Eventually, the rest of the soldiers fled once half of them was defeated. The outlaws made a loud victorious roar, but Varen wasn't so happy.
He sat on a fallen log stained with moss and flecks of blood. He winced as he shifted, the deep gash above his eye still weeping despite the crude bandage wrapped around his head. One of his men approached and saluted with a clenched fist to his chest.
"How many casualties?" Varen asked, voice like gravel.
The man didn't hesitate. "Three heavily injured. One dead."
Varen stared ahead at nothing for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a slow breath, low and tired. "Well… better for him, I guess."
He rose stiffly, blood drying in patches on his cloak, and turned to face the rest of the group. His voice hardened, rising sharply in the clearing like a whip crack.
"Alright, listen up, you cowards!"
The entire group snapped to attention. Even those resting jerked upright.
"We stand for each other. That's the rule. The only fucking rule that matters. We don't trust outsiders, we don't rely on the system, and we sure as shit don't bend to cowardly nobles or bounty-hungry dogs in shiny armor."
Varen's gaze swept across the faces of those who had hesitated. A few of them took instinctive steps back, avoiding his glare. Their expressions were pale, ashamed.
"You saw what just happened. That soldier wanted a reward more than he wanted to do his job. He was ready to let you all go if we just threw one of our own to the wolves. That's the system. That's the law you lot were so quick to nod your heads at!"
He stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
"So what the fuck didn't you understand when I said—she—is—one—of—us!?"
The words hit like strikes of thunder.
No one answered.
"If this happens again," Varen growled, "if I ever see anyone so much as flinch at the idea of betrayal—I will personally carve your spine out after the fight. Do you understand me?"
A chorus of terrified voices rose in unison.
"Y-yes, boss!"
Varen exhaled, then rolled his sore shoulder and muttered, "Good."
He turned to Genkil and Darvic. "Get the wounded on their feet. Use the stronger potions if you have to. We move now. Once we reach the base in this region, we can rest proper."
Darvic grunted, tossing a fresh bandage at one of the injured men. Genkil helped someone to their feet with his usual lopsided grin, though his eyes were dark with thought.
The group began marching. Most were quiet, still reeling from the battle. A few whispered about Varen's words, or cast sideways glances at Celeste. But no one spoke openly anymore.
Celeste walked near the back. Her legs felt heavy, her stomach sore, and her left arm still screamed with pain when she moved it. But she didn't limp.
She glanced at Genkil, who walked beside her, bouncing a small pouch of herbs in one hand. He seemed tired, but relaxed, like someone used to the aftermath of chaos.
She looked at him for a long moment, debating something in her mind.
"He-hey," she finally said, voice quieter than usual.
Genkil turned to her. "What is it?"
She hesitated, then asked, "Why did you stand up for me back there? You could've just thrown me out. None of you would've had to fight. Some of your men got hurt—one even died."
Genkil didn't answer at first. He just walked a little longer, eyes on the road.
Then he clicked his tongue thoughtfully and said, "Hmm… I don't know. Guess I saw myself in you a little."
Celeste blinked. "What do you mean?"
He scratched his neck and looked out into the trees. "When I was about eighteen, I lived in a small village, nothing fancy. One of those places where everyone knows each other and suspicion spreads like wildfire. I used to do odd jobs—woodcutting, helping with repairs, that kind of thing. One day, the village chief's house caught fire. Big blaze. Whole thing collapsed."
He paused, and his smile vanished.
"At the time, I had been working near his place, helping mend the fence. Only man nearby, since the others were out in the fields. Most women were back home—doing their usual chores. So guess who they blamed?"
Celeste didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Genkil gave a humorless chuckle. "They didn't kill me, though. Claimed they had no real proof. But proof didn't matter. Their suspicions did. So they banished me. Said if I ever returned, they'd string me up."
He pulled a small, carved token from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers.
"Those days at the woods?" he continued. "I thought it was over. I didn't even know healing spells, unlike you. Had no food, no map. Almost froze. I was dying. And then Varen found me. Didn't ask questions. Just threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and said, 'You want to live, follow me.'"
Genkil tucked the token away and smiled again—faint, but genuine.
"They never betrayed me. Not once. So when I saw you lying there like I did once—I don't know. I figured, maybe it's my turn now."
Genkil's voice dropped a little as he glanced at her from the side. "And all of these bastards had this type of story, you know? Being rejected by everything that's supposed to be 'good.' Tossed out like trash, forgotten, spat on, feared. So we built something out of that. We said, screw the world, and stuck together. That's why everyone here is so damn loyal."
Celeste didn't respond. Her face barely moved. Her hands were resting on her lap, her thumb brushing the edge of one of her daggers—something she did when trying to ground herself. Her eyes were blank, unreadable, but Genkil had seen enough people like her to know that silence didn't mean agreement.
He exhaled slowly. "Don't hold it against them. Not too hard, anyway," he added, quieter. "You're new. The only girl. Some of them still don't see you as one of us."
Still, Celeste didn't say she understood. Because she didn't.
But she remembered what they had done. In that moment of choice—when they could've sold her out, when it would've been easier to throw her to the wolves—they stood by her. And that was the difference.
The memory of that battle, the sound of metal clashing and arrows whistling, slowly drifted away, replaced by the haze of days, then weeks, then months that followed.
Celeste had become one of them. Not by words or ceremonies, but by fire, blood, and repetition.
When she healed fully, they went on more operations—just like the first. They moved fast, traveled light, vanished before reinforcements could arrive. The group grew—new faces joined, old ones hardened. But not once did betrayal come up again. Not even a whisper of it. Varen made sure of that.
But over time, the things they did became heavier. The targets weren't always soldiers or corrupt officials. Sometimes it was simple merchants who had what the group needed. Sometimes it was a home that happened to be too close to a cache of stolen goods. They left people bloodied. Sometimes dead. Sometimes worse.
There were nights Celeste lay awake, staring at the stars, wondering how far gone she was. Wondering if she'd ever be able to look at herself in a mirror again and see something more than what the world said she was.
A monster. A parasite. A criminal. A liar.
But even in those moments, when shame twisted her gut and guilt whispered in her ear, she thought of the way Genkil had stood in front of her. The way Darvic had barked at the cowards. The way Varen had put his life on the line—no hesitation, no second thought.
That kind of loyalty was more than she'd ever had before. So she stayed.
They were terrible people. Of that, she had no doubt. But they were her terrible people. A crooked family of broken humans who never got to heal properly. Who stopped believing they could live among others. Who knew how to hurt, and knew they would be hurt in return—but still chose each other.
And somehow, even through all the violence and pain, they were home.
The memory bled away, like a fog lifting, and Celeste was back in the cell. Her voice cracked as she finished the story, her breathing quick and shallow. Her arms were trembling slightly.
Padrin was staring at her. Silent. His brows pulled together tightly as if trying to process every word at once.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but hoarse. "I'm so sorry that all happened to you."
She looked down, not trusting herself to look at him directly.
"You had it so hard," he continued. "And it's not fair. It was never fair. But Celeste—"
His hand gently rested on hers.
"I'm here for you now."
The words broke something in her. Her fingers clenched beneath his, and her shoulders shook. Tears welled in her eyes faster than she could hide them. She tried to turn her head, but he leaned closer.
"Let's leave this place," he whispered. "Let's get out of here—and rescue your friends. If that's what you want, then that's what we'll do. You don't have to be alone anymore."
Celeste couldn't hold it in. She began to cry—quietly at first, then with little gasps as the walls she'd built started to crack. Her head dropped forward, resting against his hand.
"I missed you, Padrin…" she whispered through her tears. "I really did…"
He pulled her gently into an embrace. She leaned into it like a child leaning into a memory of warmth. His arms wrapped around her, trembling.
"I should've looked for you," he said, voice thick with emotion. "I should've searched every ravine, every village. I should've known you were still out there. But I thought you were gone. I thought it was over, and I—I couldn't bear it."
Tears were running down his cheeks now too. He pressed his forehead against hers.
He said. "I wish instead of killing that noble, I would search for you. I would find you for sure... but... but I just thought it was over..."
Her arms tightened around him as she wept silently.
"I'm so sorry, Celeste. I'm so sorry you had to go through all of this without me. I would've given anything to be there."
"It's okay," she murmured, voice breaking. "You're here now. That's all that matters…"