"You filthy whoreson!"

  A table crashes, splintering under the weight of the man thrown into it. He groans, rolling onto his side, clutching his ribs. The tavern falls into a stunned silence, save for the flickering hearthfire and the scrape of chairs being pushed back.

  Osric surges forward, slamming his hands onto the bar. "What in the hells is this madness?!" His furious glare locks onto the rough-looking man responsible for the outburst.

  The aggressor stands rigid, his breath heaving. His long, unkempt hair falls in wild strands over his face, a thick, scraggly beard framing his clenched jaw. A ragged cloak drapes over his broad shoulders, his stance is aggressive, one fist clenched tight, the other hand wrapped in fraying bandages.

  The man on the floor groans as he forces himself up onto his hands. "Madness? I'll tell you what’s mad! That bastard-" he jabs a shaking finger at his attacker "-is no honest man! I saw him, back in Mornsted! Saw him trading coin with the bastard who robbed me caravan! He consorts with brigands! If he's not one himself!"

  A murmur ripples through the gathered patrons, suspicion thick in the air. The rough-looking man steps forward, his voice a growl. "You’d best be careful what you accuse me of, drunkard. Or me cleaver’ll set you straight."

  Osric's gaze darts between them, eyes narrowing. "Is this true?"

  The accused man’s expression darkens. "I don’t answer to the likes of him. I keep my own business, and I suggest you all do the same."

  The tension crackles along with the burning hearth. Osric leans forward over the bar, his hands clenched against its wooden surface. "You were accused of consortin’ with brigands, friend. The proper answer’d be ‘Nay! I’d never sink so low as to deal with that filth.’"

  The accused scoffs, shaking his head. "Not obliged to you, fat man. I’ve no cause to waste me breath arguin’ with fools." He glares at Osric, his voice dripping with irritation. "I came for a warm meal and a bit of drink, not to be questioned like a common thief."

  Osric folds his arms, unmoved. "When travelers are spotted with suspicious company, we tend to ask questions."

  The man sneers, shaking his head. "Yet I don’t owe you answers."

  Osric’s eyes swirl with suspicion, but after a few moments past, he relents. "Aye, maybe so. But I won’t serve a man who won’t swear off those scum. Pay for the table you broke and leave."

  The man’s jaw tightens as his eyes flick to the broken table and the man he hurled through it. "Have ‘im pay for it. I owe you nothin’."

  A tense silence follows, thick enough to choke on.

  Ren, Luna, and I descend the stairway, stopping in our tracks as the tension in the room thickens. The man turns, his eyes locking onto mine, and widening in recognition. A flicker of confusion, then fear. I know that face. That unkempt hair, that ragged cloak. And then I see it… the bandaged hand.

  "You, I know you." I growl, stepping forward. "Brigand."

  The tavern falls deathly silent. Those already observing the scene and those who weren't, one and all, focus their attention on the ragged man.

  Osric cuts in, his voice cold and sharp. "He’s a brigand?"

  I nod, my hand resting on the club on my belt. His former leader's club. "Yeah, there's no doubt. He's the one that escaped me."

  Chairs scrape against the floor as the men rise, one after the other. The air grows heavy, dangerous, crackling with a slow-building rage. The weight of justice. The weight of vengeance.

  The brigand’s attitude changes immediately, his angry glare melting into a pleading frown. His fingers twitch at his sides, his feet shift back involuntarily as he retreats from the mob.

  "Wait," he says, his voice hoarse. He raises a hand, but it trembles. "I'm not- he's lying!"

  The man the brigand threw into the table steps forward, cracking his knuckles, his face twisted in righteous anger. "Lyin', is he? Then why did I see you slippin' coin to that murderous bastard a weeks past, huh?"

  The murmurs grow louder, a tide of voices rising in agreement.

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  The brigand’s breath quickens. He throws up his hands, shaking his head frantically. "You’re wrong! You didn't- listen to me! I ain’t no brigand! You’re makin’ a mistake!"

  Boots thud against the floor as the men of the tavern advance in unison, their faces dark with fury, their eyes gleaming with something primal. The collective will of a people wronged.

  The brigand swallows hard, glancing around, searching for an escape. But there is none. Every man in this tavern stands between him and the exit.

  "Wait- please!"

  He keeps retreating, until his back hits the wall.

  A man cracks his knuckles. Another spits on the ground. Someone else whispers something under their breath, a prayer... or a curse?

  The brigand moves suddenly, desperate, his trembling hand diving beneath his cloak.

  Steel flashes.

  A cleaver.

  "Stay back!" he rasps, but his voice is drowned beneath the rumbling growl of the mob closing in.

  He barely has time to react before a burly patron barrels into him from the side, sending him crashing to the floor. His cleaver skitters across the wooden planks, lost in the sea of stomping boots. He gasps, struggling to rise, but the mob is already on him.

  Fists slam into his body from all directions. A heavy boot cracks into his ribs, he chokes on his breath, coughing blood. Hands tear at his cloak, dragging him deeper into the fray. A mug smashes against his temple, shards of wood and froth exploding over his face as he crumples. Someone yanks him up by his hair, only to drive a knee into his face. Blood spatters onto the floorboards.

  He thrashes, clawing at the hands gripping him, but there is no escape, they are too many. A punch to the gut folds him in half. Another crashes into his jaw, his vision blurs, darkens.

  He tries to speak, to beg, to plead... but a heavy hand clamps around his throat, squeezing, choking. A boot stomps down on his fingers, bones crunching like dry twigs. A final, desperate scream tears from his throat-

  But it is lost beneath the roaring fury of the mob.

  "Make way."

  The men part as Osric steps through, a long hunting blade in his hand.

  "You brigand scum-"

  He raises the weapon high, the trembling brigand doesn't move, he's not able to, all his limbs useless.

  But before Osric can strike, My hand clamps around his wrist, stopping the blade mid-swing. The room tenses, furious eyes turning to me.

  I speak calmly, though truthfully my wounds pain me. "Spilling his blood now would be wasteful. Let him answer for his crimes before the mayor."

  There's a rumble through the crowd, dissatisfied, irritated. But I continue, speaking as smoothly as I’m able. "A swift death is too kind.... let him suffer. Let him lead us to the rest."

  The mayor said I’d get a gold coin for capturing one alive. I don’t know if this counts, but I might get something out of it at least.

  Osric breathes heavily, his knuckles white around the hilt of his blade. The rage in his eyes is still there, burning, but the logic in my words seeps through. After a long moment, he lets out a deep sigh and jerks his arm away, tossing the blade onto the bar.

  "Fine," he mutters, turning toward the gathered patrons. "Someone fetch Philip and Dale, let the guardsmen take him to the mayor. This whoreson’s got words to spill before he dies."

  The scene quiets as the two guardsmen arrive, hauling away the bloodied, half-conscious brigand. His groans are weak, barely audible over the armored footsteps echoing against the tavern’s wooden floor. No one spares him a second glance.

  Ren watches with a smile, apparently enjoying the brigand's suffering. Luna, by contrast, looks utterly uninterested, idly picking at her nails.

  Osric steps forward, exhaling as the tension in the room finally eases. "Well then, Seven, much obliged. If not for you, this bastard would’ve walked right in and out of here. And…." he lowers his gaze thoughtful, though there’s still a hint of anger in his voice. "-I suppose it was good you stopped me. With any luck, he’ll cough up somethin’ useful ‘fore the mayor hangs him high."

  Luna sneers, shaking her head. "It’s a miracle they haven’t fallen apart already, the way they operate. That idiot walking into towns he's accosted, after people have seen his face?"

  Osric snorts. "Aye, they’re not an intelligent lot. But their leader... now, that’s the real problem."

  As his gaze flicks to Luna, a look of concern darkens the older man's face. "If you're planning on leaving the town walls, young miss, best you tread carefully. The roads aren't safe, and a woman like you... well, you’d make for a tempting prize."

  Luna scoffs and stomps off, pushing through the tavern doors without so much as a backward glance. The chill of the night rushes in behind her before the door swings shut.

  Osric watches her go, frowning. "Did I offend her?"

  Ren smirks, shaking his head. "The problem is hers, not yours."

  Osric exhales through his nose, still looking a little worried, before nodding and returning to his work.

  I turn to Ren. "Where's she going?"

  Ren waves a dismissive hand. "She has business of her own in town, separate to your business with... the one outside Ravencroft's walls."

  I scoff. "She could’ve said something before leaving."

  Ren gives me a smile. "She’s a difficult one. Temperamental, irritating… as most women are, no? Hmhmhm..." Ren chuckles to himself, before looking to the doors she left through, his sharp eyes narrowing.

  "A pity her competence doesn’t match her arrogance. Watching out for that feeble girl is a trying task."

  I blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.

  Does he not like her? From what I’ve seen he always seemed satisfied letting her take the lead, trusting her judgement.

  But his words just now... huh….

  He laughs again, eyes drifting shut as he speaks. "Don't let her trouble you, Seven. Take some time. Rest. And... consider Lucien's offer."

  I go still at that. His offer? My pulse quickens.

  I never mentioned any offer. In fact I went out of my way not to.

  Ren’s eyes open, fixing me with a stare that makes my skin crawl. His pupils, thin slits, cold as ice, bore into me.

  "Choose as you will," he murmurs, voice light, dismissive. "It's all the same to me, in the end."

  He doesn’t elaborate. With a final glance, he turns on his heel and strides out the door, vanishing into the night after Luna.