Tom had been on edge the whole game. Max had always been a little too lucky. Every fourth roll, he would have a pair of sixes and just like that, win back everything he lost and more. Tom reached for the pair of dice and got nothing but a sharp stare back from Max. The kind of stare that said, "If'n you touch my dice, you die, boy." Tom gave a sly smile. Some men were too dangerous to mess with. Tom watched as Max picked up his dice from the table. The dice rolled unnaturally in his fingertips. Like a weight was at the bottom, he decided to leave it alone.

  "I guess the Dice hate me tonight." He said in a melodic tone

  Many drinks later, he was finally ready to go to bed.

  I should have outted him. He stumbled from the tent. Every coin he'd saved, every scrap of silver, gone in a few rigged rolls. People always told Tom that he was too smart for his own good. He should relax and live life. It always felt like a backhanded compliment that people would say so that he would relax.

  The others laughed at him for losing his savings, and he'd nearly drawn steel on one of them before the horn sounded.

  Now, here he was, with a crooked belt, armor half-buckled, his head still swimming from the gutrot whiskey.

  The alarm always meant the same thing: trouble with the stock. Some half-dead slave, thinking he had the strength to chew through a collar or pick a lock. He was supposed to be asleep. Nothing ever happened. Why was it always some shit on his Overwatch night? Tom had been working for Faeron for ten years, and he knew that even though he wouldn't get much sleep, he would need to report to morning training. Well, that or face the wrath of the boss's staff. Man, he hated being hit by that stick.

  Torchlight flickered along the rows of tents, shadows twisting like he was a scared child again. The camp smelled of sweat, piss, and burned meat. Same as always.

  He wanted to sleep. That's all. One hour, maybe two, before Faeron's dogs dragged him out again. At least he would be in the same boat as the rest of his unit. They looked just as fed up with the patrol as he was.

  He looked over his shoulder to his friend Pete, who had joined about the same time as him and was always showing the camp pictures of his little girl back in the city. Tom had always brushed him off. Maybe Pete had the right of it. Perhaps he should find a woman, too. He snorted at the thought. No woman would take a bastard like him, not unless she were paid.

  They passed the cages; something was off. The Jailer should be at his post. The ground had clearly been disturbed in places where boots had dug into it. Blood, though it was cleaned up well, still left its traces on the dirt, packing it where it had been spilled.

  The slaves were restless, huddled near the bars. A few were loose, dirt smeared across their faces like war paint. Someone had opened the latches. He swore under his breath and shoved them back inside, slamming the locks into place. They whimpered, eyes darting toward the dark. He told himself it was nothing. Just some hungry rats looking for scraps.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  When he straightened, three figures walked into the glow of his torch. Guards, by the look of it. Armor, helms, and blades on their hips.

  But something was wrong. If they were here, why didn't they lock the slaves back up?

  The first one was tall, broad, and had dried blood splattered across his chest piece, like he'd been in a fight. He almost mistook him for a legionnaire; they only had a handful of human guards, and he couldn't remember any with blond hair. The second moved exactly as a bird should. Light on his feet. He was missing quite a few feathers, and instead of standing proudly, his body language felt like he was trying to hide something. And the third, he squinted, was a woman. A rare thing among Faeron's men. Wait, is that the Captain's Girl?

  "Hey," he barked, his lips moving before he could think. "Where are you all coming from? Patrol's out already."

  The broad one stiffened. His jaw flexed as if he were holding words back. The woman smiled, faint and tired, and answered first.

  She said in a calming voice, "Got jumped by a few slaves near the fire pit. One of 'em got lucky with a knife. Nothing we couldn't handle.”

  The others in his squad chuckled, shaking their heads. Slaves, knives, it all made sense. But he didn't laugh. His gut told him something else. He took another step closer, torchlight licking over their gear. The cuts in their armor weren't from cheap slave steel.

  His hand went to his sword. "That so? Then why don't I recognize the bird or that human? Are you alright, Lady Sara?”

  The torch crackled.

  The tall one darted towards them. Tom had exactly three seconds to realize that the man before him was like Max. Steel flashed in the man's hand, faster than the guard expected. He tried to shout. To call for help, but a clawed hand raked across his throat before he could let out a sound. He felt his undershirt get warm, and he looked down in shock. Is that my blood?

  His legs buckled. The last thing he heard was the woman's voice, now almost inhuman. "Wipe your dagger off on their clothes. It's a dead giveaway if they see your blades covered in blood."

  Then the ground welcomed Tom like an old friend.

  Dane wiped his dagger clean against the dead man's tunic; the fabric was already drenched in blood, so finding a clean place to wipe it off was difficult. This wasn't something he usually did. He had more respect for the dead. But Sara made a good point. Innocent guards usually didn't walk around with blood-soaked weapons. The patrol guards hadn't stood a chance. If this were the best the bandits could muster, then the rest of the camp would fall fast.

  He crouched, scanning the rows of cages. The locks still hung ready, some rattling slightly in the night breeze. Leaving them open would be a clue for the next patrol. He pressed down the latches, testing each one to make sure that they were locked.

  "That was too close," Zeph muttered. "He nearly raised the alarm. One more second and the rest of the camp would have been roused.”

  Sara tugged her hood tighter, ears flicking beneath the fabric. Her smile was a thin slash in the darkness, cold and amused. "Then don't give them time to think," she said.

  Dane stared out at the rest of the camp. By his count, there were at least twenty guards left. He only wanted to kill the leader, but the rest of them chose their fate when they decided to trade people.

  "Come on," Dane whispered. "There are still 20 guards and Faeron to deal with."