Time was no longer measured in days but in battles.
Two more villages had fallen under their assault. Two more knots of Syndicate rule cut loose. And with every raid, their numbers swelled—men who had lost wives, women who had lost children, farmers stripped of grain and dignity. Some arrived hollow-eyed, broken things with nothing left but hate. Others burned with hunger for blood, vengeance giving them strength where hope had died.
By the third week, their ragtag band had grown into something resembling an army. With growth came burden: more mouths to feed, more horses to shoe, more voices demanding to be heard.
So a meeting was called.
They gathered in an abandoned barn at the edge of camp. The smell of old hay and smoke clung to the air. A fire crackled in a pit, its smoke twisting upward through a ragged hole in the roof. Shadows licked across the faces gathered there. Charles leaned against a support beam, arms folded, listening as Gerart spread the word his contact had delivered.
"A caravan is leaving the free city," Gerart said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked from face to face—Freya, Farren, Lira, Charles. "Not just merchants. Syndicate goods. Coin, weapons, supplies. Heavily guarded, but not impossible."
Farren leaned forward on his knees, teeth flashing in a grin. "Not impossible? Sounds like my kind of job."
"Or suicide," Freya muttered. Her jaw was tight, her expression grim, her hand never far from her sword.
Charles shifted his weight against the beam. "Heavily guarded how?"
"More men than we've seen on any caravan before," Gerart admitted. "But their route takes them through the low valley road. Ambush country."
"That's because they want us to strike," Charles said flatly.
The fire popped. Silence lingered.
Lira's voice broke it, quiet but cutting. "Every raid we win, they grow more desperate. Of course they'll bait us."
"And yet," Gerart pressed, "we cannot ignore it. If that caravan reaches its destination, the Syndicate grows stronger. If we take it, we cripple them. Every blade they don't have is one less bleeding our people."
Charles looked around. Farren's grin hadn't faded. Freya's scowl had deepened. Lira's slim hands clenched tight on her knees.
"Then we fight," Charles said at last. His voice came out low, steady. "But we fight knowing it will cost."
---
Far away in the free city, in a chamber drowned in velvet drapes and stale wine fumes, Durgan drank his anger. He was Syndicate now, a boss, but the title tasted like ash. Everything seemed to sour the moment it fell on him. Villages burned, convoys ambushed, men dumped in ditches. And now Glover—one of the Big Ten—pressed down on him like a butcher's hand on a joint, waiting for the snap.
"They've raided another farm," a lieutenant reported, head bowed low.
"Shit," Durgan spat. His cup hit the table hard enough to slop wine down his wrist. He wiped it with the back of his hand, smearing red across his sleeve like blood. "Those fucking imbeciles. Can't they kill a handful of dirt farmers without bleeding us dry?"
The lieutenant flinched but pressed on. "Are the men Glover sent ready?"
"They'll be at headquarters by morning."
Durgan leaned forward, bulk creaking the chair beneath him. His teeth showed in something close to a smile. "Good. Then send everything we have. All of it. And invite Baltazar." His lips curled around the name. "If that bastard wants to be paid like a lord, let him earn it like one."
---
The caravan appeared on the horizon at dawn. Wagons creaked under their loads, wheels chewing dust, mules stamping in rhythm. Dozens of mercenaries marched alongside, shields polished, blades gleaming in the rising sun.
From the ridge above, Charles studied them with narrowed eyes. Something gnawed at him. Too neat. Too armored. The guards moved with a soldier's precision, not the weary gait of men long on the road. Even the wagons rolled too smooth, too steady for their weight.
"Too clean," Charles muttered. "They're waiting for us."
Farren cracked his knuckles, grinning as though the thought pleased him. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
They slid down the ridge, fanning out across the sand. Arrows nocked. Blades drawn. Breath held. The ambush sprang—
And the wagons split open.
Canvas flaps tore back. Hidden panels dropped. Men spilled out like hornets from a hive—shields locking, spears bristling, voices roaring. Every wagon crammed with Syndicate steel, every tarpaulin a trap. The valley floor became a killing ground in the blink of an eye.
Then the air shifted.
A pressure, heavy and unnatural, pressed against Charles's chest. The hairs on his neck prickled. His instincts screamed.
From the center wagon, a figure stepped down.
Baltazar.
Robes snapped in the wind, black and gold, symbols etched along the hem. His eyes burned like coals, his shaved head glistening with sweat. When he spoke, the words rolled out like thunder, alien syllables that weren't heard so much as felt in the bones.
The ground buckled. Then split. Stone spires erupted, skewering men where they stood. Screams tore the dawn. Fire followed—an arrow of flame that burst into a bloom of heat and smoke, scattering bodies across the dirt.
Charles staggered back, vision swimming. This wasn't a fight of men. This was something else. Something monstrous. He had fought chains, blades, beasts. But never this—never a man who wielded the earth itself as a weapon. Fear clawed at him, whispering surrender.
Then Freya screamed.
She fell, a burning shard lodged in her side, smoke curling from her tunic. Blood spread across the fabric, dark and fast. She wasn't dead—but close.
Charles's fear turned to fire. Rage replaced it.
"Farren!" he roared.
Together they darted forward, weaving in and out, forcing Baltazar to track them both. Spikes ripped from the earth at their heels. Shards of ice shrieked past, exploding into dirt where they had stood a breath before.
Archers loosed arrows, but every shaft froze mid-air and clattered to the ground. A shimmering barrier wrapped Baltazar, bending strikes away. He sneered, but sweat trickled down his temple. His breathing quickened.
Charles's sword struck the barrier—it flared, throwing him back as though he'd slammed against stone. Farren cursed, barely rolling aside as a spear of rock erupted where he'd stood.
"He's tiring!" Charles barked, though his chest heaved, arms heavy.
Baltazar lifted both hands, fury curling his lips. The earth trembled, cracks racing across the valley floor. Fire licked up his arms like living veins.
And then—
A wet gurgle.
His eyes widened. Blood bubbled at his lips as steel burst through his throat.
Behind him stood Lira. Her dagger buried deep, her slim frame rigid with fury. Silent as a shadow, she had crept close while Charles and Farren drew his gaze.
Baltazar clawed weakly at her wrist, gurgling curses, then collapsed into the dust.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield stilled.
Then chaos surged again. Without their mage, the Syndicate line faltered. But the fight was still brutal—steel grinding steel until the sun climbed high and the road was carpeted in corpses.
When it ended, silence weighed heavier than the heat.
Charles staggered among the wounded. Bodies lay everywhere—friends, villagers, volunteers. More than half their number gone, dead or dying. A boy no older than fifteen clutched his brother's hand, begging him to wake. A farmer's wife sat rocking, keening low, a man's blood soaking her lap.
Charles's steps slowed at Baltazar's corpse. Blood seeped dark into the sand, pooling beneath his cheek. Charles's hands trembled, but his voice came steady.
"This was their trap," he said. His eyes lifted toward the horizon, toward the distant haze of the free city. "But no more games. No more running."
Gerart limped up beside him, face bruised, armor dented, blood seeping down his thigh.
Charles's teeth bared in a wolf's smile. "It's time to strike their nest. We burn them in their own city."
The survivors raised their heads. Exhausted, broken, but with fire still burning in their eyes.
The road led only forward.