Birds chirped their morning song as dawn’s first light pierced through the rough-hewn windows of the cabin. Unlike the makeshift shacks of most bandits, this one stood solid—sturdy timber, a proper door that latched, even a few glass-paned windows. It wasn’t lavish, rarely did a bandit hold a home that could be called lavish, but it spoke of Draven’s place among his peers, a quiet recognition of his standing.

  A stray beam of sunlight crept across the wooden floor, catching the entwined feet of two figures beneath a heavy wool blanket. The peaceful rhythm of their breathing mingled with distant sounds of the camp stirring to life—the clash of practice blades, the whisper of sharpening stones, the occasional bark of laughter.

  The tranquil scene shattered as Ratty’s voice cracked through the morning air like a dropped plate: “Draven!!! Draven!!! Boss!!! I got something!!!”

  “Ugh, that son of a... I’ll fucking have rat stew tonight,” Draven growled from beneath the blanket, his voice thick with interrupted sleep.

  A melodious giggle emerged from the same blanket. “Hehe, don’t be mad at him,” Serena’s sweet voice whispered. “He’s been with you since the beginning, and honestly, loyalty like that is hard to find among bandits.”

  “Damn it, Serena,” Draven grumbled, still fighting the fog of sleep. “You’ve only known him for three months. Trust me, if the pay was high enough, Ratty would stab me in the back. Granted, it would have to be enough to set him up with a comfortable life until he died old and stupid, but still—don’t think for a second he wouldn’t.”

  “Draven!!! Boss!!!” Ratty’s voice pierced through again. “Huh, maybe he ain’t home... oh, I know! You’re so smart, Ratty.” His voice took on a sing-song quality. “My Lady Serena, oh great beauty within the camp of shit, are you home?!” Each word carried that special quality that made one’s fist itch with the desire to punch him... repeatedly.

  Draven’s eye twitched violently. “Ratty!!! I’m up, damn it—shut up and give me some time!”

  Serena’s laughter burst forth like spring water, pure and sweet. “By the way,” she managed between fits of mirth, “I’ve been curious for a while now—is Ratty his real name?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Draven muttered, emerging from the blanket like a bear from hibernation. “It’s what he told me to call him. I could care less about his real name.”

  A blast of cold air hit his bare skin, drawing forth another curse. “Shit, it’s cold. Where’s my clothes?”

  “In the corner,” Serena purred, her voice taking on a sultry tone. “You threw them there when I asked if you wanted to play with me.”

  Draven sighed, a smile softening his features as he sat beside her on the bed. He leaned in, kissing her gently before pulling back to study her face. “I remember how scared you were at first, yet you adapted so quickly.”

  Serena’s eyes sparkled with mischief and something deeper. “Well, when I ran from home, I certainly didn’t expect to find the romance I was searching for here.”

  “Heh, romance, huh? Well, to that I say...”

  “Bossss,” Ratty’s voice cut in, dragging the ‘s’ out for several excruciating breaths.

  “Seriously, this is big!” Ratty continued. “So hurry up!”

  Draven sighed again, his head dropping in resignation. “Can’t a man get a little peace and quiet, Ratty? Damn, I’m completely naked with my cock swinging out, and you can’t shut up for a damn second!”

  Suddenly, blessed silence fell. Draven and Serena exchanged a glance, his eyebrow slowly lifting. “Wow, that worked?”

  “Guess so,” Serena replied, trying to suppress another giggle.

  “Huh, in that case—” Before Draven could finish, Ratty’s voice shattered the brief peace.

  “By the way, boss, I’ve always wondered—do you have a nice cock? The women always seem to be more interested in you than most of the guys here, so I’m just curious.”

  Draven put his fingers to his forehead and rubbed in exasperation. “I just woke up, and now I’m suddenly so very tired.”

  Still rubbing his forehead, Draven stumbled over to the corner where his clothes lay scattered. He snatched up his worn leather breeches, hopping awkwardly as he pulled them on. “Serena, where’s my—”

  “Your shirt’s hanging off the chair,” she answered before he could finish, wrapping the blanket around herself as she watched him dress with undisguised appreciation.

  “Bossss, hurry up!” Ratty called out again.

  “If you don’t shut up for just one minute, I’m going to stick whatever ‘something big’ you have so far up your—” Draven growled as he yanked his shirt over his head.

  “Ok boss, but still hurry up yeah?” Ratty said seemingly immune to the threats thrown at him.

  Serena sat up, the blanket sliding down only to be caught on her supple breasts, her fair skin still untouched by the harsh life of the camp. She couldn’t keep her emerald eyes off Draven as he dressed, her full lips parting slightly in appreciation. He cut an imposing figure even in this domestic moment—tall and broad-shouldered, with a wild mane of dark blonde hair that fell past his shoulders. His beard, fuller and less tamed than the nobles she’d known, did nothing to hide the sharp angles of his jaw or the high cheekbones that had first caught her attention. Those piercing blue eyes, so striking against his sun-weathered skin, like those of a wolf, noble in its own way.

  Her long dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves, a striking contrast to her pale skin. Where Draven’s features were weathered and harsh, hers held an elegant refinement that spoke of noble breeding—high cheekbones like his, but softer, more graceful. Her emerald eyes sparkled with an innocent warmth as she watched him, her love for him as unconcealed as her beauty. Even now, months into camp life, she moved with an innate grace that no amount of rough living could diminish.

  As he moved, muscles rippled beneath his skin, holding the raw power earned through years of survival. A thin scar across his shoulder caught the morning light, one of many marks that told the story of his violent life. Her delicate fingers reached for his weapon belt as she stared at his calloused hands, a contrast to her own graceful hands.

  “Here,” she said. The worn leather held both his sword and his deadly accurate sling. She watched him buckle it with practiced ease, the motion transforming him fully from her morning lover back into the feared bandit. Yet she could still see traces of nobility in his bearing, an unconscious grace that suggested he could have been something else in another life.

  “What?” Draven asked as he caught something in her gaze, a mixture of affection and sadness.

  “Did you ever think about becoming nobility, Draven?” Serena asked.

  Draven touched her cheeks softly as he stared into her eyes. “From what you have told me and from what I myself know, not at all. That life seems even more cutthroat than this one,” he winked as he gave her a kiss.

  Draven pulled on his worn leather boots, then shrugged into a sleeveless jerkin that had seen better days, its dark leather marked with scratches and crude repairs. The garment held hidden pockets that could hold a knife or two. He’d learned long ago that comfort in camp was no excuse for being unprepared.

  With a final glance at Serena, Draven strode to the door and yanked it open, ready to hear whatever had Ratty so excited. “Alright,” he growled, “what’s so damned important that—”

  His words froze as his eyes widened.

  There stood Ratty, his missing teeth now replaced with gleaming silver—a flashy testament to their months of raiding. Beside him stood a figure who towered over Ratty, though in all fairness the irritating bandit wasn’t the tallest of men. The figure next to him was a woman taller than the average man, Draven was no average man however and still stood a head higher than the figure. Wild black hair tumbled down her shoulders, and silver chains were woven through her well-maintained polished leather armor. A thin scar traced the edge of her jaw, adding a fierce flair to her beautiful allure. Her unnerving amber eyes seemed as if they could peel away a man’s defenses with a single stare. At her hip, a well-worn axe caught the morning light, its edge seeming to glint in anticipation of its next victim.

  “Raven,” Draven’s voice was tight. “Last I saw those eyes of yours, you were leaving me to burn in that merchant convoy.”

  “Now, now, boss,” Ratty’s voice quivered with excitement, “she says she’s got something important to discuss!”

  Ratty’s once-tattered cloak had been replaced by an indigo-dyed wool mantle that looked almost absurdly grand draped over his wiry frame—a trophy from the same caravan raid that had brought Draven and Serena together three months prior. A sleek, braided whip hung from one hip—an indulgence from a robbery two weeks prior—and a brand-new sword rested on the other, fresh from their latest spoils. His hands, once perpetually fidgeting, were now sheathed in fine leather gloves, supple and dark, plucked from the belongings of some unfortunate merchant. The whip, Draven noted with quiet amusement, was an odd choice for someone who had no idea how to use it. But that was Ratty: always a collector of trinkets, always drawn to what caught the eye rather than what served a purpose.

  “That little incident?” Raven pulled an apple from somewhere in her armor, taking a loud, crisp bite. The juice caught the morning light. “Please, I knew you’d survive. You’re always finding ways to survive after all—you’re too stubborn to die.” She shrugged and tossed the half-eaten apple his way. Draven caught it reflexively, taking an irritated bite.

  “Besides,” she added, “watching it burn was worth it.”

  “It wasn’t part of the plan,” Draven growled around the mouthful of apple.

  “The plan went to shit,” Raven said flatly. “I had to improvise.”

  “Improvise?” Draven tossed the apple core aside. “Your kind of improvising tends to leave bodies burning.”

  “OK OK I don’t want to argue. Listen there is a big job going on and big boss Kragen asked me who would be good to plan it. I told him my old boss Draven would be perfect he is always so damn careful,” Raven said, her earlier mockery gone now as she took a more serious tone.

  Draven shot Ratty a blood-freezing stare.

  “Trust me, boss,” Ratty’s silver teeth caught the light as he grinned. “I know you’re not happy, but it’s really big. Lots of money, and nothing we can’t handle.”

  Draven dragged his hand down his face. “Fucking hell.” His long sigh spoke for him.

  He fixed Ratty with another hard stare, then shook his head. “Well, you know what buttons not to push, so fine—I’ll trust you. You don’t usually screw up on what jobs you find.” Looking at Raven, he added, “But not here. Let’s talk somewhere more private.” Draven muttered scanning the morning bustle within his piece of the camp. Cookfires smoked between the scatter of hide tents and rough wooden shelters where his crew made their homes, the smell of burning wood mixing with cooking meat and unwashed bodies.

  A few of his men were already up, practicing with blunted blades or tending to morning chores. Others stumbled from their tents, grumbling and cursing the morning sun.

  One of the bandits lay in a wooden tub, steam rising from water heated by rocks taken from the cookfire. Nearby, another bandit emerged naked from his tent, red marks covering his chest and neck.

  “Get back in there and put on some cloth, damn it! No one wants to see your cock swinging around or those damn love marks,” one of the men yelled.

  “You’re just jealous cause I had a good ride, and I’m bigger than ye... ye... ye... fucking goat lover!” the naked bandit shouted back, scratching himself proudly.

  "Fucking moron!" the yelling bandit spat. "That whore slept with half the camp, but you don't see us parading around like we're something special!"

  The trio passed by as the argument devolved into cruder insults. As they passed another tent, Ratty's ears perked up at the sounds within, his silver teeth glinting as he grinned.

  "By the gods, woman, I can't feel my legs anymore!" a man's voice pleaded from inside.

  "Shut up and take it like a man!" a woman commanded, followed by a sharp slap.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "Ow! Mercy!" the man yelped as the rhythmic sounds continued.

  "Ratty!" Draven barked as they began leaving him behind.

  "There, thats still part of your slice of the camp." Raven nodded toward a massive oak at the edge of Draven's territory, where the undergrowth grew thicker between his section and the neighboring crew's space. Close enough to keep his cabin in sight, far enough that voices wouldn't carry.

  Ratty darted ahead, scrambling up the oak's thick trunk with surprising agility. He settled into a fork between two branches, giving him a clear view of the paths leading to their position.

  "All clear, boss!" Ratty called down, quieter than his usual volume. "I can see all around us. Nobody close enough to hear nothing."

  Draven leaned against the trunk, positioning himself so he could still see his cabin's door. "Now," he said to Raven, his voice low, "what's this job that's got Kragen asking about me?"

  "It's a merchant convoy," Raven said, lounging on a sun-warmed rock. "Ten main wagons, twelve support carts. They're carrying silks and jewels among other things, but that's not the real prize."

  "Ten?" Draven gave her a hard look. "Are you crazier than I thought? We can't run with that many and get them off our tail."

  A cruel smile played across Raven's pretty face, her amber eyes glinting with delight. "Who said anything about running? They'll let us leave with them, or they'll all die."

  Draven sighed, rubbing his temple. "And how exactly does Kragen think this needs my kind of careful when you two already decided on something that would make us lose more than we'd gain?"

  "What are you talking about? That's a lot of loot." Raven stared at him, genuinely confused.

  "Yes, and we lose men doing it when we could easily get away with half that and keep nearly all our crews intact." Draven's voice hardened. "Take half, leave half—they'd have to stay back to protect what remains. It's what I've done plenty of times. Get two, leave three, works all the damn time."

  "Because they're carrying something valuable enough to hire forty armed men." Raven pulled a small leather pouch from her armor and tossed it to him. "That's from Kragen. Guess he thought about your whole 'losing men' issue. There's something specific he wants from one of the wagons."

  The weight made Draven's eyebrows rise. Opening the pouch revealed gold, silver, and even precious gems. Just the advance could feed his crew or their families for a season if any died.

  "My people plus yours," Raven continued, "we'd have the numbers. Three days from now, they'll pass through the valley near the old ruins. Perfect ground for an ambush."

  Draven shook his head. "No, too obvious. They'll be expecting trouble there." He paused, considering. "The cliff road past the western fork—narrow, treacherous. Guards can't maneuver well there, and we can control both high ground and escape routes. Even better, they won't be expecting an attack where their own path is so dangerous."

  "Tell me about their setup," he added, pocketing the advance. "Guard rotations, wagon arrangements—everything you've seen."

  "I got nothing!" Raven beamed with an almost innocent smile.

  Draven's eye twitched violently.

  "That's what you're for, silly," she said, stretching lazily. "Remember, I usually just jump in."

  Draven tightened his fist then let it go with a heavy sigh. "Raven, you haven't changed at all. Fine, I'll have some of my boys scouting. I'll ask if any of the girls here need a silver or two so that if my boys are caught, they can pretend to be on a date or some other excuse. People tend to be stupid when women are thrown into any mix."

  He began tapping his foot as he thought. "We have three days so get your people with mine so they can get to know each other a bit—at least well enough to recognize each other's faces so they don't accidentally kill one another."

  "Got it, boss," Raven said with a smirk.

  "Don't call me that. I haven't been your boss in years, not since that other incident. To be honest, I should have killed you for that one," Draven growled.

  "Ok wait, that time really wasn't my fault, and you know it—that's why you didn't kill me. If it was, you definitely would have!" Raven threw her hands up, actual nervousness creeping into her voice.

  "Come on Ratty, help me out here, you remember that." Raven looked up at Ratty desperately.

  "It's true it wasn't, but you should have known better. Plus, boss did warn you three times not to trust her," Ratty said, shrugging.

  "How was I supposed to know such a pretty thing would have tricked me into doing that!" Raven protested.

  "I never did know why you and her had a thing going on. Raven, were you sleeping around with the boss at that time too? Boss is way more handsome than she was," Ratty said, silver teeth glinting.

  “Well, I mean, the more the better, plus she did this thing with her tongue,” Raven grinned wickedly. “To be honest, I was aiming for a threesome with boss Draven and her at the time so.”

  Draven was rubbing his forehead, looking like he wanted to punch them both.

  “Oh by the way, I asked boss this morning but he never answered, but you’ve seen it so I’m wondering—since all the girls are so into boss, does he have a nice cock?” Ratty asked eagerly.

  Raven’s amber eyes sparkled with wicked delight. “Well, heh, you see he...”

  “OK OK that’s enough Raven, go! Ratty, stop asking about my cock, damn it! Now I’m leaving—I got a scouting team to set up, for fuck’s sake!” Draven stormed away. A few moments later, when they thought he was out of earshot, their laughter burst out. He could still hear Raven’s wild cackle and Ratty’s wheezing giggles.

  Draven’s grumbling curses faded into the morning air as he stalked off to find his scouts.

  Three days had passed quickly, the dawn mist clung to the cliff road like a shroud of death. Draven pressed himself against the rough stone, watching the first wagon emerge through the gray haze. His scouts had earned their silver—the convoy’s timing was exactly as reported. The crunch of wheels on gravel echoed off the cliff walls, accompanied by the occasional snap of a driver’s whip or creak of wooden axles.

  Something moved in his peripheral vision—Raven, no doubt itching to spring the trap. He held up a closed fist, a signal for patience that he hoped she’d actually follow. The lead wagon needed to pass the first marker, or this would all go to shit.

  Shouts and curses from the convoy drew his attention. One of the support carts had apparently lost a wheel. Guards clustered around it, their frustration carrying clearly in the morning air. Draven allowed himself a slight smile. Amazing what a few carefully loosened bolts, some well-placed bribes, and a handful of pointed threats could accomplish. Silver for the stable boy’s cooperation, a knife to the axle wright’s throat, and a promise of protection—rather than torment—for a guard’s family, as long as he turned a blind eye during inspections. Each piece fell perfectly into place.

  Now, they just had to wait for the chain reaction…

  The sound of splintering wood announced the second cart’s wheel giving way. Right on schedule. Panicked shouts erupted as the falling cart forced the wagon behind it to swerve sharply, its wheels catching on the loose gravel Draven’s men had carefully scattered the night before. Most of the guards rushed about in confusion, but Draven noticed a handful moving with disciplined purpose, taking defensive positions around one particular wagon. That wagon probably held what Kragen wanted he presumed.

  The mist worked in their favor, concealing just how many bandits surrounded the convoy. Draven could make out the shapes of guards rushing to secure their perimeter, their movements growing more frantic as they realized just how exposed they were on the narrow cliff road.

  A flash of steel in his peripheral vision made him tense. “Raven,” he growled under his breath, “don’t you dare—”

  “Come on, it’s perfect!” Raven whispered sharply, licking her lips.

  “No, not yet,” Draven snapped, his voice low but firm. “The broken carts are forcing them forward exactly where we want them. Once more wagons pass that bend, they’ll be trapped between their own disabled carts and the narrowest part of the pass. You came to me for a reason, remember? So wait.”

  Raven’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword. Her body was tense, coiled like a spring, and her gaze was locked on the guards moving into defensive positions. “If we wait too long, they’ll figure out we’re here,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

  Draven didn’t spare her a glance. “If you go now, you’ll lose half the men with you and piss away the advantage we’ve worked for. Patience, Raven. Just a few more wagons.”

  Below, merchants were shouting orders to clear the disabled carts, but their guards’ attention was increasingly focused on the mist-shrouded cliffs. A pair of scouts broke away from the group, heading up the road to check for trouble. Draven tracked their movement—they were the same two his men had reported always took point. Everything so far was going according to plan.

  The guards around the target wagon had shifted formation. Small gestures, subtle movements—his scouts’ reports hadn’t exaggerated. These men moved differently than the common sellswords protecting the other wagons. While the regular guards scrambled to deal with the cart problem, these ones were quietly positioning themselves for a fight.

  He caught Yellow Lips’ eye across the pass and gave a slight nod. Time to make the scouts disappear before they returned with news of clear roads ahead. She melted back into the mist, Ladiana and Trata following to pass his signal down the line. The women who’d helped scout the convoy now watched from secure positions as the fighters took their places.

  The convoy continued its slow crawl forward, more wagons passing the point of no return. Just a few more moments.

  A sudden shout from ahead snapped his focus. One of the scouts had found something—the body of a guard, judging by the yell that followed. Draven’s jaw clenched. Too soon.

  He turned to Raven, his glare sharp. “That side was covered by your men Raven!!”

  She shrugged, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, waiting isn’t our strongest skill. Probably got impatient.”

  “Anyway, we can attack now. Finally!” Raven burst from cover with a wild laugh, her blade already drawn. Like leader, like followers.

  “Signals! Now!” Draven roared, all pretense of stealth abandoned. Horns blasted from multiple positions along the cliff, their echoes multiplying in the narrow pass until it seemed an army surrounded the convoy. The mist worked in their favor, concealing their true numbers as shadows emerged from the rocks.

  The convoy erupted into chaos. Guards quickly formed defensive positions around their assigned wagons—these weren’t green recruits but seasoned caravan guards. Years of fending off bandits had taught them well. Some shouted commands to establish a perimeter while others moved to protect the merchants.

  But the men around the target wagon moved differently. Nearby helping Draven coordinate the attack, Ratty watched them closely. Unlike the other guards, these ones had different eyes, the eyes of killers. They might have the same armament as the other wagon guards but the formation was different, and Ratty had been doing jobs with Draven long enough to tell the difference between caravan guards, no matter how veteran, and expensive mercenaries. The type that Draven would always avoid whenever spotted.

  “Shit, the scouts fucked up,” Ratty muttered at the unexpected problem.

  He caught Ladiana’s eye. “You’re still here?”

  “I was about to head back, but Draven asked me to—” Ladiana began.

  “Whatever, listen,” Ratty cut her off, silver teeth glinting as he spoke urgently. “Tell Draven they’ve got expensive mercs here. The real dangerous kind. Go, now!”

  Ladiana ran into the mist without another word.

  From his command position above, Draven watched as Raven took off along the cliff edge. Of course she wouldn’t take the safe path—she leapt from outcrop to outcrop, sliding down loose scree, each move bringing a fresh curse to his lips. He’d lost count how many times he’d sighed since she came to him with this job.

  Below, Raven used the last guard’s shoulders to break her fall, driving him face-first into the ground with a sickening crunch. Her blade was already swinging as she sprang up, finding her second victim before the first had stopped twitching. Her people followed her lead, breaking from cover with their own war cries.

  With no choice left now. Draven’s men joined the fray, emerging from their positions to take advantage of the confusion Raven had caused. They had been with him long enough to know how to use chaos and numbers to their advantage, and while their swings showed no formal training, they were swings formed from experienced combat, forcing the guards to adapt to the less structured combat.

  The archers Draven had positioned along the cliff’s edge held their ground, arrows nocked and ready. Near them, the carefully loosened boulders waited—a last resort he’d hoped to avoid using.

  Ladiana’s quiet approach pulled his attention away from the growing chaos. One look at her expression told him something was wrong.

  Ladiana barely finished her warning about the mercs when movement caught Draven’s eye—a figure breaking away from the convoy, disappearing into the rocks. His jaw clenched. If they had reinforcements nearby...

  “Ladiana, tell the men to push them back against the cliff wall. Those aren’t normal guards around the target wagon—they’re elite mercs. Have our archers keep the high ground and make sure those boulders we loosened are ready.” He grimaced. “And tell them...tell them to use my name. Offer surrender. The Pragmatist’s reputation might be worth something here.”

  He caught her arm as she turned to go. “Make it clear—they live if they surrender, die if they don’t. Even elite mercs choose life when tons of rock are about to rain down on them.”

  Without waiting for her response, he took off after the fleeing figure.

  Draven pursued the fleeing figure through the chaos, his boots crunching against loose gravel and sending small rocks tumbling down the steep incline. He had to keep his steps light; one wrong move here could send him plummeting to the jagged rocks below. The lingering mist clung to the cliffs like a ghostly veil, the muffled sounds of battle echoing in the distance like ghastly cries.

  Something wasn’t right about their movement. Draven had chased enough merchants to know how they typically ran—blindly, frightened, constantly looking back. The figure ahead moved erratically, tripping on uneven ground strewn with loose shale and scattered boulders. Despite their stumbling gait, they always managed to recover at the last moment, slipping through cracks and crevices. Each time they should have hit a dead end or wrong turn, they’d hesitate for just a moment, head tilting slightly as if listening to someone—then somehow choose the exact path that led them deeper into the cliffs.

  The figure stumbled suddenly near a section where the rock had crumbled away entirely. Draven surged forward, certain he had them. But they caught themselves with unnatural grace, disappearing into a narrow gap between the rocks.

  Draven matched their pace, staying just far enough behind to watch. When they slipped into an even tighter passage, he smiled grimly. He knew these cliffs—there was nowhere left to run.

  Finally, the passage narrowed further, forcing Draven to turn sideways to squeeze through. He emerged into a small clearing nestled against the cliff face, surrounded on three sides by towering rock walls. The figure stood there, framed by the jagged stone and faintly glowing mist, their back to a cliffside alcove partially concealed by overhanging ivy.

  Draven’s gaze darted to the bundle in their arms—a flash of soft cloth, and the unmistakable curve of an infant’s face peeking out. Now Draven could see what they’d been protecting.

  “And which bandit are you a lowly minion or one of those who prances around with a name?” the figure wrapped up tightly in an indistinguishable robe asked mockingly, their face wrapped tightly with cloth.

  "Draven." Draven answered.

  “The Pragmatist,” they said softly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “And you,” Draven kept his blade ready but didn’t advance, “are no merchant.”

  A bitter laugh then they shifted the bundle slightly, and Draven caught a glimpse of a tiny hand curled against the cloth, oblivious to the danger around it. The figure looked down at the child, their shoulders sagging with the weight of what was to come. For a moment, their eyes held such emptiness that Draven could almost feel the cost of the decision they were about to make.

  Then, like steel being drawn from a forge, resolve hardened their bearing. They looked up, meeting his gaze through the wrapped cloth that hid their features.

  “I have heard you keep your word, Pragmatist. I need that word now.” Their voice remained steady even as their arms tightened protectively around the bundle. “I have an offer for you. One that would profit you far more than this raid ever could.”

  QuillTome II

  End