Deep in the woods of Wyfn-Garde, far from the warmth of the Moor Mansion and the tearful reunion that had just taken place, the scent of blood clung to the trees like fog.
Crows circled above, drawn by the carnage below. The forest, once silent, echoed with the guttural cries of battle, the clashing of blades, and the gurgle of dying men.
A lone banner lay shredded in the mud, its sigil unrecognizable—trampled by desperate boots.
The bounty had done this.
A reward so rich, so tempting, it had turned the kingdom's most dangerous outlaws and mercenaries into a pack of frenzied hounds, snapping at one another's throats before they could even scent their prey.
They were bounty hunters—but not the quiet, calculating kind.
These ones wore names like armor.
Black Rend. Steel Widow. Gravel. Knifetooth. The Four-Lunged.
They called themselves things meant to instill fear. And now, they were proving their reputations true.
