The air reeked of fire. Thick smoke coiled above the camp, mingling with the scent of blood and iron. At the edge of the clearing, Mirage stood watching his men ransack the tents, their faces blank. He raised a hand slightly, signaling them to continue, then turned slowly toward Nicholas, who approached with measured steps.
"Storerooms are clear. Minimal resistance."
His voice was calm, but threaded with impatience.
Mirage didn't look at him.
"The documents?"
Nicholas waved a leather scroll.
"Here. Trade contracts, tax records… and names."
A pause, then lower:
"This lord bought more loyalties than bread."
Mirage said nothing. He took the scroll, rolling it between his fingers as if testing its weight.
Lian emerged from the shadows, his blond hair gilded by distant flames.
"Didn't expect it to end so fast. They said he was unbeatable."
Nicholas shook his head.
"They all fall. Some just take longer."
At the far end of the clearing, Ezrah crouched beside a splintered chest, her hands buried in coin sacks. She didn't look up when Mirage stopped before her.
"Tally it clean. No surprises when we deliver the spoils."
"We'll need two carts at least," she replied, still sorting. "Some of the gold's hidden under emergency rations."
Farther off, Varn laughed as he watched the fire consume the lord's banners. Jorah trudged toward him, dragging a heavy sack.
"How many of these wars do we fight before someone actually pays the price?" Varn asked, gesturing at the ruin around them.
Jorah lifted his head, stared into the flames, then said wearily:
"Dunno. Maybe no one ever pays. We just count the bodies."
"And Mirage?"
Varn tilted his head toward their leader.
"He counts too… in his own way."
Later, Mirage returned to the clearing's center. A single glance gathered his men. They exchanged quick gestures—an old language of signals only they understood.
"We move before dawn," he said, voice clear. "Take everything. Leave no traces."
Lian's eyes glinted in the firelight.
"And the lord?"
"Dead or fled, they'll say he lost."
As the men dispersed, Nicholas lingered.
"You know… when you recruited me, I thought I was escaping all this. The wars, the bodies, the debts. Nothing's changed."
Mirage was silent a moment.
"The only difference is we've stopped pretending we're better."
Nicholas nodded slowly.
"Maybe that's enough."
Alone in the clearing, Mirage let the smoke curl around him like a curtain. His hand settled on the long hilt of the sword strapped to his back. The metal's warmth reminded him of something distant, something lost years ago.
But he didn't let the memory surface.
He pressed his fingers against the hilt until they numbed, then let them drop.
He moved silently toward the last tents.
Passed corpses without blinking.
Walked by burning banners without turning.
Nothing left was worth stopping for.
When it was done, the men circled around him, their scarred heads bowed, faces tired of waiting for something that never came.
"That's all," Mirage said quietly. "We end the night here."