The days following the caravan ambush had passed in a tense blur. Ormstead, a village once wary of outsiders, had grown accustomed to the lingering presence of Gregory Bearheart and the remnants of Vannis Ravencroft’s ill-fated caravan. The dead had been buried, the wounded mended, and the roads once stained with blood now carried the routine weight of travelers and traders once more.

  But tension still hung in the air.

  Greg had not forgotten his “reward”.

  For three days, he had made his presence painfully known to Vannis, a shadow looming over the merchant at every turn. With each sunrise came another reminder, another demand—his cut, the wages of the caravan guards who had not walked away from the ambush. It was, as Greg put it, compensation for services rendered. But the truth was simpler: he was owed, and he would not be ignored.

  Vannis, however, had a problem.

  He did not have the coin.

  Every promise of future payment, every half-hearted attempt to pacify the half-orc only seemed to fuel Greg’s persistence. It was clear to all who watched—especially Aren and Trevor, who remained close at Vannis’s side—that the merchant was running out of ways to stall this burly barbarian. And while Greg had not yet resorted to outright threats, his presence alone was a threat in itself.

  Beyond this slow-burning conflict, Ormstead moved on. The town’s garrison, bolstered by Greg’s temporary enlistment, had begun reinforcing patrols along the roads. Rumors of the surviving Crimson Claw bandits regrouping in the region had reached Captain Eldrick’s ears, and he was keen on ensuring they did not return to finish what they started. With the undead threat seemingly eradicated, the region still held dangers, and the village needed every capable sword.

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  Sienna, ever the silent observer, had remained unseen but not absent. Her eyes followed Vannis from a distance, tracking his movements as she weighed her next move. Whatever her true goal was, she had yet to act upon it.

  And so, on the fifth evening after the party's triumph in the dead clearing, the scene was set.

  The common room of Ormstead’s modest inn buzzed with quiet conversation, the scent of stew and ale mingling with the smoky air from the hearth. Greg sat near the back, his broad frame nearly swallowing the rickety wooden chair beneath him. His gaze was locked on Vannis, who sat stiffly at a nearby table, fingers drumming anxiously against the worn wood.

  Trevor stood by the wall, arms crossed, watching the two with silent amusement. Aren sat nearby, his gaze shifting between the two men, clearly uncomfortable but saying nothing.

  The silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

  Greg exhaled, cracking his knuckles. "So, Vannis," he rumbled, leaning forward slightly. "You got my coin yet, or are we gonna have this conversation again?"

  Vannis forced a smile, though it barely reached his eyes. "Gregory, my friend, you know I intend to pay you—"

  "That so?" Greg cut in. "'Cause I’ve been hearin’ that for days now. See, I was told there was coin in that locked wagon of yours. Figured that meant you’d have somethin’ set aside for folks who put their necks on the line. Turns out, I figured wrong."

  The merchant swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "The attack was... unexpected. I lost more than I can count, and certain assets are still—unrecoverable. If you would allow me more time, I assure you—"

  Greg’s fist hit the table—not hard, but firm enough to make Vannis flinch. "Ain’t interested in assurances, Vannis. Interested in pay."

  Trevor chuckled under his breath, but said nothing.

  Outside, beyond the inn’s wooden walls, the night stretched on. Somewhere in the dark, unseen eyes watched. And in the quiet corners of Ormstead, forces moved unseen, setting plans into motion that none at the table could yet foresee.

  ... and back to gameplay