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The silence hung heavy, making even the sound of breathing feel loud.
Silas struggled violently.
But the raider held him tight like a lover, letting only a faint whimper slip through his lips.
"Where are the goods worth a damn?!! All this is just fucking rotten fish!"
A furious roar rang out, and soon footsteps approached.
An ugly face covered in frostbite scars glared down at Silas, sneering:
"Let him go. I want to hear what he has to say!"
The crushing pressure instantly vanished. Silas staggered, nearly collapsing, as blood rushed back into his limbs.
But the terror that followed seized every fiber of his being.
Just then.
A fist slammed down!
Burying deep into Silas's gut.
He collapsed to the dirt like a sack of broken rags.
Silas instantly lost his breath, left with only muffled groans and uncontrollable trembling.
Someone roared in his ear:
"Where is the good stuff?
"Tell me! You son of a bitch! Where the fuck did you hide the real cargo!"
Silas gasped brokenly, his words trembling and slurred:
"I... I don't have... any... good... cargo...
"...This... is my... entire... cargo..."
Another punch landed, knocking every coherent thought out of Silas's head.
"Turns out he's just a pathetic little fish monger. Can't believe he rolled with that massive escort last time.
"Spit. Scared the shit out of me last time!"
"Alright, we need to move. If White Harbor's pretty little guard dogs come sniffing around, we're screwed."
"What do we do with this shit? Just raided a few carts of rotten fish, and now we've got more rotten fish."
"Bastard! We haul it off, obviously. Your brain freeze over?
"This shit will actually fill our bellies!
"Spit. Just our fucking luck! Eating rotten salted fish every damn day!"
A dead silence fell.
Face planted in the mud, his mouth full of a thick, rusty taste of blood, Silas lay there, gasping for air.
Did they... let me live?
I regret this so much. If I had known, I wouldn't have risked it. If only I had hired a few hedge knights...
As the thought crossed his mind, he suddenly noticed the sky had turned black.
His heart skipped a beat.
The next second, a dark flash cut across his throat—deep and clean.
Silas let out a wet gurgle, his hands instinctively clutching his neck as warm, thick blood sprayed through his fingers.
"...Uh... uh."
He followed with sounds so thick you could cut them with a knife.
Pressing heavily against the ears, as grim and unyielding as the fate of most men.
————
The merchant leaned in close to the other two, lowering his voice:
"Did you hear? Silas's caravan got hit by raiders, and not a single man survived!"
Hearing this, Rodney frowned deeply:
"I know. Silas didn't hire any hedge knights this time. He just rode out with his one guard.
"I warned him, but he said the last run to Oldcastle was perfectly smooth—not a hint of trouble.
"So he figured he didn't need to hire any this time, thinking the White Harbor patrols had wiped the surrounding area clean of raiders!"
The merchant who spoke first, Dominic, froze for a moment before replying after a long silence:
"Is he really that naive? Hasn't he noticed raiders and bandits are getting bolder every year?
"The North is still manageable, but I hear the South is far worse. Plenty of lords have been forced to personally lead men to clear out raiders in their lands!
"Because if they don't, the smallfolk in some holds don't even dare step outside!"
Don Quixote, who had been invited to the banquet, suddenly remembered who Silas was. After a moment of silence, he offered a helpless explanation:
"What happened to Silas... might actually be my fault.
"Three months ago, I was recruiting new men and wanted to see how they handled themselves on the road, so I brought them all along to escort Silas's caravan.
"The entire trip went off without a hitch. I figure any stray raiders saw our numbers and pissed their pants, too scared to show up.
"Sigh. That probably made Silas think the road was safe."
Rodney shook his head and said:
"Ser Don Quixote, you have no reason to blame yourself. Recently, plenty of merchants have paid a pittance to hire a massive force of elite sellswords and knights from your Bloody Hand Mercenary Company.
"Their runs have also been completely peaceful, but they still keep hiring hedge knights to guard their caravans afterward.
"I know Silas. He always liked to gamble on luck, but he never understood the game.
"Risk is tied to profit!
"If there was no risk in trading, there wouldn't be enough profit for us to survive on.
"If our line of work carried zero risk, we'd be even more insignificant than the tenant farmers, hunters, and herdsmen scraping by under the lords!"
Dominic also smiled and nodded:
"Exactly. When I first started trading—and I don't care if you laugh at me—I had nightmares almost every single night!
"In those dreams, endless hordes of vicious raiders would surround me, torturing and killing me over and over again!
"It wasn't until I brushed shoulders with death a few times that I finally made peace with it.
"We are adventurers trading our lives for Gold Dragons and Silver Stags!
"So every time I ride out, I am cautious to the extreme, treating every run like it's my last!
"That's why I always hire sellswords and knights to protect my caravan.
"Sure, it means fewer Gold Dragons in my pocket, but you can only spend coin if you're alive to enjoy it, right!"
Saying this, Dominic raised his cup, toasting Don Quixote:
"Ser Don Quixote, to you! To the Bloody Hand! To all hired knights!
"Men like you keep me safe! Keep my caravans safe!"
Don Quixote raised his cup as well, smiling:
"Lord Dominic, Lord Rodney! To your trust! And to our shared fate of struggling on the edge of death!"
Rodney grinned, raising his cup:
"And a toast to the Old Gods and the New! For letting us survive!"
"Aye, to the Old Gods and the New!" Don Quixote and Dominic echoed.
Just then, a lady slowly approached from the other side of the hall.
She was tall, her skin as pale as milk.
A bright green silk gown clung to her like a second skin, leaving nothing of her curves to the imagination.
As she walked, the gown shifted, revealing the smooth, delicate curve of her neck and a lingering, intoxicating allure.
Like a silent invitation.
She was near thirty, but completely lacked the cloying, overripe feel of most noblewomen.
Instead, she radiated a sense of deep satisfaction mixed with an insatiable hunger.
Even the most beautiful things in the world seemed to shine brighter upon her.
Even a Septon of the Seven would be tempted to throw away his vows for her, eager to offer his deepest 'blessings.'
"Rodney, Dominic, you two can't just hog Ser Don Quixote's time and attention all night.
"It's my turn to have a chat with Ser Don Quixote—a private chat!"
The lady spoke.
Instantly, the hidden, electric tension beneath her dignified exterior unfurled across the room.
...