Nora crouched in the dim corner beside Matilda and Maggie, her breath shallow and her heart hammering. The three women sat close together on the floor—captives, under the watchful eyes of the bandits who had claimed the house. Around them, the remains of someone's once-happy home lay in shambles: overturned furniture, broken picture frames, a child's doll missing one eye.

  "Let's just keep our heads down and pray they don't decide we're next," Nora whispered through clenched teeth, casting a wary glance at the nearest bandit across the room.

  Matilda didn't reply. She stared at a crack in the floor, lips pressed tight. Maggie, on the other hand, shifted beside Nora, eyeing the window warily. Dust motes floated in the fading evening light, casting long shadows across the room.

  "They're a strange bunch," muttered one of the bandits, his voice dripping with suspicion. "Too young to be merchants. Too many weapons strapped to ‘em for dirt-bred farmers... and there's a girl with ‘em."

  A snort echoed. "Yeah, real looker too," said another. "Got that sharp, smart kind of pretty. Dangerous if you ask me."

  An ugly chuckle rose in response, quickly joined by another. Their laughter, though faint, crawled under Nora's skin like ice water.

  Maggie tensed, visibly swallowing a retort. Matilda stared blankly toward the back door, a muscle twitching in her cheek.

  Nora bit her inner lip, then shifted slightly on her knees, trying to get a clearer view through the cracks in the boarded window—no sneaking, just quiet desperation to know what was coming.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Maggie hissed, grabbing Nora's shoulder with iron fingers. "You trying to get one of them to notice you?"

  "I just need to see," Nora insisted in a hushed tone. She glanced toward the bandits and gave a small calming motion with her fingers. "Relax. I'm not about to make a scene."

  One of the men across the room gave them a sharp look, and for a heartbeat, all three women froze.

  "Pipe down over there," he muttered, voice low but edged. "Boss hears too much yapping, he might get ideas."

  They stayed still.

  Carefully, Nora leaned just enough to peer through a crack in the wooden slats of the window. Beyond the sagging fence and patchy yard, Six figures stood around the village well. Five men—young, two barely older than children—and a girl. She stood just slightly apart, gaze low, arms crossed tightly.

  "That can't be right…" Nora breathed, barely audible. "They must still be in their teens." One of the young men, hands trembling, leaned heavily against the well stones, rubbing his temples like he was trying to ward off a headache.

  "They don't have a clue what's waiting for them," she whispered. "Those poor people…"

  Matilda looked up, her eyes hollow. "Then why are they here? No caravan, no mules, no gear? Just walking straight into the lion's den like they're on a field trip?"

  "I—I don't know," Nora said. "I wish I could warn them."

  "Don't be stupid," Maggie muttered. "You wouldn't make it two steps before one of those bastards nailed you. You shout, they cut you down."

  "And even if you did get a warning out," Matilda added grimly, "they've got my horses. No one's outrunning them on foot."

  Across the room, the bandits carried on, mostly ignoring the murmured voices behind them.

  "Honestly?" said one of the men. "All I see is a couple of daggers, maybe a crossbow. Nothing to write home about."

  "Yeah," another chimed in, sounding bolder now. "Looks like easy pickings to me. Little rich kids pretending to be warriors."

  "Not so fast," came a deeper voice—measured, slow, with a coiled edge like someone used to command. Ronovan, the leader.

  The air in the cabin thickened. All three women stiffened. Even Maggie's hands, though clenched around Nora's sleeve, stopped trembling.

  Ronovan stepped into view at the window, looming like a thundercloud in motion. His leather coat, cracked and dark-stained from years of travel and blood, shifted as he crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  "They shouldn't be trouble," he said, eyeing the group outside like a wolf scopes sheep. "But never—" he paused, emphasizing the word "—underestimate a man holding steel. Big or small. I've seen mice open bellies."

  One of the bandits gave a low grunt, uncertain whether Ronovan was cautioning them or mocking them.

  "But boss—" another cut in, "we can't just let ‘em drink and stroll off like they own the place. That's our well."

  Ronovan turned slightly, his voice colder now. "We don't bring the hornets unless we're ready for the hive. Rob too many travelers, and a king's patrol will be sniffing around here in no time. You want gold? Think long."

  The men shifted uncomfortably.

  "So what's the play, then?" the grumbler pressed, arms crossed like he was trying to hide his frustration.

  Ronovan gave a small, cruel smile and pointed at Ardon—the village headman, wrinkled, lean, suspiciously agreeable. "You. Go pretend to be friendly again. See if you can get a better idea of who they are this time. If they're worth anything, we take it. If not…" He waved a lazy hand toward the growing dusk. "We let ‘em disappear."

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  Ardon hesitated, then nodded quickly, hastily buttoning up his long vest and smoothing his unwashed hair. "Right. Yes, of course."

  He slipped out the front door, and silence settled again.

  Ronovan didn't break stride. "Get ready. Just in case it turns ugly. You and you—out back. Tell the others to be sharp. We don't underestimate anyone. Not anymore."

  The bandits started gathering weapons—half-polished blades, rust-pocked axes, cudgels long-since baptized in blood. A tense rhythm filled the house: the metallic shick of sharpening stones, the tug of leather straps, boots thudding on the floorboards.

  Ronovan, still watching through the window, scowled. "It's taking too long."

  He turned suddenly, pointing a finger like a knife at Maggie.

  "Your husband better not be playing dumb, or playing brave," he warned, his eyes burning with the promise of pain.

  Maggie didn't blink. Her chin trembled, but her voice came steady. "He wouldn't. Swear it."

  "Mm." A low noise of suspicion rumbled in his chest. "If he is, you'll both pay for it."

  He snapped his fingers and jerked his chin toward the door.

  "You two—check on our dear headman. Make sure he's not out there swapping recipes with strangers."

  The men moved—slow and deliberate—toward the front door, and for a moment, a gap opened near the window.

  Nora shifted, craning her neck just enough to peer through the slats, eyes narrowing.

  Outside, Ardon stood before the travelers, hands raised in greeting. He said something—Nora couldn't hear what—but then everything changed.

  One of the younger men stepped forward—quick, intense. He moved behind Ardon in a flash, yanked him back, and pressed a blade to his throat.

  Nora inhaled sharply and ducked away from the window.

  "What in God's name—" Maggie whispered, eyes wide.

  "They've taken him—Ardon," Nora said, her voice low and tight. "The boy's got a knife to his neck."

  "What? Why? Are they robbing him?" Matilda looked stunned.

  "I don't know," Nora whispered. Her brain lurched into overdrive: Were the travelers bandits too? Vigilantes? Desperate? Could this chaos… be a way out? Her heart twisted at the thought. It felt wrong—to hope someone died so she could flee—but hope dug in anyway.

  From the other side of the room, a shout rang out.

  "Oi!" one of the bandits yelled, having caught the same scene. "He's got a blade on the headman! You see that?!"

  Another voice broke in. "What the hell's his game?"

  Ronovan reacted instantly. "Alright, lads! Looks like someone wants to dance."

  He drew his sword in one swift motion, the steel catching fire in the last light of day.

  "Move! Let's see what these younglings are really made of!"

  The bandits surged toward the door with a roar of boots and scraped iron, Ronovan already halfway through the threshold, his silhouette a storm on the wind.

  Inside, the women pressed back into the dim corner, barely daring to breathe.

  Viktor squinted as he counted the emerging figures. Thirteen. Thirteen armed men, most clad in stained leather and mismatched gear, several still strapping on gauntlets or tightening belts. A few carried their weapons slung lazily, but others looked keyed-up, spoiling for a reason to use them.

  At the forefront strode a large man with a heavy frame and a self-satisfied gait. His swagger pronounced, his voice even more so.

  “Well, well,” sneered Ronavan, his tone thick with sarcasm. “What’s all this then? You lot pulling a blade on our dear headman? That’s no way to treat your hosts, now is it?”

  Jax spat into the dirt and folded his arms. “Hospitality?” he asked dryly. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

  “That's our well yer leechin' from,” a younger man among Ronavan’s crew barked, puffed up like a rooster. His voice cracked mid-sentence.

  Ronavan pivoted so fast it was almost comical. He shot the speaker a look sharp enough to flay, and the younger man’s bravado withered instantly under the pressure. He stepped back, spine like water, muttering something about "just sayin'."

  “The runt's got a point,” Ronavan continued smoothly, smile sliding back into place like a mask. “That is our well. Our water. And you drink from it without so much as a thank-you? Then turn around and pull steel? Bad manners, I call that.”

  “Less about manners,” Arelos said calmly as he stepped forward, eyes steady, “more about leverage. You want this man alive?” He nodded towards Ardon's now kneeling form. “Then you’ll do what I say.”

  “Oh?” Ronavan’s grin barely faltered—but the curiosity underneath sharpened. “I like a lad with fire. Go on then—what would you have us do, Your Highness?”

  Arelos didn’t blink. “Start by dropping your weapons.”

  A beat of silence followed. Then Ronavan burst out laughing, hands falling to his hips as his belly bounced.

  “You hear that, boys?” he bellowed. “We’re to lay down our blades for him. Gods, this one’s bold.”

  Mocking chuckles rose from the gang, a few clapping each other on the back as though they’d just heard a tavern joke.

  “I mean, while we’re at it, should we prostrate ourselves too?” Ronavan added with a smirk. “Call you lord? Majesty? Maybe even kiss your boots?”

  “I don’t give a damn what name you squeal,” Arelos said plainly, “so long as you do it well out of earshot. Last chance. Turn tail and walk—or your man’s life ends now.”

  Fenric’s knife pressed in just a little harder under the captive’s chin. The man whimpered.

  But Ronavan just shrugged. “That one? Not even ours. We kept him around to keep up pretense,” he drawled. “Useless, turns out.”

  Arelos narrowed his eyes. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that. He’s got your nose. Probably an uncle. Maybe your inbred cousin.”

  At that, Ronavan’s smile cracked. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, eyes burning hotter now.

  “Careful,” he warned, voice low and mean, “you don’t know who—”

  “You go one step further,” Arelos snapped suddenly, his tone turned iron, “and my man there puts a bolt straight through your skull.”

  As if on cue, Arelos nodded once to Soren.

  Soren straightened, raising his crossbow to eye level, heart thudding so loudly he was sure everyone could hear. The tip of the bolt hovered unsteadily, trembling as it leveled with Ronavan’s brow.

  Ronavan halted.

  Then, without looking away, he cocked his head slightly—just enough for one of his men to step forward from the back ranks and draw his bow in turn. Quiet, but quick. The fletching rustled. Arrow up. Knocked. Pulled taut.

  “See,” Ronavan said coolly, “we know how to play that game too. Problem is, I’m not sure your fidgety friend here has the stones to pull that trigger.”

  He narrowed his eyes at Soren. “He’s shaking. See that? Look at those hands.”

  A droplet of sweat slid down Soren’s cheek, trailing to his jaw.

  Arelos gave a faint shrug. “He’s just excited,” he said flatly.

  Ronavan’s voice rose again, louder now, brittle at the edges. “You know, I was actually going to offer you a chance. A proper surrender. Thought maybe I’d let you limp away alive. But now?” He laughed bitterly. “Now you’ve really fucking gone and done it.”

  He stepped forward again, both arms out as if daring the crossbow. “You—your little band of half-trained boys—thought you could march in, knife someone at the well, and declare this your village? This nothing heap of mud and ash? Gods, I’ve seen livestock with more self-preservation.”

  Arelos leaned towards Soren and whispered, “When I say fire, switch and shoot the archer.”

  Soren twitched, but kept his aim. His lips drew into a tight line as he nodded once, barely more than a breath of motion.

  Arelos turned toward Fenric next, voice lower still. “They'll try to flank us, you slow them down.”

  Fenric gave a short nod and shifted his stance, ready.

  Ronavan was still speaking, almost frothing now. "I mean—fuck's sake—look at you! You think you're going to take this from us? What kind of delusional shit are you—"

  “Fire!” Arelos shouted.