One of the men lunged for him, but Woodrow reacted instantly, letting his dagger fly. It struck true, knocking the man's weapon from his hand. The sound of metal clattering to the floor was drowned out by panicked screams as the rest scrambled for their arms.
Woodrow moved like fluid shadow. He snatched a pair of daggers from the stunned guard at the door and turned them against the thieves. He pinned their clothing to walls, tables, and crates. The sharp blades sliced through fabric, anchoring them firmly to the nearest surface.
One by one, their movements were halted as they realized any attempt to break free would tear their clothes to shreds—the only clothes they had.
Within moments, the room fell silent save for the ragged breathing of the subdued thieves. Woodrow stood in the center, his smile as calm and serene as ever.
"Now," he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes, "shall we talk about why you've been stealing from the monastery?"
Woodrow’s words hung heavy in the room. When he opened his eyes, they were devoid of any trace of humor, staring down the thieves with a cold, unwavering gaze. “We took you into our little monastery when no one else would, and this is how you repay us?” His voice was light, but the weight of his disappointment cut through the room like a blade. “How dare you. We already have so little.”
The tension in the air thickened as one of the thieves, a wiry man with dark eyes, spoke up. “The little you have is a treasure to most.” His voice was low, almost challenging.
Woodrow raised an eyebrow, his tone still measured but carrying an edge. “True,” he said, nodding slightly. He arranged his robes and took a seat in one of the chairs as though he were a guest at a fine banquet, perfectly at ease. “But we barely have enough for the people here. And the people who live here come from difficult areas.”
His expression shifted, his smile fading into something more serious. “We have a good plan for Rothfield, something that will benefit everyone. But I can’t allow people like you to ruin our plans.”
The thieves exchanged uncertain glances. Their bravado from earlier began to falter under Woodrow.
Woodrow let the silence stretch for a moment before adding, his voice softer but no less imposing, “You might be wondering where your leader has gone. Don’t bother looking for him.” His green eyes flickered with a quiet, lethal energy. “Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t careful. He would have abandoned you all to fend for yourselves. He told my brother as much.”
The words landed heavily, and the thieves shifted uncomfortably. The realization of their leader’s betrayal stirred anger and confusion. They looked like lost little lambs.
Perfect, Woodrow thought.
Woodrow continued, his voice low. “I suggest you reconsider your actions. I don’t want to see any more unnecessary violence. You’ve been given a chance. Don’t waste it.”
The room was still, save for the sound of ragged breathing. The thieves found themselves at the mercy of a monk they thought acted a fool. A fool that was fluid in his fighting stances, sure, but they thought it was all for show.
The thieves’ shoulders slumped as the weight of their leader’s betrayal sank in, their defiance crumbling in the face of Woodrow’s unwavering demeanor. They were a band of misfits. He had them on edge.
Woodrow saw the shift in their posture and seized the moment. He stood, his presence commanding attention, and strode over to where his dagger had fallen. He picked it up with casual ease, examining the blade with an air of disinterest before his eyes flicked to the thief he had disarmed. The man flinched as Woodrow approached, the coldness of his touch like ice against his skin.
Woodrow smirked, bending down and gently kissing the man’s red hand, making the thief shiver. “I’m familiar with the thief’s code. Stick together, protect your own,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “But your leader… he spat on that code. And for that, he paid the price.”
The thieves exchanged uneasy glances, the reality of their situation settling in.
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“I come to you with a proposition,” Woodrow continued, his tone shifting from cold to almost conversational. He twirled the dagger between his fingers as he spoke, an effortless display of control. “You see how I fight, yes?” He glanced around at the thieves, his gaze sharp and expectant. “Honestly, tell me what you think.”
One of the thieves, a younger man with a nervous twitch in his eye, hesitated for a moment before speaking up. “You’re not like any monk I’ve seen. We didn’t think… We didn’t think you had it in you.” He swallowed hard, glancing at the others.
Woodrow nodded slowly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You must understand, I didn’t come here to fight with you.” He stood tall, his stance one of authority. “I came to offer you a chance. The monastery can offer you shelter, safety, and a place to belong. But not as petty thieves. You’ll leave that life behind, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”
The thieves looked at one another, considering the offer. It wasn’t easy to give up the life they had known, but the realization that their leader had already left them to fend for themselves was a bitter pill to swallow. Woodrow had presented them with a choice: change or face the consequences.
Woodrow’s eyes softened just a touch, but there was still steel in his gaze. “What will it be?” he asked, his voice low and steady. “A new life, or more bloodshed?”
The thieves exchanged wary glances, each of them wrestling with the offer laid before them. Woodrow’s words were sharp, but there was the promise of opportunity. He leaned in slightly, his green eyes sharp. “I think you’ll find fighting in Rothfield is a bit different than what you’ve known. You really could have a new life here. You don’t have to steal. You simply have to ask. Although, outside of Rothfield, I can let you satisfy your thievery.” He paused, letting the weight of that sink in before adding, “In exchange, I expect you to honor your word. No human life is to be taken unless absolutely necessary. And when you do take from the shadowbeasts, you do it for the good of Rothfield.”
Woodrow looked out their window. “I feel that it won’t be long before more roads will open up. Who’s to say that the walled kingdoms and cities wouldn’t pen their borders? Merchants will want to continue trading. Aristocrats and high nobles will want to visit other realms. You can take from them if you wish. And you may take most of what you steal. All I ask if you leave a few resources for Rothfield. Think of it as a charity, rather than tribute.
The older thief stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Charity, you say? You want us to give up our spoils for that?”
Woodrow’s smile grew even wider. “Just a few coins for charity. This place, it’s a place where we take care of each other. If you’re part of it, you’ll see what I mean.”
The younger thief, whose eyes had been locked on Woodrow as though he were hanging on every word, looked at the others. His voice was low but resolute. “It’s better than what we’ve had. We’ll do it.”
Woodrow’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Good. You’ll train hard. And when the time comes, you’ll be ready. But remember, it’s about a new life. And I’ll make sure you have the resources you need. Ealhstan will help you with that. Turn this into a proper den.”
He turned, gesturing toward the rickety walls of the thieves' hideout. “This place will be renovated. You’ll have something better than this shack to call home.”
The older thief’s face softened with a hint of gratitude. “We’ve never had much of anything. If you’re serious about this…”
Woodrow gave them a curt nod. “Then welcome to the fold. But remember, loyalty is earned, not given. You work hard, and you’ll have everything you need. Break your word, though, and we’ll have a different kind of problem.”
As the thieves stood, murmuring among themselves, Woodrow turned on his heel and made for the door, his mind already working on the next steps. They were his now, to shape. And with their skills, Rothfield would be all the stronger for it.
As Woodrow stepped out of the thieves' hideout, his mind raced with plans. The night was still, but he could feel the weight of the decisions he had made already settling in the air. His new recruits were a mixed bag of uncertainty and resolve, but in time, they would be valuable. His smile remained sharp as he walked, already thinking ahead to the days that followed.
Tomorrow, Ryne would take the petalkfolk sheep out to graze in the meadow, their unique, iridescent wool shimmering under his protective light. Ryne would light the black obelisk with the flame powered by the prayers he had gathered, pushing back the shadows that lingered. The glow would soothe and strengthen the land. But Woodrow knew that light alone wouldn’t be enough. The darkness was a persistent, festering rot that needed to be systematically cut out.
The band of thieves—now his men—would be his hands in this, slowly chipping away at the remaining threats, ensuring Rothfield's safety that day. They would reduce the numbers of those lurking in the forest, taking down the most dangerous among them.
As Woodrow passed through the monastery's gates and headed toward his quarters, he couldn't help but glance over at Ryne, who was already speaking with the petalkfolk. The monk's peaceful demeanor, his quiet strength, was a stark contrast to the plan Woodrow had set into motion. But it was a necessary balance. Light and dark, action and prayer, they would complement each other to build a stronger Rothfield. Together, they would ensure its future.
Woodrow entered his room, and the moment he closed the door behind him, he took a deep breath, letting the stillness of the night settle in his chest. Tomorrow would bring challenges, but he was ready for them.