The first sign of the attack was the sudden crack of a branch—a deliberate snap meant to draw eyes. It worked. Heads turned, attention fractured, and that was when the true assault began.

  From the treetops, black-clad figures shot down a hail of arrows. Minor bombs exploded along the caravan’s flanks, shrapnel flew around the place, and dust clouds obscured vision.

  The shieldbearers seemed to deal with the arrows well enough, but the bomblets had surprised the backline.

  Gerharr roared, raising his great blade as he rushed forward and cleaved a spearman who jumped out from the shrubbery clean through the chest. “Attack, do not be cornered!” he bellowed.

  The shieldbearers moved to the treeline to root out the enemy. Raider spearmen tried jabbing through their defenses. A scream rang out as one spear found its mark, but just as quickly, a dark shape lunged over the shields, throwing a dagger into the back of a shieldbearer as it maneuvered across the formation.

  Norik moved like a specter through the treeline, his panzerstecher darting out with surgical precision. He caught a large raider from the side, thrusting the narrow weapon through his chestplate and rupturing something vital before discarding the corpse and stepping into the next strike to catch it with his swordbreaker. His lips curled in a snarl, his hunger flaring at the scent of fresh blood.

  Fardun had already taken to higher ground, leaping atop a wagon and loosing arrows into the trees. Tracking down the enemy bowmen one by one—a branch moving up and down, leaves rustling, an arrow flying in a certain arc—they all would eventually reveal themselves.

  Gerharr swung his hunting sword in wide arcs, his massive bulk and strength keeping the attackers at bay. A trio of axe-wielding figures rushed him. He met them head-on, but one managed to slip behind him, sinking an axe blade between the gaps of his armor. He snarled in pain and forced him to kneel on one knee. In rage, he grabbed the axe man by the head and smashed his head down onto the ground before flinging his unconscious body toward the other attackers.

  As the battle raged outside and sounds of clashing blades and dying pain filled the air, Reynard cowered inside his personal carriage, his ears flat against his skull as he clutched a jeweled dagger in trembling hands. His guards were being cut down by a force larger than any standard raider party—he knew this was what he feared.

  The shieldbearers wavered as a second wave of berserker attackers crashed into them—this time with the support of lightly armored flankers carrying daggers. The defenders were stunned and picked apart as the overbearing assault became too much to handle.

  Norik fought with ferocity, intercepting enemy attackers from the shadows before retreating again. But even he could see the tide turning. They were being corralled, pushed into a shrinking circle of resistance.

  Gerharr, wounded and bleeding but still standing, planted his feet and growled, “Fardun! Loose everything you’ve got! We break through NOW or we’re finished!”

  “Yea, yea, captain,” Fardun shot a few incoming attackers, but she knew the truth—there were too many; for every attacker that fell, two more emerged from the darkness. This battle wasn't going anywhere, and she started considering fleeing.

  Gerharr stood at the center of the dwindling defense, blood dripping from the wound in his side. His grip tightened around his hunting sword as he saw the truth—this battle was lost. Even now, their enemies moved with the precision of veteran killers, striking with coordinated fury rather than reckless savagery. These weren’t common brigands; this was a warband.

  A raider lunged at him from the side, but Gerharr intercepted with a brutal backhand, his gauntlet smashing the attacker’s jaw into a crooked ruin. He turned just in time to parry another strike, his blade clashing against an enemy’s axe. He shoved forward, knocking the foe off balance, then drove his sword deep into his gut.

  “Enough.”

  A figure strode through the battlefield with an unsettling calm. His form was shadowy and inconsistent, wrapped in a dark long coat that billowed slightly with each step. His hollow eyes showed nothing but a cold, abyssal depth.

  The command wasn’t barked, wasn’t shouted—but it carried weight. The raiders stopped their attack. They moved a few steps back, leaving only the handful of surviving caravan guards standing in a loose, ragged formation.

  The silence was almost worse than the battle.

  Gerharr spat blood onto the ground, his chest heaving. His massive frame was riddled with cuts and bruises, his armor dented where blades had found their mark. Still, he stood tall, gripping his hunting sword with hands caked in dirt and gore. He eyed the dark figure with a glare that held no fear—only exhaustion and defiance.

  “If you’re here to gloat,” he growled, his voice like grinding stone, “get on with it.”

  Shade tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the troll’s resilience. “Gloat? No. That would be a waste of time.” His voice was smooth, deliberate. “Besides, you fought well. I prefer… opportunities.”

  Fardun, holding her bow, took a cautious step back, her fingers flexing around the grip. “Opportunities?” she echoed, suspicion thick in her tone.

  Shade stepped forward, his movements unhurried and measured. His hands remained open in a non-threatening gesture, yet there was an unmistakable air of command in the way he carried himself. “You are experienced combatants. That much is clear. You weren’t supposed to last this long.” His gaze flicked across the field, briefly acknowledging the corpses of the fallen before settling back on the survivors. “But in the end, you still lost.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Gerharr’s jaw clenched. He knew the truth in those words, but it still angered him.

  Shade continued, his voice steady and compelling. “You’re mercenaries. Professionals. You kill for coin. But tell me—how much do you think your employers really value you? How much did that merchant pay to ensure you had a chance?” He gestured toward the wagons. “Because I see no reinforcements despite the supposed value of this cargo.”

  Gerharr’s brow furrowed as he processed the words. There was truth in them, but something still didn’t add up. “What of our payment?” he demanded, his voice rough with exhaustion. “And the cargo? Are you saying Reynard knew this caravan was doomed from the start?”

  Shade’s form sparked up slightly. “Oh, he must have known. As must the Syndicate. But they were willing to gamble—because they are out of coin.” He let the words sink in before continuing. “They hired a rather ‘light’ guard not because they thought it was enough, but because it was all they could afford up front. This cargo? It has no market value in the Darklands anymore. They were hoping to move it to the Wildlands to find new buyers and earn enough.” He stepped closer, his tone becoming almost conversational. “Tell me, what do you think happens if they don’t have the funds to pay your full wages when the job is done?”

  A tense silence followed.

  Fardun narrowed her eyes. “They wouldn’t dare—”

  “Wouldn’t they?” Shade interrupted, his voice edged with amusement. “They only paid for what they could afford,” he continued, his tone dipping into something almost mocking. “A ‘reasonable’ risk. But tell me, Captain—is it reasonable to you? For you it was meant to be a normal job, yet you never knew you were the main sacrificial piece in the gamble.”

  Gerharr exhaled heavily, his mind angered at both the Syndicate and this shadow demon. He had been a mercenary long enough to recognize the uncomfortable truth in those words. The Syndicate wasn’t what it once was. He had already seen signs of its decline in the last week—layoffs, cheaper offerings, fewer caravans.

  Norik adjusted his hat, a smirk playing on his bloodstained lips. “I do love a good gamble,” he mused. “Almost as much as I love not being on the losing side of it.”

  Shade’s gaze swept over the survivors, taking them in one by one. “I offer you more than a doomed job. I offer you purpose. Power and wealth. A place in something greater than the scraps the Syndicate throws you, and with more than just coin as the reward.” He gestured toward the fallen caravan guards. “Your comrades died for a cause that didn’t care for them. The Dark Host is different. We reward strength. We reward loyalty. And we don’t throw men away for the sake of a merchant’s gamble.”

  Gerharr’s grip on his sword loosened slightly. He had heard many recruitment speeches before, but there was something different about this one—something real.

  Fardun let out a slow breath. “And if we refuse?”

  Shade’s expression remained unreadable. “Then you leave. Without your gear, without pay, without purpose.” He glanced at the surrounding raiders, still standing at attention. “We do not waste effort on those who would rather starve than thrive. But I have a feeling you are not the type to throw your lives away for a Syndicate that has already abandoned you to your fate.”

  A heavy silence settled over the battlefield once more. The remaining guards exchanged glances, the weight of the decision pressing down on them.

  Gerharr looked down at his bloodied hands, at the corpses of his comrades, at the wagons that now felt like tombstones for the dead. A mercenary’s life had always been uncertain, but this… this was different. The truth gnawed at him. He had fought and bled for a gamble that was never even known to him.

  He exhaled, gripping his hunting sword tighter for a moment—then loosening his hold. Slowly, he straightened, his massive form rising to its full height. His gaze met Shade’s hollow eyes, and for the first time, there was no defiance—only certainty.

  “I’ve had my fill of being a disposable merc,” Gerharr muttered, his voice quieter now yet somehow heavier. “You have my sword.”

  He extended his massive, bloodstained hand. Shade regarded him for a moment before taking it, his own fingers cold as death, his grip unshakable. A pact was made in that handshake—silent but absolute.

  Fardun exhaled through her nose, rubbing a hand across her face before glancing at Norik, who grinned as though he'd expected this outcome from the start. She muttered a curse under her breath, then nodded once. “Fine. If I'm going to risk my neck, I'd rather do it for someone who knows how to play the game.”

  The other survivors exchanged looks before offering their weapons in submission. One by one, they surrendered their past allegiances. The Syndicate was dying, and they would not die with it.

  But there was one last matter to settle. “Oh, before I forget, deal with that merchant if you would,” Shade remarked to Gerharr.

  Gerharr turned, his muscles groaning in pain as he walked toward the lone untouched carriage at the heart of the battlefield. The lacquered wood was spattered with dirt and blood, the once-pristine golden trim dulled by the chaos.

  Inside, Reynard cowered. The fox-eared merchant pressed himself into the cushioned corner, clutching a jeweled dagger in trembling hands. His fine coat was uneven from his trembling, his ears twitched at every noise outside, and his tail curled around himself in a desperate attempt at comfort.

  A knock rapped against the carriage door—two deliberate, heavy strikes.

  Reynard swallowed hard, his breath hitching. “I—Is it over?” he called out, his voice thin and unsteady.

  A low chuckle rumbled from outside. “Oh, it’s over all right.”

  The door burst inward, ripped from its hinges as Gerharr’s massive arm filled the entrance. The fox barely had time to cry out before the troll’s thick fingers closed around his throat, dragging him into the dimming light of dusk. Reynard kicked and thrashed, his dagger scraping against Gerharr’s armored bracer in a pitiful attempt to resist.

  Shade watched silently as the merchant was hauled out, his expression unreadable. He did not interfere—this was not his justice to give, only to witness.

  Reynard wheezed, his eyes darting frantically between the faces of his former guards—guards who now stood among their captors. “W—Wait! Please help, I paid you!”

  Gerharr's lips curled into a sneer. “They're not under your employment anymore.” He dragged the struggling fox toward a wagon and slammed him against the wooden frame. Reynard gasped, blinking through the haze of terror.

  “You made a gamble,” Gerharr continued, his voice thick with disgust. “You bet our lives for your profits. We were just another number in your ledger, weren’t we?”

  Reynard whimpered, his nails clawing against Gerharr’s grip. “It—It wasn’t personal! J-Just business!”

  Gerharr's expression darkened. “Aye, it's just business. Then this is just business too.”

  With one brutal motion, he lifted Reynard, turning him around so his back was pressed to the wagon wall and removed his coat. His hands gripped against the fox’s fur and hide.

  “Wa—ait,” Reynard let out softly, almost petrified. Then Gerharr pulled with his immense strength.

  The screams that tore from Reynard’s throat were short-lived, swallowed by the merciless dusk.

  When the ordeal was done, Shade remarked quite happily, “I do quite enjoy labor disputes fought out on equal grounds.”