The sound of laughter rang in his ears. It was warm, genuine—the kind of laughter that belonged to men who trusted each other as brothers.
The young man, no older than twenty-three, leaned against the wooden cart piled high with sacks of grain. His hair was unkempt from the long day's work, his tunic dirtied with soil, yet his face glowed with pride. Harvest season had been good this year.
Across from him, a figure dressed like a wandering merchant sat with casual ease. He wore traveler's garb and a golden monocle that glittered whenever the sun touched it. The monocle gave him an air of refinement, like a man who walked between two worlds—villager and noble.
"You've done well this year, Ardan," the monocled man said with a smile, raising a flask.
Ardan—the young bandit leader before he became who he was now—laughed. "I couldn't have done it without you, Harven. Always showing up with those tricks of yours, bargaining with city merchants like you were born in a market stall."
They shared another laugh, drinking under the late summer sun. Then, with a sudden flush of courage, Ardan turned serious.
"Harven," he began, "I want you to stand with me… at my wedding. Be my best man."
The monocled man blinked in surprise, then broke into a wide grin. "You'd trust a scoundrel like me with something that important?"
"I would trust you with my life," Ardan answered without hesitation.
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then Harven laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder. "Then it'll be my honor."
The warmth of friendship filled the air. It was real. It was everything.
But then—
The world twisted.
The laughter warped, echoing cruelly. The sun dimmed. The smell of grain rotted into the iron tang of chains.
Ardan's wrists were bound. His body was shoved to the ground. Confusion flooded his eyes as he looked up at Harven—his friend—still smiling, but this time with an edge that cut deeper than any blade.
"Harven? What's happening? We were just here to sell the harvest—why am I chained?" Ardan demanded.
Harven didn't answer. Instead, he turned to another figure standing nearby.
The man was regal, terrifying. A blood-red cloak draped over fine garments. His blond hair shimmered like gold, but his crimson eyes were cold and pitiless. A lion-shaped pauldron sat on his shoulder, its fanged maw gleaming. His nails were long, sharpened like a predator's talons.
He spoke with authority that brooked no defiance. "What's the price of this one?"
Ardan's blood ran cold. "Price? What do you mean price? I'm not a—"
Harven interrupted with a laugh, bowing his head slightly to the nobleman. "Forgive me, Ardan. But you're worth more as a slave than you ever were as a friend."
Ardan's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat. "You… what?"
"Business is business," Harven said, his smile now venom. "And I've chosen profit."
The memory shattered like glass.
Ardan—the man now as the Bandit Lord—opened his eyes. He sat back in his grand chair, a mug of bitter ale in hand. The firelight from the torches painted his scarred face in shades of gold and shadow.
The image of Harven's betrayal still lingered. The eyepatched fool who had died earlier that day had reminded him too much of that traitor. Weak men. Liars. Those who turned their backs for convenience.
Ardan spat into the dirt and drank again. Around him, the camp was alive with noise—drums, songs, the stink of roasted meat. Bandits partied in anticipation of tomorrow's raid.
Beside him sat Raghul, laughing loud enough to shake the table, and Zeven, silent but amused, sharpening his blade. Ardan let the noise wash over him. Let them celebrate. Tomorrow, their blades would taste blood.
Meanwhile, back at Kairo's growing territory, silence pressed against the walls of the half-built barracks.
The captured bandits sat bound on the ground, their eyes defiant despite bruises and exhaustion. The kobolts stood guard, spears steady, unflinching in their duty.
Kairo and Shiri stood before them.
"Speak," Shiri hissed, slamming his tail against the floor. His golden eyes glared down at the bandits. "Where is your camp? How many men?"
The bandits remained silent.
Shiri grabbed one by the collar and raised his fist. Before he could strike, Kairo stepped forward.
"Enough."
Shiri's jaw clenched. "Enough? They're mocking us."
"I won't let you beat answers out of them," Kairo said firmly, though his voice betrayed the uncertainty gnawing inside him. He had never harmed a human before. Monsters, yes. But humans…
Shiri clicked his tongue in frustration. "You're too soft. That softness already cost us. You let one escape." His gaze was sharp, cutting. "If you want to be a lord, Kairo, you can't afford hesitation."
One of the bandits snorted, drawing their attention. "Escape? Don't worry about that bastard. He's already dead."
Another laughed, his voice rough. "Knowing our boss, he's probably chopped to pieces by now. Betrayal ain't tolerated."
Shiri narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
The bandits exchanged looks. Finally, one shrugged. "Because he hates it. Betrayal. More than anything."
Kairo frowned. "You kill without hesitation. You raid villages. Innocent lives mean nothing to you. Yet betrayal is where you draw the line?"
The laughter faded. The bandit who had spoken earlier looked down, his voice quieter now. "Our leader… he was sold. By someone he trusted. Sold as a slave."
Kairo's eyes widened. A betrayal that deep…
Another bandit raised his chin proudly. "When we were starving, when the world spat on us, he came. He saved us. Picked us up from the dirt. So we'll gladly die for him."
Kairo's stomach twisted. He saw the loyalty burning in their eyes—loyalty born from pain.
"But why take innocent lives?" Kairo pressed.
The bandits chuckled bitterly. "Because you wouldn't understand, Lord. You, with your walls and your power. This world chewed us up long before we bit back. You think there are innocents? The only innocents are those too privileged to bleed."
Shiri hissed, folding his arms. "These are the worst kind. Broken men who turn their scars into banners. They'll die before betraying the one they worship."
One of the bandits looked at Shiri with a mocking grin. "And what about you, naga? Strange to see one of your kind here. Weren't your people the ones who ruled these lands? Selling slaves?"
Kairo turned sharply to Shiri, shocked. But the naga's expression was unreadable, his silence heavy. Kairo bit his tongue, choosing not to push it.
The bandits leaned back, smirking. "You're still just a boy. This world will break you too."
Kairo stood quietly for a moment, their words clawing at him. He thought of the bandit leader—a man shaped by betrayal. He thought of himself. (If I was abandoned, broken, left helpless… would I become like him?)
Finally, he exhaled. "Enough. They won't talk. Tie them up. Keep them near the barracks."
The kobolts obeyed, dragging the bandits to their confinement.
Shiri shook his head. "A waste of time."
"Maybe," Kairo said softly. "But we have to prepare. Tomorrow, they'll come."
The night air pressed heavy as the two turned away, shadows of war looming on the horizon.
Tomorrow...the raid will begin.
to be continued.....