The city of Brynmar, resting on the edge of the Isari Kingdom, pulsed with life as the last traces of daylight disappeared beyond the horizon. Inside The Rusted Hound, a rowdy tavern known for its cheap ale and rough patrons, smoke curled through the air, mixing with the scent of stale beer and sweat.

A woman with striking red hair stepped through the worn wooden doors, her silk-like cloak swaying with each graceful step. Her emerald eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room until they landed on a group of four guards seated in a shadowed corner booth.

The guards wore the insignia of the Iron Raven—a black-winged raven perched on a sword—a symbol marking them as soldiers of Lord Malrik, one of the region’s wealthiest and most feared lords. They were deep into their drinks, their laughter loud and their speech slurred.

Zosima let her gaze linger on them just long enough before shifting her eyes to a table on the opposite side of the tavern. Seated there, half-hidden in the dim light, were Eloken, Zoras, Echo, Dalamir, Trokt, Gotak and Yaub.

They met her glance with the smallest of gestures—each one lifting their mugs slightly in acknowledgment, hidden smiles playing on their faces. Their expressions were relaxed, but their eyes were sharp, watchful.

Zosima turned back toward the guards and began her approach, her movements slow and deliberate. Each step carried a quiet confidence, her silk cloak whispering against the floorboards as the noise in the tavern seemed to dull.

By the time she reached their table, the guards had gone silent. They watched her with wide eyes, their drunken bravado fading beneath the intensity of her gaze.

Zosima recognized their leader instantly—Captain Gaelin, a burly man with a scar tracing down his cheek and the look of someone who had spent too many years in too many taverns.

Without hesitation, she offered him a small smile. “My name is Serya,” she said, her voice smooth and lilting.

Gaelin leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly before a grin spread across his face. “Care for a drink, Serya?” he slurred, motioning to an empty chair.

Her smile widened just enough to disarm him. She had them exactly where she wanted.

Gaelin leaned in closer, his eyes lingering too long on her face. “You’ve got unusual features. Where does a gal like you come from?”

Zosima’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Far, far away,” she said, her tone playful. “Far far south—you wouldn’t know where it is on a map.” She leaned in slightly. “But let’s not talk about geography now.”

Another guard chuckled. “You said ‘your girlfriends.’ Where are they? What are you doing here alone?”

“Oh, they’re waiting for me at The Silver Stag inn,” she answered with a shrug. “I just came out for a walk—to see the town and, maybe, to meet some strong men along the way.” Her gaze flitted to Gaelin, her smile widening just enough to send a ripple of excitement through the table.

Gaelin puffed out his chest, clearly taking the bait. “Well, you’ve met the right men tonight,” he said with a grin. “We’re Malrik’s finest.”

The guards exchanged self-satisfied glances, their drunken confidence rising with every word.

Zosima nodded slowly. “Malrik’s finest. That must be why you’re drinking alone in the corner, far away from the real action.”

Gaelin frowned for a moment, the insult almost registering before Zosima’s laughter disarmed him again.

“Let’s have a drink, then,” she said, sliding into the empty chair at their table. “Tell me more about yourselves. And maybe I’ll tell you a few secrets too.”

Zosima leaned forward at the guards' table, her voice lilting with a playful edge. She laughed at their crude jokes, her eyes dancing with mischief as she refilled their mugs. The more they drank, the easier it became to steer the conversation wherever she wanted.

Gaelin, now well past tipsy, slammed his mug on the table. “Serya, you’re too good for this place!” he declared loudly. The other guards laughed along, their inhibitions fading with each gulp of ale.

Zosima’s smile was all charm and danger. She leaned in close, brushing a strand of red hair over her shoulder. “I could say the same about you, Captain. But let’s see how you handle one more round first.” As the guards roared with laughter she called for another round of drinks.

At the other side of the tavern Eloken leaned back in his chair, observing the scene with a quiet, amused intensity. He sipped his ale as his gaze lingered on Zosima.

“She’s terrifying,” Trokt muttered, shaking his head. “I mean, look at her. She’s got them wrapped around her finger.”

Zoras chuckled. “Manipulative doesn’t even begin to describe it. She’s a force of nature.”

“She’s deadly wrapped in charm,” Gotak said with a mischievous grin. “A trap waiting to spring.”

Echo didn’t join in the laughter. Her eyes remained fixed on the guards’ table. “They’re almost too drunk now. She’s pushing them hard.”

Dalamir nodded in agreement. “That’s the idea.”

At that moment, Zosima stood up, brushing the wrinkles from her silk cloak. She caught Eloken’s eye and gave him a subtle gesture—a quick touch to her ear, followed by a flick of her wrist.

Eloken set his mug down. “It’s time.”

Without another word, the group rose from their seats. They slipped out the side door of the tavern, moving silently into the dark, winding alleys that led to The Silver Stag inn.

The narrow streets were empty, save for the occasional flicker of a distant torch. The cool night air pressed against their skin as they moved cautiously, keeping to the shadows. They didn’t speak.

When they finally reached the last alley before the inn, Eloken motioned for them to stop. He peered around the corner, his breath caught in his chest.

The sight before them froze them all in place.

The Silver Stag was surrounded by Lord Malrik’s guards. Dozens of them, all bearing the Iron Raven insignia on their armor, had formed a perimeter around the building. Every patron of the inn had been dragged outside, their hands bound behind their backs as they were forced to kneel in the dirt.

“Shit, we’ve been made,” Echo whispered as they all looked at each other in terror.

They scanned the situation as quickly and quietly as possible, taking in the positions of the guards surrounding The Silver Stag. The tense silence between them was broken only by the occasional distant sound of footsteps or muffled orders from the guards. Once they had gathered all the information they could, Eloken motioned for the group to retreat.

They slipped through a few narrow, winding streets, putting several blocks between themselves and the inn. Only when they were sure they couldn’t be heard did they come to a halt in a dark alley, hidden from prying eyes.

Dalamir was the first to speak, his jaw clenched. “Someone betrayed us.” His tone was low, but the fury behind it was unmistakable.

“Fucking hell, what do we do now?” Zoras burst out, pacing back and forth in frustration.

“Slow down,” Trokt said, his voice steady. He glanced at Echo and Eloken, both of whom were lost in thought, their expressions grim.

“We have to warn Zosima,” Echo finally said, locking eyes with Eloken. “If it’s not already too late.”

Eloken snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze sharpening. “I’m afraid it is too late,” he said. “This was a carefully laid trap. Someone from our outside network of people must have sold us out. But we don’t have time to dwell on that now.”

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He exhaled slowly, already formulating a plan. “I’ll go back and try to warn Zosima. If she’s already captured, I’ll do everything I can to get her out.”

“What?” Echo said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re not going alone. No way.”

“No.” Eloken’s tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. “There’s no need to risk more lives, and you’ll need everyone to clear out the lair. Whoever betrayed us doesn’t know its location yet, but we can’t take any chances.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gotak interjected, stepping forward. “No way I’m letting you go alone. If there’s any kind of skirmish, it’s best that I’m there to cover you.”

Eloken hesitated for only a moment. Then he nodded. “Fine. Just you. The rest of you, head to the lair now. Gather everything—our belongings, plans, everything we can’t afford to lose—and bring them with you.”

He glanced at each of them, his gaze lingering. “We’ll meet at the entrance to Ravkar Forest in two hours.”

“Understood,” Dalamir said before Echo could protest again.

The others nodded in confirmation. Without another word, they split into two groups, disappearing into the shadows of Brynmar.

Eloken and Gotak approached The Rusted Hound from the back, their footsteps light against the worn cobblestones. The moon’s pale light barely reached the narrow alleyways, leaving much of Brynmar cloaked in shadows. They moved silently, pressing against the side of the building as they reached a small, dust-covered window. Eloken wiped the grime off with his sleeve and peered inside.

Through the dim interior of the tavern, they saw Zosima being led out the front door by four guards she was sitting with the whole night. Their swagger and drunken slurs had disappeared completely. They were now cold and sober, their movements sharp and calculated.

“It was all a trap,” Gotak muttered. “They were acting the whole night.”

Eloken exhaled slowly. “How could we be so stupid.” He said, but gathered his thoughts quickly. “Let’s follow. See what they plan to do with her.”

They slipped along the alley, heading toward the front of the tavern. They hugged the shadows, careful not to be seen as they reached the edge of the street. The guards stood outside, Zosima held firmly between them.

Another three guards approached Captain Gaelin, the man with the scar down his cheek. He listened intently as one of his subordinates delivered a report.

“All the guests have been brought out front. No one seems suspicious, but we left them tied up outside Inn for you to question if you wish Sir,” the soldier said.

Gaelin nodded curtly. “And the room she rented?”

“Empty,” the soldier replied. “There was nothing inside. She probably never even entered it—just booked it to throw us off or lure us in.”

Gaelin’s expression darkened, his frustration evident. He turned toward Zosima, yanking her forward roughly.

“Where are your accomplices?” he demanded, his tone harsh a stark and his expression devoid of any humanity a stark contrast to the man he was inside the Tavern.

“My girlfriends?” Zosima asked with a grin. “They must have gone out for a walk as well, this is a nice town after all.”

Gaelin had no patience and slapped her across the face. Zosima almost fell, but somehow managed to stay on her feet. She looked delicate, but she was a fierce warrior.

Eloken tensed, his fists clenching at his sides. His instincts screamed at him to intervene, but before he could take a step, Gotak’s firm hand landed on his shoulder.

“Not yet,” Gotak whispered.

Zosima, despite the rough treatment, gave Gaelin a slow, mocking smile wiping blood from her mouth caused by the earlier slap. “What’s with the sudden change in tone? Were you always this unpleasant, or is this some war trauma bubbling to the surface?” Her words dripped with mockery.

Gaelin’s eyes narrowed, his face twisting with anger. Without hesitation, he struck her across the face again. The slap echoed through the street. Zosima stumbled, but the smile never left her lips.

“That woman is insane,” Eloken thought to himself.

At that moment, the distant sound of wheels creaking against cobblestones reached them. A carriage pulled by two black horses rolled into view, stopping just in front of the tavern. The driver remained silent, his face obscured by the shadows of his hood.

Gaelin motioned to three of his men. “Take this bitch to Lord Malrik’s mansion. We’ll interrogate her properly there, and the lord will decide what to do with her.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the guards said, stepping forward and grabbing Zosima by the arm. He shoved her toward the carriage, forcing her inside. The door shut with a heavy thud, and the horses snorted impatiently.

Gotak leaned closer to Eloken. “What do we do now?”

Eloken didn’t hesitate. “I know a shortcut to Malrik’s mansion. If we leave now, we’ll beat them there. We’ll figure out the rest on the way.”

Gotak raised an eyebrow. “This would go a lot smoother if we had everyone.”

“I know,” Eloken said through gritted teeth. “But we don’t have time. If we go back for the others, they’ll get her inside the mansion before we can stop them and that place is more fortified than the palace in Worlin. We’d never get her out.”

Gotak nodded slowly. “All right. If you say so, lead the way.”

Eloken led Gotak to the western side of the city, navigating through narrow alleys and abandoned streets. They finally reached an old, crumbling section of the city walls. Hidden beneath a pile of debris was the entrance to a forgotten tunnel, one Eloken and the crew used to smuggle things inside the city.

“Almost forgot,” Eloken said a moved a couple wooden boxes that were gathering dust near the entrance to the hidden tunnel. He pulled dark brown wooden create and opened it revealing a nice arsenal of weapons.

“Now we talking,” Gotak said with a smile a picked a Mace, his weapon of choice.

Eloken picked up a medium sized sword for himself, and two smaller daggers for Zosima. She had always preferred lighter weapons, ones that suited her assassin-like style.

“This way,” he said to Gotak leading him inside the tunnel.

The tunnel led them beneath the city walls, emerging just beyond into a dense forest that bordered Malrik Mansion. A narrow, winding path through the woods brought them to a small, creaking wooden bridge that spanned a shallow river. This bridge, Eloken knew, was the only way for the carriage to cross before reaching the mansion gates. It was also the perfect ambush point.

They arrived just in time, with the faint sound of distant hoofbeats carrying through the trees.

“What’s the plan?” Gotak asked as they positioned themselves near the bridge.

“We’ll wait here,” Eloken explained. “I’ll block the bridge, act like a drunk vagrant to stop the carriage. Once the guards come out, we strike.”

“We have a few minutes before they arrive,” Eloken said. “Hide behind that dense bush. When they try to move me, I’ll attack. You join in immediately. No time for second-guessing—this will be loud, and I’m sure reinforcements will hear us as the mansion is just down the road. We need to be quick.”

Gotak nodded. “Understood. Stay alive.”

He disappeared behind the brush, and Eloken took his position in the middle of the narrow bridge. He pulled his hood low over his face and started to sway, mimicking a drunken wanderer.

The sound of the carriage grew louder. Moments later, two black horses trotted into view, their breath steaming in the cool night air. The carriage came to a stop just short of the bridge, and the driver—a burly man with a deep scowl—immediately began shouting.

“Move, drunkard! Get off the bridge before you end up under the wheels!”

Eloken staggered forward, arms outstretched as if pleading. “Spare a coin for a poor soul, will you?” he slurred. “Not for ale, I swear.”

The driver scowled. “Damn beggars,” he muttered. Then, with three sharp raps on the side of the carriage, he signaled for the guards to handle it.

The door swung open, and three of the guards who reported to Gaelin stepped out, swords already drawn. They were joined by two more, who had apparently been riding inside the carriage.

Eloken’s grin widened beneath his hood. “Five against two. I like those odds.”

The guards approached, clearly eager to clear the nuisance from their path. When they were just a few paces away, Eloken drew his sword in a single, fluid motion and lunged at the nearest guard.

His blade found its mark, slicing through the man’s sword arm before he could even react. The guard cried out and fell back, clutching the wound.

Gotak burst from his hiding spot like a charging bull. His spiked mace crashed into the side of another guard, shattering ribs with a sickening crunch. The man went down hard, gasping for air.

The third guard managed to swing at Gotak, but the larger man raised his mace just in time to block the strike. With a roar, Gotak swung again, sending the guard’s sword flying before delivering a bone-crushing blow to his shoulder.

The door to the carriage opened again, and Zosima stepped out. Her hands were still bound.

Eloken didn’t hesitate. He pulled the daggers from his belt and tossed them toward her. Zosima caught them with practiced ease.

In one swift motion, she sliced through the ropes binding her wrists. The moment she was free, she joined the fray.

One of the two remaining guards charged at her, but Zosima sidestepped his clumsy attack with grace. She ducked low, spun, and drove both daggers into the gaps in his armor. The guard crumpled to the ground, groaning.

The coachman, seeing his men fall one by one, finally drew a short sword and leaped from his seat. He charged at Zosima, rage etched across his face.

Zosima met him head-on. She ducked under his wild swing and slashed at his legs, forcing him to stumble. Before he could recover, she drove one dagger into his sword hand and the other into his side. He collapsed, his weapon clattering to the ground.

The remaining soldier was no match for Gotak and Eloken. By the time Zosima had finished with the coachman, the guard was already down.. Gotak finished him with a crushing blow to the chest, sending the man to his eternal rest.

Breathing heavily, the three of them gathered in the center of the bridge.

“This was close,” Zosima said, cleaning her daggers on the coachman’s cloak. “But it was fun.”

Eloken nodded, relieved that they had managed to save Zosima without any casualties. Gotak, however, pulled her into a tight hug instead.

Their brief moment of triumph was shattered by the distant thunder of hooves.

Eloken’s head snapped up. From the direction of Malrik Mansion, a group of riders emerged, their dark silhouettes illuminated by the pale moonlight. Twenty mounted soldiers, moving in disciplined formation. At their head rode Vaerin Malrik, Lord Malrik’s eldest son. A renowned duelist, known for his ruthless efficiency with the blade and his utter lack of mercy. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but his hand rested easily on the pommel of his sword—a predator toying with its prey.

From the opposite side of the road, more riders approached at a gallop. Captain Gaelin led them, his scarred face grim, his soldiers fanning out behind him. Their expressions were hard, their weapons already drawn.

They were surrounded.