The bandit camp burned bright against the dusk, firelight flickering across weathered tents and scarred faces. Laughter, curses, and the smell of cheap ale hung heavy in the air, but inside the largest tent, silence reigned.
The tent was spacious, lined with rugs stolen from caravans and banners looted from villages. At the center sat the bandit leader upon a crude chair of wood and bone, a man with an aura that silenced even the boldest. His eyes gleamed like coals under his heavy brow, watching the trembling man kneeling before him.
The kneeler was the eyepatched scout captain. Sweat beaded down his temple, dripping into the dirt as his breath came ragged and uneven. He dared not raise his gaze.
At the leader's side sat two figures. One, a mountain of a man clad in battered armor, a scar stretching across his facd—Raghul, the war-axe resting against his knee. The other, lean and sharp-eyed, his long black hair tied loosely behind him—Zeven, the swordsman, his fingers idly tapping the hilt of his curved blade.
The leader leaned forward, his voice calm but heavy, each word pressed into the air like a weight.
"Speak. What happened out there? And where are the others?"
The eyepatched man swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash.
"L-Leader… we spotted walls within the ruins."
Raghul barked a laugh, slapping his armored knee. "Of course there'd be walls, fool. The ruins are full of stone and rubble. Did you expect open fields?"
Zeven's eyes narrowed. His tone was smooth, cutting like glass. "Let him finish, you oaf."
The scout flinched at their exchange but pressed on, words spilling quickly as if to outrun his fear.
"These weren't old walls… they were new. Built recently. Solid. Guarded."
A hush fell. The leader's gaze sharpened.
"And then?"
The man's voice broke, stuttering as the memory clawed at him. "We… we saw him. A—A lord."
Even Raghul's laughter cut short. Zeven's smirk faltered. The leader's hand tightened on his chair's armrest.
"A lord? Here?" Zeven muttered, tilting his head. "What business would a lord have in these cursed ruins?"
The leader exhaled slowly, his lips curling into something between a sigh and a grin. "So the rumors weren't lies after all. I'd heard whispers… a few lords, driven by greed or desperation, had taken the ruins as their den. Seems we've stumbled upon one."
The eyepatched bandit nodded rapidly, desperate to be believed. "Yes! Yes, Leader. His creatures—they fought us. Not like beasts, but like soldiers. Thoes monsters, but… they moved in formation, striking in perfect unity. Stronger than us. Smarter, I barely managed to escape."
Murmurs rippled through the tent, but the leader's hand rose and silence returned. His eyes, cold and unblinking, pinned the scout like a knife.
"You said you 'barely escaped.'"
The eyepatched man froze. His lips trembled. "Y-Yes, Leader. I—"
"How?" The leader's voice deepened. "How did you return alone, when your men did not?"
The tent grew colder. The other bandits outside laughed and drank, but in here, death coiled in the air.
The scout hesitated, fumbling for words. Sweat poured down his face. "I… I had no choice. They were surrounded. I—"
"Answer," the leader cut him off, steel in his tone.
"I abandoned them!" The words ripped free at last, and the man fell forward, pressing his head to the dirt. "Forgive me, Leader! I had no choice! I would have been killed as well! I fled—I fled to warn you!"
For a long moment, nothing.
Then, Raghul gave a booming laugh. "You're finished, boy. Our leader despises only one thing more than weakness."
Zeven's lips curved into a cruel smile. "Betrayal."
The leader rose slowly from his chair. His shadow stretched across the trembling man, and his eyes burned with merciless judgment.
"You left your brothers to die." His voice was low, yet it carried the weight of a final sentence. "In my command, betrayal is the only crime I do not forgive."
The scout's chest heaved. "N-No! Please, Leader! I can still serve! I can still fight—"
The leader turned, his gaze falling on Zeven.
"Zeven."
The swordsman stood smoothly, unsheathing his curved blade with a hiss. His grin widened, savoring the moment.
"As you command."
The scout's eyes bulged. He shuffled backward on his knees. "N-No! Please! Leader! Mercy!"
Raghul smirked, watching like a man at the coliseum. "Not fair, giving him to Zeven. At least let him run first."
The leader ignored the jibe. His tone was flat, final. "Your punishment is simple. Defeat Zeven, and you may live. Fail, and your death will serve as warning."
The tent's flaps opened. The entire bandit camp was gathered, drawn by whispers of blood. The leader strode out, seating himself upon a heavy wooden chair set before the firepit. His presence commanded silence.
Zeven and the eyepatched bandit stepped into the circle of dirt at the camp's center. Torches burned high. The crowd jeered, eager for blood.
The eyepatched man's hands shook as he picked up a sword. He whispered to himself, trying to summon courage.( If I win… I live. Just survive. Just—)
"Ready yourself," Zeven said lightly, almost kindly. Then he lunged.
Steel blurred.
The scout barely raised his blade before Zeven's cut tore through it, shattering his guard. His arm went numb from the shock. Panic surged. He swung wildly, a desperate arc.
Zeven sidestepped with a dancer's grace, then carved a red line across the man's arm. Blood sprayed. The scout screamed.
The crowd roared with laughter.
He staggered back, clutching the wound, tears mixing with blood. "Please! Please!"
Zeven's eyes gleamed in the torchlight. He licked the blood from his blade, smirking. "It tastes like failure."
The scout tried to run, but Zeven's next strike was merciless. One cut—clean, efficient. The man fell, lifeless, into the dirt.
Silence, then cheers thundered through the camp.
The leader did not cheer. He stared coldly at the corpse, his words carrying over the raucous bandits.
"Betrayal is death. And death.....is the end."
The camp fell quiet, even laughter stilled for a heartbeat. Then, as one, the bandits roared again, the chant echoing through the night.
The leader rose, his voice booming like a war drum.
"Tomorrow, we march! If a lord has made his den in these ruins, we shall tear it down and take his throne! Prepare yourselves!"
The jeers turned to disciplined shouts, the chaos sharpened into readiness. Bandits slammed weapons against shields, their roar rolling through the ruins like thunder.
The leader raised his sword high, firelight dancing across its edge.
"Raid!"
The chorus answered him, loud enough to shake the night.
"RAID!"
The ruins themselves seemed to shudder with the promise of blood.
To be continued...