By the time the cart rolled through the main gates of Llyn, the sun had vanished completely, and the moonlight glimmered off the rooftops and cobblestones. Lanterns lit the streets in pools of gold, and distant chatter from taverns spilled into the open air, the town alive despite the hour.
As they passed through, the guards at the gate called ahead, and soon a unit of soldiers gathered near the association's courtyard to receive the prisoners.
They brought the cart to a halt, and Amukelo jumped down first, stretching his legs and rolling his stiff shoulders. He watched silently as the soldiers approached the captured outlaws. One of them, a well-armored sergeant, stepped forward with a clipboard and gave Amukelo a nod.
"Well done. Are these the remaining outlaws from the recent raids?"
Amukelo nodded slowly. "Other teams are taking care of the rest of the organization, but these are all we captured. The others… didn't make it."
The sergeant gave him a long look and then turned to his men. "Secure them and get them ready for holding."
The soldiers moved pulling the outlaws off the cart one by one. The glowing runic bindings were inspected, replaced with metal cuffs, and each outlaw was logged on the sergeant's clipboard before being escorted toward the holding cells.
Amukelo turned back to the sergeant and asked, "What will happen to them?"
The soldier paused, then said, "Hard to say. They'll be held here for now. But eventually, they'll be moved to a larger city. Probably Orlan or Kastrel. Somewhere with a high tribunal."
He flipped a few pages and added, "A council will decide their fates. They'll be evaluated—crimes committed, lives taken, damage caused. From there, either execution, or a work sentence. Possibly life in servitude if they're deemed redeemable."
Amukelo nodded, though the tightness in his throat didn't ease.
As the outlaws disappeared, Tireuz stepped forward, his voice low but steady. "I contacted my guild."
Amukelo turned to him. "And?"
"They said it's too late," Tireuz replied. "They tracked the main force. They're attacking tonight."
Amukelo looked concerned. "Should we go support them?"
Tireuz shook his head. "Even if we left now, we wouldn't arrive in time. We'd just complicate the formation. Best we can do is hope they succeed."
Silence fell again for a moment.
"Let's pray they don't suffer too many casualties," Tireuz added.
Amukelo looked toward the city streets, where the night had already swallowed the sound of combat. He nodded quietly.
A little while later, as the group stood near the association building, Tireuz clapped his hands together gently. "That's enough for tonight. Rest. Tomorrow, we'll know more."
The group nodded.
The next morning, the group gathered near the gates. Tireuz stood slightly ahead of them all watching the horizon.
"They reported success," Tireuz said, breaking the silence. "They should be here soon."
They didn't wait long.
A column of figures began to emerge from the edge of the distant tree line, making their way down the gravel path leading toward the gates of Llyn. About forty returned.
And behind them—bound by enchanted rope, hands secured tightly—were about twenty captives. All outlaws.
Blood stained many of the returning adventurers, their armor scratched, cloaks torn, skin bruised. But they didn't look broken. No one seemed to be in critical condition.
Draven walked in front of the group. His black greying hair was tied back behind his head, and though a faint bruise darkened his jaw, it only seemed to add to his imposing presence.
Next to him, Padrin walked with his usual calm posture. His breathing seemed slightly heavier, his arm still loosely bandaged, but he held his sword at his hip and walked in sync with Draven as if they'd been fighting side by side for years.
Just behind them were a handful of other Crimson Directive members, faces mostly expressionless. Mixed within the group were the leaders of Stormhold Blades, easily identified by their distinct red-and-silver armor, worn and singed but carried with pride.
Tireuz took a step forward. "So…?" he asked.
Draven looked up at him and cracked a half-smile. "Yeah… it's over."
He adjusted the clasp on his cloak and gave a half-hearted gesture to the captives behind them. "We caught the leader. Name's Renner. Slimy little bastard. He spilled everything the moment we cracked his little defensive circle."
Amukelo looked past Draven to the bound man he referred to.
Renner, the supposed leader, was a scrawny man with wild black hair, a scruffy beard, and eyes that darted around like a rat trapped in daylight. Despite the bruises and the rope binding his wrists, he held his chin high, trying to look dignified even while blood stained the collar of his tunic.
Draven went on, "We warned him. Told him if there were any other groups out there that he hadn't mentioned, and they showed up uninvited—well, they'd be wiped out without a second thought."
Draven smirked, "So he told us about your little party. And another group further out. We'll catch them soon enough."
Renner struggled forward, glaring. "But remember—you promised us. You said if we surrendered, you wouldn't kill the others!"
Draven turned slightly, raising an eyebrow at him. His voice dropped with amusement. "Oh, Renner… You're not exactly in a position to make demands, are you?"
"You son of a—"
"I'm kidding," Draven cut him off with a laugh. "Relax. I'll keep my word. You've got my guarantee."
He took a step toward the outlaw and leaned in just enough that the others could still hear.
"But," he added with a smirk, "you also have to understand something. This is a battlefield. If they die in combat, that's not on me. That's on them. I'm not a miracle worker."
Renner looked like he wanted to bite through his own tongue. He clenched his jaw, but his shoulders sagged.
Tireuz cleared his throat. "Any casualties?"
Draven's expression sobered slightly. "A few. Injuries, mostly. No one critical, thank the stars. Their numbers were closer to ours than we thought, and they knew the terrain. We lost two. Three others are recovering."
Behind him, a few Crimson Directive members nodded somberly.
Amukelo's gaze drifted to the twenty captives.
Just twenty…? he thought. Against a force nearly equal to ours?
He gritted his teeth. That meant almost half of the outlaws must've died. He didn't speak. Just clenched his fists.
While the groups slowly broke apart to rest and check on injuries, Padrin peeled away from Draven's side and made his way toward Bral.
His posture had changed. The usual confidence in his gait was replaced by something awkward, more hesitant.
Amukelo noticed it right away. And it almost made him grin—because for once, Padrin looked just like he used to, when he first tried talking to people in town after living in the wild.
Padrin stepped up to Bral with an awkward sort of half-smile.
"…Can I ask you a question?" he asked, scratching the back of his head.
Bral didn't even blink. "You already did."
Padrin opened his mouth, then shut it. His cheeks flushed slightly. "No, I mean—uh—I wanted to—"
Bral sighed heavily and waved a hand at him. "Come on, don't be like that. You're acting like Amukelo when he first tried to order food. Spit it out."
Amukelo raised an eyebrow in mock offense. "Hey."
But Bral ignored him. He crossed his arms with his remaining hand and stared at Padrin. "What's the matter?"
Padrin stood there for a moment. He shifted slightly, hesitated—then finally let the words out. "…I just don't understand."
Bral tilted his head, a faint crease appearing on his brow. "Understand what?"
Padrin met his eyes. "Why aren't you mad at me?"
Bral didn't answer right away, so Padrin kept going, words pouring out, fast and uneven.
"I mean… I made the call. I rushed. I knew I had the weights on. I knew it was stupid. And because of that—because I couldn't wait—you lost your arm. That's not a small mistake. That's permanent. It's not like I scratched your armor or interrupted a spell. I took something from you. Something you can't just get back."
He paused, his voice lower. "So why are you talking to me like everything's fine?"
Bral let out a long, slow sigh. He scratched the edge of the bandage on his upper arm, winced slightly, then looked back at Padrin with tired but steady eyes. "Don't get me wrong," Bral said. "I'm still angry."
His voice wasn't bitter—it was firm. Honest. "I hate that I lost my arm. I hate the pain, the awkwardness, the way I'll have to relearn balance all over again."
Padrin winced.
"But," Bral continued, "I'm not acting on it. I'm not shouting, or blaming, or swinging at you."
He looked away for a moment, then back.
"Because I know the stupidest decisions we ever make… we make them when we let our emotions drive us."
Padrin fell silent.
"And wasn't that what you did?" Bral asked. "Didn't you chase after her—after Celeste—because of emotion? Not strategy. Not planning."
Padrin didn't answer. He just nodded slightly.
Bral looked down at the ground for a moment, then gave a faint exhale, like he was letting something go.
"You said you'd help," he said. "You made that promise. I'm just going to stick with that. I don't need apologies, Padrin. I need results. That's all."
Padrin stood straighter. "Ah… Right. About that." He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward again.
"I talked to Draven," he said. "About the prosthetic. He wasn't too happy that I told you about it. Said it was a Crimson Directive secret, but… he understood why I did it. Said he'd put in the request."
Bral raised an eyebrow. "So when do I get it?"
Padrin looked unsure. "That's the thing. I can't say for sure. He said it'd take time. Might be a while."
Before Bral could reply, another voice entered the conversation—low, confident, and almost amused. "Ah, so you're the one who lost an arm because of my hasty underling."
They both turned. Draven stood beside them, hands behind his back, his expression calm and composed as always. He gave Bral a slight nod, almost apologetic but still distinctly Crimson Directive in its formality.
He glanced toward Padrin. "He was right to tell you. Even if he wasn't supposed to."
Then he turned his full attention to Bral.
"You should hear from us later today with an estimate. But don't get your hopes up—it's not a mass-produced item. The artificer working on it only recently finalized the prototype, and every unit takes time. Weeks, possibly months. And even then, it may require personal adjustments."
Bral nodded, taking the information in silently.
Draven added, "Until then, I suggest you focus on your mana control. The prosthetic will only be as useful as the discipline behind it."
He looked back at Padrin, his tone shifting just slightly—more clipped. "Oh, and Padrin… it's going to cost you. Quite a lot, actually."
Padrin nodded without hesitation. "I'll cover it."
Draven smirked faintly. "That's what I thought."
Then he exhaled and turned to face the larger group of adventurers gathering near the central square. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's wrap this up. Time to hand over the captives."
He turned back to Bral and Padrin with a tired look. "You know, I prefer fighting monsters. They don't beg. They don't talk. Fighting humans like this—makes me feel like I'm back at war. And that's not a memory I like to relive."
With that, he walked off, gesturing to the rest of the Crimson Directive and Stormhold Blades to follow. The lines of captives were slowly guided toward the city gates under heavy escort.
Amukelo watched it all in silence.
A few paces away, Padrin stepped up to one of the guards, a stocky man in well-fitted armor who was checking documents beside a chained prisoner.
"Excuse me," Padrin said.
The guard glanced up.
Padrin tried to keep his voice steady. "Can I visit one of the outlaws? I have a personal matter with her."
The guard frowned slightly and rifled through a list. After a moment, he looked up again. "Name?"
"Celeste."
The guard nodded. "She's on the list. We have her. But you'll have to wait a few days."
Padrin's shoulders tensed slightly. "Why?"
"Standard protocol," the guard said. "We confirm identities, cross-reference testimonies, get clearance. Until then, they're off-limits. For their safety—and yours."
Padrin nodded slowly. "I understand. Should I just… check in every day?"
"That's the best way," the guard replied. "Sometimes it takes one day. Sometimes a week. Depends on the backlog."
"…Okay. I will."