The man with the lantern inhaled.
Torren saw it happen—not just the rise of the chest, but the intent behind it. The tightening of the jaw, the widening of the eyes, the split-second instinct that came before sound. It was the same moment every fight seemed to hinge on, the thin edge between silence and chaos.
If the man shouted, the village would wake all at once.
If he didn't—
Torren moved first.
There was no pause, no hesitation shaped into thought. His body closed the distance before his mind finished naming what it was doing. One step, then another, low and fast over the cold ground. The axe in his hand came up not in a wide, reckless swing, but in a tight, controlled arc aimed high—where neck met shoulder, where leather would give before bone resisted.
The man tried to shout.
What came out was not a word.
The blade struck.
Leather turned some of the force, but not enough. The edge bit deep along the side of the neck, cutting through the seam where protection ended and flesh began. The man's voice collapsed into a wet choke. The lantern slipped from his fingers, swung once, then dropped into the dirt with a dull crack.
Torren was already inside his reach.
His left hand slammed into the man's chest, driving him backward into the rough wooden wall of the storehouse. The impact knocked what breath remained from him in a broken gasp. His free hand fumbled for the sword at his hip, fingers clumsy, slick with blood.
Torren didn't give him time.
He tore the axe free and struck again, lower this time, into the ribs where the leather vest offered the least resistance. The blade punched through hide and into flesh beneath. The man's body jerked hard, then sagged.
No shout.
No warning.
Only the failing attempt at breath.
Torren held him there a moment longer, feeling the weight shift, the strength go out of him. Then he let go.
The body slid down the wall.
For a heartbeat, everything held.
Then the lantern rolled.
Its dim light shifted across the ground, catching on the spreading dark stain, on the grain of the wood, on the edge of Torren's axe as he pulled it free one last time.
Behind him, movement resumed.
Harrag stepped past without slowing, as if the man had been no more than an obstacle on the path. Two Painted Dogs followed, dragging the body into shadow while another slipped through the open door of the storehouse.
The raid had begun.
It did not erupt all at once.
It spread.
Like something waking in pieces.
From the lower lanes came the first real sound—a confused shout, sharp and sudden, cut short almost immediately. Somewhere further off, a woman's voice rose, high and thin, then broke into panic as another voice answered it. Doors slammed. Wood cracked. Animals shifted and stamped in their pens.
Torren turned toward the storehouse.
Inside, men were already moving.
The space was larger than it appeared from outside, held up by thick timber beams darkened with age and dust. The air inside was dry, heavy with the smell of grain. Sacks were stacked in rows, some piled waist-high, others nearly reaching a man's chest. One of the Painted Dogs had already cut open a bundle near the entrance, letting grain spill into a waiting sack.
"Take only what we can carry," someone muttered.
"Fast," another answered. "No waste."
Harrag appeared in the doorway, filling it for a moment before stepping inside.
"First loads now," he said, voice low but cutting. "No waiting."
The hesitation vanished.
Men moved faster. Knives flashed, cords snapped, sacks filled and lifted. The first carriers turned toward the narrow exit at the rear, slipping out into the dark where others would take the weight and move it uphill.
Torren stepped back toward the entrance.
Outside, the village was waking.
Not all at once.
In fragments.
A man stumbled into the lane with no cloak, shouting half-formed questions. A woman dragged a child behind her, clutching something wrapped tight against her chest. Further downslope, flames had already taken hold of a roof, climbing quickly through dry thatch.
The light flickered across the settlement.
Torren's eyes moved toward the upper path.
Movement.
A group forming.
Six men, maybe more, coming uphill toward the storehouses. Not farmers—not entirely. They moved faster, more deliberately. One carried a proper spear. Another had a round wooden shield reinforced with leather. Their vests were thick hide, layered and strapped tight across the chest. Not steel. Not knight's armor.
But enough to slow a blade.
Enough to matter.
Torren stepped out.
Harrag saw them at the same moment.
"Left," he said, already moving.
Torren followed.
They met the guards in the narrow space between the storehouse and a low fence.
There was no formation.
No lines.
Just impact.
Harrag struck first.
His axe came down hard against a raised shield, the leather-reinforced wood buckling under the blow. The force drove the man backward, his footing slipping on the cold ground.
Torren angled right.
The man with the spear lunged.
The movement was quick—faster than the farmers, cleaner. The spearhead drove forward, aimed for the chest. Torren twisted, letting it glance off his side rather than take it full. The point scraped along his fur and leather, tearing but not biting deep.
He stepped in.
Too close for the spear to matter.
The man tried to pull back.
Too slow.
Torren's axe came low, cutting into the thigh. The blade bit through the leather layers and into muscle beneath. The man screamed—a raw, uncontained sound that tore through the lane.
That was the break.
The moment silence ended.
The village woke fully.
More doors flew open. Voices rose—confused, angry, terrified. From the lower lanes came answering shouts as the Stone Crows hit harder, their voices rising in jagged, echoing cries.
Torren pulled his axe free as the wounded man collapsed.
Another guard was already on him.
Sword raised.
Leather vest strapped tight across his chest.
Fear in his eyes, but not enough to stop him.
The blade came down fast.
Torren brought his own weapon up, the impact jarring through his arms. For a moment they were locked close together, breath visible between them in the cold air.
Then Harrag moved.
A short, brutal strike from the side—enough to break the man's balance. The guard staggered, just a step, just enough.
Torren didn't hesitate.
His next swing ended it.
"Don't get caught," Harrag said, already turning toward the next threat.
Torren nodded, breath steadying even as the world around him grew louder.
Behind them, the first sacks of grain were already being hauled from the storehouse.
Ahead of them, the village burned.