Okay… do you have a plan that won't get us all killed?" Charles asked, voice low but sharp.
Turns out, Gerart didn't. His mind was fixed on action, not strategy, and he refused to wait.
"They could kill her while we're standing here talking," he snapped. Restless, he finally spat out, "We'll be quick—get in, get her out, before anyone notices."
Charles shook his head. "They have men, horses, and well-guarded camps. What do we have? An elf who can't walk properly, two dwarves—one blinded by rage—and me. Not exactly an army, would you say?"
Farren gave a mirthless smile. "Not to mention we don't even know which camp she's in."
Gerart's jaw tightened, teeth grinding. "Then I'll go alone and tear through every tent if I have to. I brought her here. She wouldn't even be on this mission if it weren't for me."
Charles studied him. There was no reasoning with him like this—he'd charge in and get himself killed. A tragedy waiting to happen.
"Alright," Charles said, forcing calm into his voice. "We'll rescue her. But first, we find her—and I'll handle the planning."
Syrien, struggling to rise, asked, "Which is?"
"We don't have the numbers or the strength for a fight. So we distract them—make them run in circles like headless chickens. We set their tents on fire, cut their horses loose, and in the chaos, we grab her."
Farren looked impressed for a moment before shaking his head. "Sounds nice and easy, but a hundred things could go wrong."
Gerart didn't care. "It won't be easy, but it'll have to work."
"One more thing," Charles added, turning to Syrien. "You're not coming with us like this. Patch your leg, rest, and wait with the horses we steal from the camp. Once the chaos starts, you'll be our exit."
Syrien frowned, already drawing breath to argue, but Charles cut him off. "We don't have time to argue. In this state, you'll be a liability. We need speed and precision."
Syrien said nothing—sweat already dripping from the effort of just standing. Fighting or running was out of the question.
"Alright," Charles said, scanning the group. "We move in ten minutes. Rest while you can."
---
Around a day later, in the dead of night, three shadows stood motionless on the plains, forms barely distinguishable against the darkness. Silent and still, like statues carved from shadow.
Then a fourth shadow burst into view, running hard across the empty ground. It was Charles.
He skidded to a halt, chest heaving as he sucked in ragged breaths.
"Okay," he whispered, low but urgent. "I found Lira. She's in the camp to the left. Alive… but badly beaten. They've bound her right in the middle of the camp. Not easy to reach unnoticed."
He let the words sink in, then nodded grimly. "We move exactly as planned."
Farren and Syrien would handle the horses, ready to free them and make a swift getaway. Charles' task was to ignite fires and sow chaos. Gerart, the stealthiest of them, was to slip in unseen and rescue Lira.
But first, the night watch had to be dealt with.
Gerart and Syrien took position while Charles and Farren crept closer to the camp's edge. The guards, half-asleep by the torches, were vulnerable.
At Charles' signal, Gerart and Syrien struck—silent, precise. Two torch-bearing sentries fell without a sound, groggy and unready for the attack.
Meanwhile, Charles and Farren slipped through the shadows, eliminating the remaining guards without raising alarm. No cries, no shouts—just deadly silence.
The night watch had been caught completely unprepared. But this was only the beginning. The hardest part lay ahead.
---
Charles grabbed a torch from one of the fallen sentries and sprang into action. Moving swiftly, he set fire to the nearest tent, then stepped toward another. Flames hissed and roared, smoke curling into the night air, stinging his eyes.
Suddenly, a drunken Boarskinn staggered out of the shadows, shouting, "Hey! What are you—Intruders!"
No time to hesitate. Charles drew his sword and swung hard. The drunk tripped over a root, crashing to the ground. Charles didn't waste a second—he drove his blade through the man's chest.
Flames licking higher, Charles moved to torch two more tents. Chaos erupted around him—horses broke free, galloping wildly through smoke and fire. Men screamed orders, some calling for water, others trying to recapture the beasts, but most yelled threats aimed at Charles.
---
Inside the camp, Lira's heart pounded in her chest. She struggled against the ropes, gagged by fear and pain. The fire, the screams, the chaos—it all became a blur. She thought of the worst, expecting death to come at any moment.
And then she saw him: Gerart, moving like a shadow, cutting through the chaos straight toward her. Relief flared, quickly mingled with pain, as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
"Hold on," he murmured, voice tight with fury. "We've got you."
---
"Farren's made his move," Charles muttered. "Time to go. Hope Gerart succeeded."
He tore away, running like a man possessed, taking a wide arc around the camp to lose any pursuers.
Panting, he arrived at the rendezvous where Syrien and Farren waited by the stolen horses.
"Gerart isn't here yet?" Charles asked, eyes scanning the shadows. The night felt like it was closing in, heat and tension thick around them.
Then, slowly, figures emerged from the darkness—Gerart, bearing Lira. Her body sagged, bruised and bloodied, but she clung to consciousness, eyes wide with both fear and relief.
"Quick, help him," Charles urged. "We have to leave. Now."
---
They rode like the wind, horses pounding tirelessly through the night. Not once did they slow, not even to catch their breath, until the faint outline of a makeshift fence came into view—the boundary of the nearest farm settlement.
"We need to tend to Lira's wounds and let the horses rest," Charles said, voice rough but steady.
They urged their mounts toward the village. Upon arrival, they announced themselves and their mission, seeking an audience with the local elder. There was much to discuss—too much to waste time.
The elder sat across from them, face lined with years of hardship. He rubbed his temples, exhaling deeply.
"So, you're telling me all the chaos—the raids, the disappearances, the bloodshed that's haunted us these past years—was because of this Hollow Coin? And now that you've stirred the hornet's nest, they'll come after us openly? No more hiding? Fantastic. So what do you suggest we do now?"
Charles looked around, sighed, and said:
"They're going to be here soon. This settlement is the closest to their camp. We need to prepare ourselves—and help the people defend themselves as best we can."
The elder shook his head, muttering. "I told Mosswood we shouldn't work with outsiders. It will cause trouble. But did those old fools listen? No…"
Nevertheless, he set about alerting the villagers, preparing them for the worst.
Farren put a hand on Charles' shoulder.
"There are only thirty men who can fight. We don't have much of a chance here, Charles. Shouldn't we just run? We don't owe them anything to risk a battle."
Charles shook his head. "They already know about us. Better to fight here, with help, than be picked apart later in the city."
Lira, still in the saddle, managed a weak smile at Charles. "Thanks… for not leaving me behind." Her voice was hoarse, but it carried weight. Pain and gratitude mingled in her gaze, and for a moment, the danger seemed almost secondary to being alive.