The road narrows ahead—not by design, but by habit. Wagon ruts pull inward, grass worn thin where travelers funnel through the safest stretch. It's quiet in the way roads only are right before something goes wrong.
The first sign isn't voices.
It's the way Jaheira slows half a step without signaling anyone.
Then the clink of mail.
A line of armored figures steps out from the tree line with practiced ease, boots hitting dirt in near-unison. Red tabards marked with the clenched gauntlet catch the light as they spread—not surrounding, not yet, but positioned so the road no longer belongs to us.
Flaming Fist.
Six of them. Maybe seven. Helmets on. Faces mostly hidden. The one in front doesn't raise his weapon, but his hand rests comfortably near the hilt, as though it's been there all morning.
"Halt," he says. Not loud. Not angry. Tired—the voice of someone who's said the word a hundred times today and expects obedience every time.
We stop.
Khalid's grip tightens on his shield strap. Imoen shifts her weight, eyes darting between them, already counting. Montaron drifts half a step to the side—not retreating, just positioning. Xzar smiles faintly, which does not help.
The mercenary's gaze moves over us, slow and deliberate. Weapons first. Packs second. Faces last.
"Road's had trouble," he says. "Bandits bold enough to walk armed and unafraid." His visor tilts—just slightly—toward us as a whole. "You lot fit the description well enough."
The word bandits lands heavier than it should.
Jaheira's jaw tightens. Not in fear. In offense.
"We are travelers," she says evenly. "Nothing more."
The leader hums, unconvinced.
The line shifts again.
Not closer.
Wider.
The road feels suddenly smaller.
"Packs," he says. "On the ground. Slowly."
No one moves at first.
Khalid swallows, then kneels to unshoulder his pack with careful, exaggerated patience. Leather thumps against dirt. The sound seems louder than it should be. One of the mercenaries steps in immediately, boot nudging the pack open with a toe, eyes scanning for steel, coin—anything that would justify the stop.
"Where you coming from?" the leader asks, eyes still on us rather than the bag.
"Beregost," Khalid answers. Too quick. Too eager.
The leader's visor turns a fraction. "Uh-huh."
Another mercenary—one eye hidden beneath a worn leather patch, a missing link in his mail—circles behind us, gaze lingering on Montaron. He doesn't crouch. Doesn't threaten. Just stands there, tall and patient, like time is on his side.
"You always travel with… this mix?" the one-eyed mercenary asks lightly. "Druid, sellsword, a girl barely past childhood—"
Imoen stiffens at that, chin lifting.
"—and whatever that is."
Xzar tilts his head, smile unfazed. "A student of magical theory," he says mildly. "With eclectic interests."
Imoen inhales sharply. Jaheira's staff taps once against the ground—soft, but deliberate.
"Easy," the leader says, not looking away from Xzar. "No one's asking for lectures."
His attention drifts then—not to authority, not to threat—but to me. Not because I look important. Because I haven't spoken. Because I haven't reacted.
"And you," he says. "Quiet ones either have nothing to hide… or too much sense to interrupt."
The observation lands uncomfortably close.
Before I can answer, Jaheira steps in—half a pace, just enough to reclaim space. "You've seen our packs," she says evenly. "We've offered no resistance. Your questions grow thin."
The leader smiles beneath his helm. I can hear it in his voice.
"That's because bandits get impatient right about now."
A hand moves.
Not to a weapon—to a ledger.
He flips it open, thumb tracing a page already creased with use. "Descriptions don't need to be perfect," he says. "Just close enough."
Behind us, the one-eyed mercenary exhales a quiet, humorless chuckle. Montaron's shoulders tense; I feel it more than see it. He's clocked the terrain again. Calculating how many heartbeats it would take.
"Last chance," the leader says mildly. "Give me one good reason not to march you back in irons and let the magistrates sort it out."
No steel.
No shouting.
Just the weight of authority pressing down until someone cracks.
I step forward before the silence can harden into something irreversible.
Not fast. Not bold. Just enough to be noticed.
"We're not bandits," I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "And if you're looking for trouble, you're looking in the wrong direction."
Jaheira shoots me a glance—sharp, warning—but doesn't stop me.
The leader doesn't interrupt. That's worse than if he had.
"We came up from Beregost," I continue, palms open, empty. "On the road. Same as everyone else. If we wanted to disappear, we wouldn't be standing here arguing about it."
The one-eyed mercenary shifts his weight behind us. Listening.
"You've got reports," I say. "I get that. But reports don't say how bandits move. They don't walk in daylight with packs half-full and nerves on display." I glance briefly at Khalid—then back to the leader. "They don't let you search their things."
The leader studies me now. Really looks.
"And they don't talk this much," he says.
A fair point.
I nod once. "No. They don't. Because bandits don't expect to walk away."
For a moment, the road holds its breath.
Jaheira doesn't look pleased. Imoen looks furious. Montaron looks like he's measuring whether my spine would snap cleanly if this goes wrong.
The leader closes his ledger.
Slowly.
"That's your reason?" he asks. Not mocking. Testing. "Because you sound honest?"
"No," I say. "Because marching us back in irons wastes your time. And if you're wrong—" I shrug, small, careful. "—it makes enemies you didn't need."
The one-eyed mercenary snorts softly. Not amused. Not disagreeing.
The leader exhales through his nose. Long. Considering.
"Move along," he says at last. "Don't make me regret it."
No apology.
No softening.
Just permission.
The line parts—not all at once, not graciously. Enough for the road to exist again.
As we pass, the leader adds, almost conversational, "Smooth tongue you've got. That ever get you killed?"
"Not yet," I say.
He watches us go like someone memorizing a face for later.
Only when the trees swallow the road again does my breath finally leave me.
The road doesn't feel normal right away.
Boots crunch on gravel. Packs settle back into place. No one speaks until the space behind us feels properly empty.
Jaheira exhales once—sharp, controlled.
"Hired fists wearing the costume of justice," she says at last. "They mistake order for virtue."
Khalid hesitates, glancing back down the road. "Th-they keep the roads safe," he says, then winces faintly. "At l-least… that's what they say."
"They keep their roads safe," Jaheira replies evenly. "And only so long as it serves whoever's paying them."
Her gaze flicks to me—not accusatory, but measuring. "You handled them well," she adds. "But don't mistake restraint for righteousness."
Montaron grunts approval. Imoen says nothing, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead.
We walk for several minutes before Imoen speaks.
"They didn't care if we were innocent," she says suddenly.
No accusation. No heat. Just certainty.
"They just wanted us scared."
No one answers her.
The road keeps stretching.
Order restored.
Justice unresolved.
And I understand now that the two are not the same thing.