The north gate stank of old blood and piss-soaked straw, the air biting cold as dawn broke over Varnholt's jagged skyline.
Torren Vale slumped against a splintered crate, his leg throbbing where the captain's sword had kissed it yesterday, his arm a mess of dried blood under Kaelin's ragged bandage.
The half-delivered iron sat in a jumble, crates cracked and spilling ingots, thanks to the ambush. Elara's order to finish the job by noon gnawed at him—north gate was a death trap with Aldric's patrols doubling down, and that gray-cloaked bastard had been lurking again, making his skin crawl. He wasn't sure if he was playing Elara's game or hers playing him, but his gut screamed to move.
Mira loomed nearby, her sword chipped from the last fight, muttering curses as she hefted another crate.
Kaelin paced, her scar twitching with every glare at the gate, while Rhea poked at the dirt with her broom, muttering about "stupid guards." Lira had vanished after the skirmish, promising to "watch," but Torren hadn't seen her since—typical, he thought, cursing her under his breath. "We're a sorry lot," he rasped, spitting into the mud. "Let's get this iron moved before Aldric's dogs sniff us out."
"Move it yourself, Fox," Mira snapped, dropping her crate with a thud. "I'm not your mule. Where's that fancy plan of yours now?"
Kaelin snorted, kicking a loose ingot. "Plan? He trips over his own feet and calls it charm. Let's just drag this and hope."
Torren forced a laugh, wincing as he stood. "Charm's my shield, ladies. Watch me work it." He limped toward the gate, scanning for Corwyn's men, but his bravado faltered when a horn blared—Aldric's signal. Guards poured out, a dozen at least, led by the scarred captain, his face twisted in a snarl.
"Vale! You're done!" the captain roared, charging with his sword raised. Torren ducked, his leg buckling, and rolled into a crate, pain shooting up his spine. "Bloody hell!" he yelped, scrambling to his feet as the guards closed in.
Mira swung her sword, catching a guard's arm, but another tackled her, pinning her down. "Get off me, you ox!" she bellowed, flailing. Kaelin leapt in, her blade slashing wildly, catching a guard's leg, but she tripped over Rhea, who'd swung her broom too late. "Watch it, girl!" Kaelin barked, tumbling into the mud.
Rhea squeaked, bashing a guard's shin, her broom splintering. "I'm trying!" she cried, ducking a swing. Torren grabbed her, pulling her behind a crate, his heart pounding. "Stay down, you little fool!" he hissed, but she peeked out, defiant.
The captain lunged, his sword grazing Torren's side, tearing the bandage. Blood welled, and Torren swore, swinging his dagger in a clumsy arc. It caught the captain's arm, but the man barely flinched, backhanding him into the dirt. "You're mine, Fox," he growled, raising his blade.
A shout cut through—Lira, bursting from the shadows, her short sword flashing as she drove into the fray. "Told you I'd watch!" she yelled, slicing a guard's throat with a grunt. Her cloak was torn, her face smeared with mud, but her eyes burned with focus. She tackled the captain, rolling with him in a tangle of steel and curses.
Torren staggered up, clutching his side, and saw a new figure—a burly woman with gray-streaked hair, wielding a spiked mace. She smashed a guard's helmet, roaring, "Out of my tavern, you dogs!" Her voice was gravelly, and her apron was stained with what looked like yesterday's stew. "I'm Hild, barkeep from the Gull. Heard you're in it—thought I'd join!"
Torren blinked, wiping blood from his eye. "Hild? A tavern wench with a mace? You're a sight—almost makes me forget the pain!" He grinned, dodging a guard, but she didn't smile back, just swung again, flattening another.
Lira pinned the captain, her knee on his chest, her sword at his throat. "Call them off, or you're done," she snarled. The captain spat, but the guards hesitated, outnumbered now. Hild's mace and Lira's precision turned the tide, and the survivors fled, leaving their leader groaning.
Torren slumped, panting, as Lira hauled him up. "You're a wreck, Vale. Elara's men will take the iron now—job's done." Her tone was brisk, but her hand lingered on his arm, a flicker of something in her eyes.
Hild wiped her mace, eyeing him. "You owe me a barrel, boy. And maybe a tale over ale—got a laugh out of that fight." Her grin was crooked, and Torren caught a glint of interest. Number ten, he thought, her roughness a new flavor.
Mira limped over, scowling. "You're a damn fool, Vale. But we pulled it."
Kaelin dusted off, glaring. "Next time, I pick the fight."
Rhea hugged him, trembling. "You're crazy, Torren. I'm not leaving."
Torren laughed, clutching his side. "Crazy's my trade, loves. Hild, Lira—join us for a drink? Less blood, more cheer." His wink drew Hild's chuckle and Lira's eye-roll, but the tension eased.
They handed the iron to Corwyn's men, who grumbled but took it. As they retreated, the gray-cloaked figure watched from a hill, sword dull. A shadow lingered by the gate, dagger glinting, its presence a quiet threat. Torren's game was won—for now—but the net of allies and desires tightened around him, messy and unasked.