The alehouse groans under the weight of too many bodies.

  The brigands of the Bleeding Knives crowd the room shoulder-to-shoulder, filling it with pipe-smoke and drunken shouting.

  Yurik holds court at the center, a keg tucked beneath one arm like a child’s toy, roaring with laughter as he guzzles straight from the tap. Ale spills down his face, soaking his filthy brigandine.

  Around him, men brawl for sport, slamming fists into jaws and boots into ribs. A table splinters under two bodies grappling for a pouch of stolen coin, neither seeming to notice the broken glass cutting into their backs.

  Hamza watches from the corner, face dark with disgust.

  William tries to blend in, laughing weakly whenever the Knives cheer or curse.

  Luna sits with her back against the far wall, cloak drawn up, eyes hidden. Her hand never leaves the hilt of her short sword.

  And I sit nursing a cracked mug of watery ale, listening. Watching.

  They’re animals.

  Bur entertaining to watch at least.

  I never have that much fun drunk, I wonder how they do it?

  Yurik wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and kicks a half-conscious man off his chair, claiming it for himself.

  "Brought this piss in yerself?" he bellows to the barkeep, who flinches under his gaze.

  The barkeep nods quickly, wringing his hands. "S-Sorry, m'lord! Meant no offense! Brewed what I could, gods' honest truth! Had no better to serve, not with the roads choked by snow!"

  Yurik grins, revealing a mess of broken, blackened teeth.

  "Tastes like rat’s piss strained through a whore’s cunt."

  The room erupts in laughter, cruel and ragged.

  He lurches to his feet, grabbing the barkeep by the collar and dragging him over the counter like a sack of flour.

  Without warning, Yurik smashes the man's face into the bar once, twice, three times.

  Blood splatters the wood, his nose broken, a large gash across his forehead.

  The barkeep slumps, moaning weakly.

  Yurik kicks him once in the ribs for good measure, sending him sliding to the floor in a heap.

  "And that," he roars, turning to his men, "is the price for servin' shite to a Knive!"

  The room cheers, banging mugs on tables.

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  Across the room, two Knives shove a girl, no older than fifteen, toward the hearth.

  She trips, falling hard onto the stones, her cloak tearing open to reveal the simple homespun tunic beneath.

  She scrambles to her knees, sobbing.

  "Found her sneakin' food from the stores," one of the brigands laughs. "Says her da sent her!"

  Yurik leans forward, his one good eye gleaming in the firelight.

  "That true, girl?" he calls, voice almost gentle.

  The girl nods frantically, tears streaking her dirt-smeared cheeks.

  He smiles.

  "Then yer da’s a thief. And you..." he rises, slow and heavy, towering over her, "you're the punishment."

  The room howls with laughter.

  Before any of us can move, Yurik backhands her across the face, sending her sprawling across the hearth.

  She gasps, clutching her bleeding mouth.

  Yurik turns, throwing his arms wide to his men.

  "Take her to the cellar. I'll be down for her later, don't touch her til I've had my turn."

  Two brigands lunge forward, grabbing the girl by the arms. She shrieks, kicking wildly, but they drag her screaming into the back hall.

  The tavern returns to its grim revelry without missing a beat.

  Hamza trembles beside me, his fists clenched so tight I can see blood welling under his fingernails.

  Maybe I shouldn't have brought him.

  This kind of world might be fine for looter scum like me. But ordinary folk...

  I look to William, who stares into his mug, eyes gloomy.

  And then to Luna, she looks back at me. Cold, not a trace of anger or sympathy. She shakes her head, signalling to not interfere.

  She could give Zaenith a run for her money, that one.

  I take a long gulp from my mug, grimacing at the taste of the ale. Then, I look around.

  Across the room, Yurik lifts his hammer from beside his chair, resting it on his shoulder.

  His good eye settles on me.

  "So tell me, lad, how'd your little pack come together?"

  I force a grin, keeping my voice steady. "Started with me and William here," I say, jerking my chin toward him. "Worked the docks down in Lowbridge, til some coin went missing. Boss didn't take kindly, so we ran."

  Yurik grunts, half-amused. "Ah, the humble beginnings of a thief."

  "Picked up Hamza next," I continue, nodding at him. "Found him in a tavern. Good arm for fighting, bad head for saving coin. Took care of his debtors for him, if you know what I mean. Now he owes me."

  "And the hooded one?" Yurik asks, peering curiously at Luna.

  I shrug. "Just a boy I ran into north of the Solstar. Tried to pick our pockets. Handles a blade well, so I kept him. Ugly as sin and that was before all the scars, I tell him to keep his face hidden so I don't have to look at it."

  The room rumbles with laughter at that.

  Yurik grins wider, slapping the table. "Right proper bunch o' rats, then. You'll fit right in."

  He sighs, leaning back in his chair, a heavy weariness creeping into his voice. "Made the right choice, lad. Life's good with the Knives. Long as yer fit to work, Edric'll do right by ye. Better than any lord or captain ever did."

  Curious, I ask, "Were you always a brigand?"

  He laughs, a harsh, hollow sound. "Naye. Once wore proper colors. Lieutenant, under Edric back when he commanded for Solstira. Served at Ironcliff. Fought when the northerners came down too, under Lumenon's banner after the split."

  He leans forward, spitting into the fire. "We bled fer 'em. Starved fer 'em. Watched good men rot in the mud while lords counted coins back at their manors. Promised pay that never came. Promised land that got sold to richer bastards."

  His voice drops, low and bitter. "Ain't no honor in wearin' a lord's colors. Only fools and dead men think different."

  A grin tugs at the ruined side of his mouth. "But now? Now I'm free. And I'll stay free 'til the day the worms feast on me."

  He slams the empty keg down onto the table with a heavy thud, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Welp," he says, stretching his shoulders with a crack, "time to go have me some real fun."

  He lumbers toward the cellar door, his boots thudding against the warped floorboards. Around the room, the other Knives barely glance up, too drunk or too cruel to care.

  From below, through the cracked doorframe, we hear the first muffled scream, high, raw, and filled with terror.

  We sit silently, as the sound of the girl's cries echo louder than the merry brigands.

  And we do nothing.