They moved through the fog, a desperate pack of mercenaries. Every step was a gamble. A broken leg meant death. A missed strike meant a funeral. This was their life: a cycle of blood, iron, and the constant, gnawing need to survive one more day in a kingdom that had forgotten how to be kind.
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"We shouldn't," Alene whispered, though her hand drifted to the hilt of her dagger. "The guards will hang us if they think we’re the ones who did it." They moved through the fog, a desperate pack of mercenaries
A rusted bell chimed in the distance. A merchant caravan had been ambushed on the road to Stromkapp. A missed strike meant a funeral