We make our way to the south gate, where a battered wagon waits. The old horse shifts impatiently in its harness, its breath misting in the chill air.

  Seated atop the wagon is a familiar figure, Old Bram, the same carter who once ferried me into Ravencroft after I fled Mistvale.

  He spots me and gives a tired smile, revealing a few missing teeth. "Well, look at ye now, lad. All filled out and standin' proud. Don't stink half as bad either. Done well for yerself."

  I nod in greeting, giving a slight smile in return.

  Bram gestures to the back of the cart. "Well, don’t stand there gawkin'. Hop up, mind ye don’t trample the goods."

  The three of us climb in, settling among the sacks of grain and crates of supplies, and Bram clicks his tongue to the horse, urging it forward with a jolt.

  I lean toward him slightly. "Any news on the road?"

  William, mouth half-full of bread, pipes up with a grin. "Me an' Hamza here ain't heard much, wouldn't mind hearin' that either. Me and Hamza haven't heard much of anything lately. Tell us, what's happening outside Ravencroft."

  The cart driver sighs, looking grim. "Another village, Mornstead, it's gone to ghosts. Folk up and vanished, not a soul left behind, not even a dog or a chicken. Place sits quiet as a grave now."

  Bram shifts on his bench, voice dropping low.

  "That aside... folk whisper of monsters on the roads near Mistvale. Great spiders, they say. Snatchin' animals and stray folk alike."

  I stiffen, a shudder running through me. Great spiders... I remembered too well the one I'd fought before.

  Bram notices my reaction and nods grimly.

  "Never seen one meself, but the man who spoke of it, he looked half-dead with fright. Swore it on his mother's grave."

  He clicks his tongue against his teeth.

  "And then there’s the raid on Ravencroft, as if things weren't bad enough. Folk are sufferin' all over. Dark times we’re livin' through, no mistake."

  The ride drags on for the better part of a day, the landscape growing more desolate with each passing mile. Finally, as the sun droops low in the sky, we crest a small rise—and there it is. Redwick.

  The village is little more than a scattering of sagging crofts and crumbling wood walls, the fields around it fallow and unworked. The few villagers we see move with their heads down, like beaten dogs. Even Mistvale, poor as it was, had clung to a thread of dignity. Here, that thread seems long since rotted away.

  I glance around, taking it all in.

  No wonder the brigands came here, the place’s already half-dead. I doubt anyone could fight them off.

  I pull my cloak tighter against the chill and nod to the others.

  "Well, I suppose it's time." I mutter. "Let's make it look like we belong."

  We walk through Redwick, the mud sucking at our boots. Villagers watch us from the shadows of half-opened doorways, their faces wary and hollow-eyed. A good sign, I suppose, given what we've come here for.

  William leans in, whispering, "What do we do?"

  I shrug, keeping my voice low. "Hadn’t thought that far ahead."

  "We could break into a house," William mutters under his breath. "Nick somethin’ shiny, leave 'em cryin'."

  Hamza shakes his head immediately. "Word won’t spread fast, if it spreads at all."

  "Alright," I say, thinking. "We could do it on the road? Steal their coin in front of people."

  Hamza's mouth tightens. "Most lowborn don't carry a purse on them unless they have need."

  William leans in again, grinning. "Start a brawl then? Knock some sod through a door."

  Hamza shakes his head. "And for what cause? A brawl from nothing is sure to create suspicion. At least robbery has a purpose to it."

  Hamza's voice is calm, but there's an edge to it, his face twisting with each word that comes out of his mouth.

  Still not happy with his part in this I suppose. Acting like a brigand... not as easy as it sounds. Not for him anyway.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  I scan the village, eyes landing on a crooked building with a sagging roof, the alehouse.

  "We rob the tavern," I say. "Cause a little trouble. Word'll spread fast enough there."

  Hamza bristles uncomfortably, but we press forward, boots squelching through the muck.

  As we near the tavern door, William suddenly straightens up, puffing out his chest and throwing his arms wide.

  "Oi! Ale fer the warriors what killed a hundred men!" he bellows, loud enough to startle a chicken across the road into flight.

  He kicks the door open with a theatrical flourish—only for his foot to catch on a loose board. With a startled squawk, he tumbles face-first into the tavern, sprawling in a puddle of stale beer.

  I sigh and step over him, Hamza muttering under his breath as he yanks him up.

  The tavern is dim and smoky, filled with the low murmur of tired voices. Gaunt villagers huddle around battered tables, nursing mugs of thin ale. It’s a far cry from the raucous warmth of Osric’s tavern, no laughter or joy to be found.

  I step to the bar. "Three ales."

  The tavern keeper, a wiry man with a balding hairline, looks me up and down, nervous. Seeing my imposing size and the club at my side, he nods quickly and sets about pouring without a word, casting anxious glances our way.

  Curious, I lean in slightly. "What's been happening in town?"

  He freezes for a moment, then shrugs without meeting my eye. "Same as always. Haulin' timber, patchin' roofs. Some's gone south to scavenge firewood. Ain't much else to do this time o' year."

  He slides the mugs toward me with trembling hands, eager to end the conversation.

  William and Hamza sit with me. William leans in and whispers, "When we gonna rob 'im? Bet he’s got a few coppers hid away somewheres."

  Hamza shoots him a furious glare, but before either of us can say a word, the tavern keeper clears his throat loudly.

  "You oughta know," he says, voice low and warning, "I’m under protection."

  We blink at him.

  He shifts uneasily, glancing toward the back of the room. "They've already claimed my alehouse."

  Still confused, I frown.

  At last, he mutters under his breath, "The Knives."

  He gives a subtle nod toward a rough-looking man slouched against the far wall, his arms crossed, his eyes watchful as he studies us.

  ...Perfect. If they're already here, this will be even easier than I thought...

  Standing, I draw my club and slam it down onto the bench with a heavy crack, making every head in the tavern turn. "We'll be taking whatever coin youve got stored away." I say, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Quickly now. We'll take our due and be on our way, and everyone stays happy."

  The tavern keeper splutters, stumbling back. "B-but... I'm protected-"

  He glances desperately toward the hooded man in the corner. The man meets his gaze, then gives a small nod to one of the rough patrons nearby.

  He rises from his seat and the two men start toward me, their movements slow and deliberate.

  "Best back off," the first one growls, his voice rough as gravel. "This place ain't for robbin'."

  I push my chest out, exuding confidence. "And why’s that? Three of us, two of you. Doesn't sound like bad odds."

  The man smirks coldly. "You don't wanna fuck with us, lad. We got more than two. Cross us, and the Knives'll have your guts hangin' from the rafters come morning."

  I snort. "What people? I don't see anyone."

  He says nothing, just staring at me with that same grim smirk.

  I roll my shoulders, gripping my club. "Thought so. Liar."

  At that, he snarls and draws a large butcher’s knife from his belt. His companion hefts a hammer, cracking it once against the palm of his hand.

  Hamza steps up beside me, the axe tied to his belt coming free.

  William does the same, knocking an arrow into his hunting bow.

  The room tightened like a drawn bow. Even the drinkers nearest the door froze, eyes darting between us and the Knives, weighing their odds of slipping away unnoticed.

  Alright... now how do I go about getting them to recruit me...?

  Beat them up in a fight? But then... how would I explain not killing them afterwards...

  Diplomacy seems the best option.

  I step forward and they flinch back instinctively. I jerk my chin at them. "So, who are these allies you've got. I don't see 'em."

  The first man bares his teeth in a grim smile. "The Bleeding Knives," he says proudly. "Strongest lot in the whole damned region. Own this alehouse. Own this village too."

  He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a warning growl. "If you don't want to wake up with yer throats slit, best you back off."

  I keep my club lowered. "How many of you are there?"

  He snorts. "More'n you can count, boy."

  I pause, then nod slowly and lower my club to my side, relaxing my stance.

  The brigand smirks, visibly relieved. "Smart lad. Now, be smart all the way and walk yourself right out that door."

  Hamza and William glance at me.

  I shrug and turn away, striding for the door. Behind us, the tavern breathes out in relief, the low murmurs resuming.

  Outside in the snowy street, William sidles up, whispering, "Should we really have left it like that?"

  Hamza's voice is tight with anger. "We should've killed them. We had the numbers."

  I shake my head. "We let them know we’re here. If Edwin's right about them looking for rough and desperate men to recruit... they'll come for us. That’s how we'll get inside."

  We reach the edge of town, where a barren stretch of woods sprawls ahead. I glance at the shadows between the trees and mutter, "Guess we're sleeping in the cold."

  William only shrugs, unfazed. "Nothin' me and Hamza ain't used to."

  Without a word, Hamza pulls out his hatchet and trudges into the trees to cut some firewood.

  Minutes later, we huddle around a pitiful bundle of damp sticks. William struggles with the flint, sparks flying but failing to catch on the soaked wood. He curses under his breath.

  "Fuck. Wood's too wet and cold," he grumbles, striking again, to no avail.

  I extend my hand toward him. "Give it here. I'm good at it."

  He tosses the flint over with a scowl, and I kneel by the bundle.

  I strike the flint once. Immediately, a jolt of energy surges through my palms. Sparks shower out, and against all odds, the wet wood catches and bursts into flame.

  William gawks, his mouth falling open.

  "How in the hells did you do that?" he blurts out, staring at the burning wood like it just sprouted legs.

  I shrug, feigning nonchalance as I hand the flint back to him.

  "Told you I was good at it," I say.

  William starts to speak, but Hamza quickly nudges us.

  A small, hooded figure approaches through the snow.

  I murmur under my breath, "That was quick. Have they already sent someone to bring us in?"

  As the figure draws near, they reach up and pull back their hood, revealing a woman beneath.

  Luna.