The sun hung high over the town, its golden light casting long lines between the slanted rooftops and down the narrow cobbled streets. The five of them moved with practiced ease, cloaks slung over their shoulders, each step measured but natural. The streets buzzed with the usual noise of midday trade—shouting merchants, bartering townsfolk, and the occasional barking of stray dogs.
Celeste tugged lightly at the edge of her cloak, her eyes darting to the watchtower at the town's edge.
"Shouldn't we pull up our hoods?" she asked quietly. "Cover our faces?"
One of the men, a wiry outlaw with a scar running from his lip to his jaw, shook his head without looking at her. "No. That'd be more suspicious. Five people walking through town with their faces covered? It's like waving a flag. Trust me, it draws more eyes."
Genkil turned his head just enough to meet her gaze. "The main team, the ones hitting the armory, they're hooded. We're just running interference. No one's going to be looking at our faces too closely. Just act like you belong."
Celeste nodded, biting down on the instinctive unease building in her chest.
They moved like water through the side alleys, weaving between crates and stalls. Everything was measured. Controlled. But the peace broke quickly.
From a few streets over, shouting burst like a crack of thunder.
"Get out of the way!"
"Guards! Call the guards!"
Genkil grinned. "They're on schedule. Alright, time for our part."
From beneath his cloak, he pulled out a large burlap sack and gave it a shake. Then, without hesitation, the group moved in sync toward the nearby market square. As the distraction grew louder in the background, they stepped into the narrow lanes between food stalls and stands.
With swift, practiced hands, they began sweeping goods into the sack—baskets of bread, clusters of dried meats, fresh fruits and hunks of cheese. Celeste hesitated only for a heartbeat before joining them, sliding a round of smoked cheese into the bag.
"Thieves!" a voice shrieked behind them.
"Guards! Where are the guards?!"
Chaos bloomed. The crowd shifted like a wave, pulling back from the scene. Some began to yell, others pointed, and the moment the first metal clank of armored boots hit the stone, they pulled up their hoods and scattered into the movement.
"Run," Genkil muttered.
Two of the outlaws, already shouldering bulging sacks, sprinted ahead. Celeste and Genkil trailed behind while Darvic, surprisingly fast for his size, moved in heavy strides just ahead of them.
But as they turned down a narrow street, two guards stepped out from the shadows, swords drawn and faces hard. "You won't escape," one of them said, blocking their path.
"Remember," Genkil whispered to Celeste, "we're not trying to kill them. Just stall. Make it messy."
Celeste nodded and drew her daggers with a steely breath. The clatter of metal filled her ears as the first guard swung. She stepped into the motion, dipped low beneath the blade, and delivered a quick slice across his thigh—not deep, but sharp enough to stagger him and demand attention.
Darvic laughed behind her. "Oho! Not bad."
The guards hesitated just long enough for the two burdened outlaws to slip past them.
But as they cleared the corner, another guard appeared—barely more than a boy. Fresh leather armor. A clean sword. Eyes too wide to belong on a battlefield.
Darvic's grin widened. "Let's see what you've got."
He threw his sack down with a heavy thud and pulled a short-handled war hammer from beneath his cloak. With one step, he closed the distance, swinging the hammer in a low arc aimed for the boy's center.
Celeste's eyes narrowed. She stepped back from her opponent and snapped at Darvic, "And where's the prolonging part?"
Darvic didn't answer. The hammer missed the boy by a breath's width, and the clamor of steel against stone echoed through the street.
The chaos doubled.
Ten more guards rounded the corner, shouting commands and flooding into the alley like a sudden flood.
Darvic caught sight of them and gave a bark of laughter. "That's our cue."
He snatched the food sack back up, tossed it over his shoulder, and roared, "Alright, enough playing! We're leaving!"
The hooves of the messenger's horse kicked up thick clouds of dust as it skidded to a halt in front of the group of soldiers. His breath was ragged, and his eyes wild with urgency.
"Sir, Hegran! The armory!" he panted, barely able to catch his breath. "It's… it's under attack!"
Captain Hargen, a broad-shouldered man with streaks of silver in his beard, furrowed his brow. "What!?"
The scout nodded quickly, gripping the reins tighter. "The guards posted there were overrun. I managed to get out… but if we don't hurry, they'll take everything."
Hargen spat, a curse muffled behind his teeth. "Damn it all."
His head twisted toward the sounds of pursuit—steel clashing against stone, bootsteps pounding down alleys—but already, the skirmish was losing momentum. The bait had been taken. The outlaws had scattered, and his men were chasing ghosts.
"Leave them!" he barked, raising his hand high. "Everyone! Back to the armory—now!"
The company turned like a tide, steel armor clanking, orders shouted, boots stamping against the stone as they rushed back through the town.
When they arrived at the armory, the massive iron gates were shattered. The wooden doors blown inward, splintered like matchsticks. Inside, it was worse—racks of swords, spears, and shields were empty. Helmets rolled loose on the ground. A few guards lay sprawled, either unconscious or barely breathing.
Hargen stood silent in the doorway for a long moment. He stared at the chaos, his jaw tightening until the muscles in his cheek twitched.
"They fooled us…" he muttered.
A younger officer looked at him, uncertain. "Sir?"
"It was a damn decoy," Hargen growled. "The chaos in the square… it was just to draw us away."
The scout who had brought the warning stood nearby, still catching his breath. "Sir… they had hoods. But some weren't even covered. Like they didn't care if we saw them."
Hargen clenched his fists. "No. They wanted us to see them. To chase them. Damn it all…"
He turned to his men. "Spread the word to the next towns. Get reinforcements. If these bastards think they can rob us and walk away free, they're mistaken. We'll hunt them to the edges of the realm if we have to."
Elsewhere, in the shadows of the woods, laughter echoed low and satisfied.
The outlaws reconvened at their designated meeting point—an abandoned clearing, quiet and shielded by thick brush. One by one, they emerged from different paths, some grinning, others still catching their breath.
Five massive bags sat piled near the center—steel and leather bulging from within. Shields leaned together in a haphazard stack. Spears and swords peeked from the open sacks, still gleaming with the luster of new craft.
Two more bags sat off to the side—filled with bread, dried meat, and fruits. A haul fit for a warband.
Varen stood at the head of the gathering, arms crossed, a rare smile on his face. It was the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"Well done, bastards," he said. "This will keep us stocked for a good while. We'll sell what we don't use, and arm ourselves with what we've been lacking."
He turned slightly, his eyes sweeping across the group like a general surveying his troops. "Now we put as much distance between us and that town as we can. Soldiers will be out, and they'll be pissed. I don't want any of us caught. Got it?"
A chorus of nods and muttered affirmatives rose from the group. The mood was light, almost celebratory.
As they began marching deeper into the woods, Darvic walked alongside Celeste. He nudged her shoulder with a grin.
"That wasn't so bad, eh?" he said. "Told you there was something in you."
Celeste shot him a flat look. "That's not what you said."
Darvic laughed. "Ah, don't be so dramatic. I was testing you. Can't go around handing out praise to every lost girl who stumbles into our camp."
She grunted in annoyance. She didn't like the smugness. But what irritated her more was that some part of her felt proud. Despite everything, she'd managed to hold her ground. Maybe it shouldn't matter what a man like Darvic thought—but after all she'd endured, a small recognition felt like something real.
Then Varen slowed his pace and fell back beside her, Darvic, and Genkil. His presence changed the air slightly. Even among the outlaws, he held a certain weight.
"So," he said, eyes never leaving the path ahead. "How'd our newbie do?"
Genkil nodded. "She did well. Didn't hesitate when it counted."
Darvic smirked. "Yeah. Even gave one of the guards a souvenir on his thigh."
Varen raised an eyebrow, then looked at Celeste. "Good."
It wasn't warm. It wasn't congratulatory. But it wasn't dismissive, either.
Then, his gaze narrowed slightly. "Just make sure you don't disappoint in the future."
Celeste stiffened.
She couldn't quite explain why those words struck her so hard. It wasn't even that they were threatening. They were just… unfamiliar. Expectations. Real expectations. Not empty talk. Not something that would be forgotten tomorrow.