The brigand camp did not sleep early that night.
Fires burned across the hidden valley while drunken laughter echoed between the trees. Men sharpened blades beside logs blackened by smoke while others gambled with stolen coins under torchlight.
The mood was good.
Too good.
Most of them believed tomorrow night would be easy.
Another raid.
Another terrified city.
Another victory.
After all, that was how things had gone for months now.
Falmouth was rich.
Soft.
Afraid.
And every caravan they burned only made the city weaker.
At least, that was what the brigands believed.
Near the center of the camp, Garron Blackmaw sat beside the largest fire with several lieutenants gathered around him. A crude map of Falmouth rested across a stolen wooden crate while mugs of ale sat nearby.
Daren stood a short distance away near one of the supply wagons, quietly eating from a bowl of stew while listening.
Most brigands treated meetings like this casually.
Daren did not.
