Yurik’s company gathers beneath Fort Gaelin’s iron gates, the towering doors creaking in the early dawn wind. A horse-drawn wagon waits near the path, its wheels half-buried in snow. Yurik stalks the line of men, about fifty in total, most barely awake as they wait.

  "Is that all of ‘em?" Yurik barks, squinting over his shoulder.

  An older brigand counts quickly, muttering under his breath, then shakes his head. “Short one.”

  William runs up, standing beside Hamza with a breathless laugh, "Sorry about that. Was using the privy."

  "Careful boy. Or next time I'll empty yer bowels with my knife." Yurik sneers, before turning to the rest of his men. "Alright you lot! Time to earn yer keep. Let's go!!"

  A chorus of hoots and jeers answers him as the brigands stand ready. The great iron gates creak open, spilling cold dawn light across the courtyard.

  I catch Luna’s eye. We pull our hoods lower, step forward, and slip into the mass of moving bodies, all of them eagerly watching the gates spread wide. My pulse pounds in my ears, men jostle shoulder to shoulder and... no one notices us, two more people added to the gang of ragged thieves.

  We fall in behind William and Hamza, hearts still hammering with every step toward the open world beyond the gate.

  If we’re stopped, it’s over.

  But no voice calls. No blade draws. No one looks twice.

  We’re in.

  The journey begins under a grey, brooding sky. Yurik rides high atop the wagon, barking idle orders. The rest of us march in tight formation, boots crunching through the snow, breath misting in the cold morning air.

  William drifts closer, murmuring low. "They’ve got more bowmen than I expected... slipping away’s gonna be dangerous. One shout, and we’re pincushions."

  Luna doesn’t look at him, but speaks evenly. “We wait for nightfall, when the others sleep. There'll only be a few sentries to evade then, It’ll be easier.”

  We nod together.

  By dusk, we’ve made camp deep in the treeline near the fork of Crooked Hollow, a well-used merchant path between Eastmere and the stone-crossed ruins of Feldrun Hold.

  Fires crackle weakly beneath iron pots. Dinner is hard bread, salted pork, and the last of the winter onions. It's not the best cooked, but it's filling and getting meat is nice.

  Yurik squats by the fire, hammer across his knees, gnawing on a strip of meat before he clears his throat.

  “Listen up,” he growls, eyes sweeping over the gathered men. “Tomorrow, a caravan rolls through Feldrun Pass. Weapons convoy out of Dunmoor. Merchant’s name is Halrid Merrow, 'ccording to our tip, he's transportin' weapons. Crates of steel blades, mail, even crossbows, bound for a noble’s private garrison.”

  He spits into the dirt. “High quality shit. Exactly what we need to outfit the new warband. Not to mention the coin.”

  One of the men whistles low. Another cracks his knuckles.

  “But,” Yurik adds, voice lowering, “it’s guarded. Twelve sellswords, all veterans. Heavy hauberks, kite shields, longswords. Not green boys. Each one worth three of you, maybe more.”

  Murmurs ripple through the group.

  “So we do it smart,” he continues. “We’ll lay a broken wagon just past the fork by Hollowstone Bridge. Good choke point. Trees close on both sides. Wagon blocks the road, makes ‘em stop. Archers in the woods, hit 'em first. Rest of us come from both flanks. Quick and clean, overwhelm 'em before they can respond.”

  When he finishes, Yurik rises with a grunt, slinging his hammer over one shoulder. “Get some sleep, lads. Half a day's march and a big fight waitin'. I want you fresh. No boozin’.”

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  The men grumble but obey, drifting into smaller groups, murmuring around the dying fires, tossing dice with muted voices. The rowdiness of earlier is gone, replaced by quiet anticipation.

  I begin to slip away toward the others, but Yurik’s voice cuts across the firelight. “Oi. You. Sit with me.”

  I pause, then turn back.

  Shit, does he....?

  He gestures to the log beside him. “Hood off.”

  I curse inwardly but do as told, pulling it back.

  He squints, then gives a slow nod. “Seven. Thought that was you. Not many lads your size. Why're you here? Thought Edric had you workin' for Two.”

  I hesitate, my mind racing as I try to piece together the right lie. "He sent me to work for Maldor... but I couldn't stomach it. I told him... thought he'd kill me, but... he just bade me return to the company I came with."

  Yurik jerks his chin at the log. "Sit."

  Nervously, I do. He eyes me for a moment, then asks, "Why hide your face?"

  I exhale, doing my best to look somber. “Shame. I’ve seen my share of blood, done my share of dirty work… but what Maldor had me doing.... it wasn’t natural. Wasn’t right.”

  Yurik watches me for a while, then nods slowly. “Aye,” he mutters, voice quieter than before. “Yer right about that.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes reflecting the firelight. “You needn't worry, I'll have plenty of work for you, real work. Not that foul sorcery." He glances over to me. "Truth be told, I’m glad you came back."

  "Why's that?"

  Yurik looks back to the fire, eyes lost in the orange glow. "You remind me of myself when I was younger... I saw it in yer eyes back at the mill. The hesitation, the doubt... the way you looked afterward. Still not sure, what it means to you. Takin' a life. Bein' a killer.”

  Yurik leans back with a grunt, eyes half-lidded. “Felt the same, back in the army. Did some awful things for that so-called Empress of ours. Never even saw her. A shame, heard her tits were a proper handful.” He chuckles darkly.

  His gaze hardens. “At least now, I kill for myself. Not for crowns or banners..."

  "So it doesn't bother you at all anymore?"

  "No. Everyone dies, sooner or later. What’s it matter if we help it along? Just do what's best for yerself.”

  What's best for myself.... yeah... that's what I try to do.

  Why is it so hard for me to understand...?

  What do I want to do?

  Who do I want to be?

  Does killing bother me? Or....

  Am I just trying not to be like her?

  “But don’t take it from me lad. Think on it yerself. Bein’ told what’s right meant piss all when I was yer age.”

  I nod slowly, still a little lost in though. “Yeah. I’ll remember what you said.”

  He nods and claps me on the shoulder, standing. “Not much time for thinkin’ tomorrow though,” he laughs. “Big job ahead. Killin’ to do. No room for hesitation. Get some rest.”

  The fire dims to embers. One by one, the brigands drift into sleep, curled in cloaks. When the last voices fade, I rise and move quietly to the trees where our group gathers. William crouches beside me in the dark, his breath fogging in the cold air.

  “We ready?” he whispers.

  Hamza shakes his head. “No. I’m staying.”

  William blinks. "What? Are you insane?"

  Hamza doesn’t flinch. “I won’t let these inhuman swine slaughter innocents. I’ll keep marching with Yurik’s company until the time’s right. Then I’ll break off and warn the mercenaries. Fight beside them, if I must.”

  William hisses, barely keeping his voice down. “We don't even know which way the merchant is coming from! And Yurik's got fifty men! You think you and twelve sellswords, are gonna stop that?”

  Hamza folds his arms, voice quiet but unwavering. “I must try. These men, merchant, guard.... they are innocent. Just men, trying to live. If I can save even one... I must.”

  William shakes his head. “Ain’t no such thing as an innocent merchant, mate. Nor a merc. They’d slit your throat soon as look at you, if the coin’s right.”

  Hamza turns to him, gaze steady. “Perhaps. But I would rather die trying to save the wrong man, than live letting another innocent die. We... we've done that enough. I can stand it no more.”

  William squints. “Yer mad, you know that?”

  “I do not expect you to follow me,” Hamza says. “But I will not stand idle. Killing Yurik, if I succeed... it will weaken the warband. Edwin's militia will suffer less.”

  He looks at me, eyes searching. “It is what's right.”

  What's right...?

  First Yurik and now Hamza...

  I should understand myself better by now.

  The two of them seem to... their nature.

  Luna scoffs. “It's a ridiculous gamble.”

  Hamza shakes his head. “I do not expect you to stay. You should go to Edwin. Make sure the fort's location reaches him. I’ll do what I can here.”

  William sighs, rubbing his face. “Damn it… fine. I’ll stay too.”

  Hamza looks at him with sorrow and gratitude. “Thank you, brother. And I’m sorry.”

  William waves him off, looking away. Luna turns to me, eyes searching. “Are you coming with me? Or staying with them?”

  The question cuts deep.

  Inside, what’s left of my morality claws at the pragmatism, against the logic that says this is a doomed and pointless cause. Against the certainty of pain and blood and failure. And yet beneath it all… burns pride.

  If I can’t stand against a pack of brigands, what hope will I have when Vael comes?

  Will I remain the least of my brothers… forever?

  I breathe slow. Heavy.

  Then I shake my head.

  “I’m staying.”

  Luna shakes her head but doesn’t argue. “Fine. I’ll go to Edwin,” she says, voice clipped. She hesitates a moment, then adds, more softly, “Good luck.”

  She slips into the darkness without another word. William gives a low chuckle. “Cold as ever. Guess it’s just us men again, huh? Just like it oughta be.”

  Hamza forces a weak smile, but his eyes stay distant, still fixed on what’s to come.

  I clap them both on the shoulder, pulling their focus. “Well. We’d better come up with a plan.”