning proudly. "Cut some saplings and made javelins. They'll do just fine."
Matthew raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. The long grass he'd seen earlier—those weren't weeds at all. They were spear shafts jammed into the ground, disguised.
He chuckled softly. "Good work."
Then the waiting began.
The night thickened. Clouds slid across the moon. Darkness shifted between ink and silver.
Men crouched beneath the grass, breath slow, bodies still. The earth smelled of sweat, wet bark, and blood long dried.
Hours blurred—until a sound pricked his ears.
Footsteps. Many of them. Quick, uneven.
He touched Haven's shoulder. "They're here. Wake everyone."
The knight slapped his own cheek, then scuttled off, whispering hoarse orders down the line.
Matthew turned to Miro, signaling him closer.
"Your target is Ser Wely Ward," Matthew said softly. "If you get the chance… make sure he doesn't walk away tonight."
Miro's eyes sharpened. He nodded once. "I understand."
Matthew squeezed his shoulder in approval, smiling as though conferring favor.
Miro forced a smile back and melted into the shadows.
Moments later, Haven reappeared, gasping. "Ready, my lord. Every man in place."
Matthew crouched lower, watching the slope below. Blackness—then motion.
Footsteps. Breathing. The clink of half‑armored men moving fast.
Their torches were long extinguished; only the moon touched steel edges as they crept upward.
He held his breath.
The sounds came closer, closer, until figures appeared—a column of nearly a hundred, led by Ser Wely himself.
"Hold," Matthew whispered.
Below, Wely raised a hand, signaling his men to stop.
He scanned the rise ahead. Couldn't see much—but the terrain looked harmless enough, grass and low hummocks. Nothing threatening.
He crouched to examine the dirt.
Wagon ruts, crisscrossing wildly. Back and forth. Perfect signs of retreat.
They were wounded, he thought. Dragging their dead.
That thought made his jaw set tighter, fury stoking strength.
"They won't get far," he growled.
He signaled again, and nearly a hundred men began to climb.
Ten steps. Twenty.
Too late.
A shrill whistle split the air—then chaos descended.
From both flanks, javelins and arrows rained down in black silhouettes that swallowed the moonlight.
A single wave of death.
Those too slow to raise shields crumpled in seconds; others screamed, pinned where they stood.
The air filled with cries and the sickening thud of flesh.
Ser Wely dove aside, rolling as a spear buried itself inches from his chest. Pain lanced through his arm—an arrow had found him there, cutting deep. His sword slipped from his grasp.
"Retreat! Pull back!" he shouted, choking on dust.
But Matthew's men were already moving.
The mercenaries, giddy with adrenaline and desperate for glory, broke from the line before Matthew could stop them.
They surged downhill, roaring, blades raised.
"Wait—hold!" Haven shouted—but it was too late.
Matthew's expression hardened, face dark as the night itself.
Fine then. Let them learn.
He didn't join—he simply watched as the first ranks crashed together below, steel on steel, screams snapping like cords in the dark.
And in that seething chaos, both sides began to realize how quickly a victory could turn into slaughter.
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