ChatGPT said:
I ride hard. The letter from the king is still warm in my pocket — a rope pulling my thoughts toward the capital — but there's no room for that now. A messenger barges into the council, face white as a sheet. "A convoy was ambushed outside town." The words hit like a hammer.
I tell Elias, "Main gate. Now." My voice cuts through the stunned quiet; no one argues. We grab weapons, throw saddles on horses, and go.
When we reach the road the convoy should have used, it's a ruined mess. Two wagons are still burning, black smoke curling into the sky. People lie where they fell. Women are crying, men stand with faces gone hollow. The village chief collapses to his knees when he sees me.
"They— they came in a pack," he says, voice breaking. "They killed, they took—women and children."
I taste bile. "Who did this?" I ask. The chief just points to the hills like the answer is a goddamn hand.
Oswin curses under his breath. "Bandits. They're getting bolder." He looks at me. "We should shut the roads down."
"Elias," I say, "scout the perimeter. Double the guards on the main road. Anyone coming through this route — we'll escort them." I turn to Varyn and Rowan when the chief begs for help to find the taken.
Varyn straightens. "I'll send my birds. Forin will pick up the scent." She produces a sparrow and pinches the tiny thing between two fingers like it's nothing. Rowan pulls the fox-wolf — Forin — forward. The animal sniffs the air and snorts; its nose trembles.
I give orders quick and blunt. "Take three knights, ten militia, ten archers. Find them. Bring at least one alive. I want their head for the square." The men nod. Justice isn't pretty, but it has to be real.
Varyn closes her eyes and lets the sparrow fly. Her voice goes low and odd, and through that bird we see — hills, smoke, a ring of clumsy tents and a few campfires. Rowan's jaw goes tight. "They moved out recently. Good."
We move quiet as wolves. Rowan points. "They'll move along this road. Spread out on both sides. When I give the sign, strike quick." I feel the weight of the moment like a blade at my throat.
The hostages are in the open, tied up, eyes wide and wet with fear. The bandits laugh and shout, three or four of them drunk with cruelty. They don't see us. We wait for the exact second.
Rowan nods. "Now." The crossbow bolts whistle. Four men drop so hard I hear the thump through my boots. Screams. Panic. The rest scatter for cover — bad move.
Another volley slams into them. Seven more go down. The second strike is cleaner, closer. You can tell which bolts are aimed to kill and which are to wound; we need some captured, but we also need chaos. The bandits are already trying to hold hostages like shields; their faces go raw with fear.
They push a woman in front, pressing a blade against her throat. The ringleader — a scarred man who smells like piss and stale wine — grins like a dog showing teeth. "If you come near, she dies," he hisses.
Rowan moves forward, his voice calm and awful. "Drop the weapons. Release them and your leader goes alive." The man spits, but his hands tremble.
A miller in our line snaps and charges; a knight barrels after him. Steel meets steel. I don't flinch. We close the net. A hand-to-hand mess erupts — punches, a slice, someone's forearm breaks with a sick crack. One of our militia gets slashed across the ribs and goes down coughing blood, cursing. I land a blow that knocks a bandit's jaw loose enough that he tastes his own tooth.
The fighting is ugly. There's no choreography — elbows, knees, the sick-thud of bodies hitting the earth, curses, the wet noises of someone taking a crossbow bolt in the shoulder. One of the bandits tries to run; Forin darts, teeth flashing, and brings him down like an animal should. Another bandit raises a knife toward a child — I don't think, I move, and a spear finds his back before he can do anything. He makes a wet sound and folds.
Rowan gives the signal and a pair of men cut ropes with short knives. I yank a gag from a woman's mouth; she's shaking hard, whispering curses and thanks at the same time. "You saved us," she says stupidly. I meet her eyes and promise with nothing else but my voice, "We will hunt them down."
When it's finished, some bandits are dead on the road, some are bound and bleeding. We've got one live — the scarred leader, throat red, shouting curses between gasps. I look at him. He stares back like he owns the world.
Back in Orshek, the people are a raw, noisy mass of relief and fury. They clap our shoulders and cry and spit at the ground where the bandits were dragged past. I stand on the steps of the hall and tell them bluntly, "We took three alive. Tonight they'll hang — and their leader will be beheaded." The crowd roars in approval; some pray, some howl.
Rowan reports quietly to me: "Two more camps. They were scouting. They'll strike again if we don't press." I nod. "Keep investigating. Bring the rest in. No mercy for those who knife children and sell women into pits." My voice is cold by then. Justice needs to taste like iron.
Night comes and we bring them out to the square. Torches spit shadows across faces taut with hatred. The three condemned men stand in the center, blood dried in their hair, stumbling when the noose tightens. They beg at first — pathetic, crawling pleas. Then they go quiet.
I don't watch the actual cut. I watch the faces of the people instead — the way their shoulders drop a little, how relief and something like pride mix in their eyes. The crowd mutters, some cry, a few throw disdain at the empty platform. It's a brutal sight, and necessary. That's a truth I carry with me.
That night, the town sleeps with torches still burning. I walk the streets, patrol with Elias, listen to people swap stories about how we fought. They sleep better; their children will move, maybe, because they saw teeth shown. For now, the road seems less like a graveyard and more like a route home.
Still, I can't shake the smell of smoke and blood. Bandits don't learn from public executions — some do, some don't. There are two more camps out there. I'll sleep when the last of them is cut down or behind bars. Until then, I sharpen myself on what needs doing: keep the people safe, find my siblings in the capital, and make sure Orshek doesn't become someone else's dinner.
I spit on the ground for the dead and pull my cloak tight. War and law and justice all mingle into the same dark thing, and I plan to see it done my way — hard, fast, and without bullshit.