Atop a jagged mountain cliff under a moon that looked like it regretted all its life choices, three cloaked figures stood. The wind howled like a rejected opera singer. Silence reigned.
Raven broke it, naturally.
"Alright, Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber," he said, eyes locked on the winding road below, "try to pay attention. A merchant caravan will pass through here tonight. They'll stop right at this clearing. Why? Because even rich idiots aren't dumb enough to camp inside that."
He gestured toward the blackened treeline below.
The forest sat like a sleeping beast, unmoving but very obviously breathing. The trees were gnarled, twisted, and hunched like they'd all seen things. Bad things. Spine-snapping, soul-munching, "what was that noise" things.
"That forest," Raven continued, "has the personality of a jealous ex and the snack preferences of a bottomless pit. They won't go near it after dark."
Faraq scratched his head. "But what if they don't stop?"
Raven turned his head slowly, as if physically in pain. "Faraq. My sweet summer disappointment. We have a man inside the caravan. He told us exactly where they'll stop. Unlike you, I don't make plans based on vibes, moon phases, or how tight my pants feel."
Silas snorted.
"You laugh now," Raven added, "but if either of you botches this again, I'm throwing you both into the murder woods and telling the trees you're gluten-free."
Both shut up.
Moments later, the caravan appeared—five wagons, creaking up the path like hungover turtles.
Raven grinned. "There it is. Target in sight. Time to ruin someone's retirement fund."
They vanished over the cliff like very well-dressed ghosts.
---
The camp was chaos in the making. Guards tripping over ropes. Fires refusing to start. One guy was arguing with a tree. It was blissful incompetence.
From the treeline, Raven gave the signal.
Showtime.
He moved first. Always did. One guard, humming and very much not watching his back, got a surprise bedtime special: arm around the neck, cloth over the nose, and a gentle trip to nap-nap land.
"Shhh," Raven whispered, lowering him gently. "Let it happen. It's the most useful thing you've done all day."
Faraq took down a man mid-pee. The guy dropped mid-stream like a sad marionette.
Raven blinked. "Impressive. Killed him and his dignity in one shot."
Silas did what Silas did best—strangled a man dramatically, dragging him into the bushes like some murder-themed magician.
"Classic Silas," Raven muttered. "All the flair, none of the subtlety. I swear he winked at him."
One guard by the fire got a swift neck-chop and face-planted directly into his own gray stew.
Raven tilted his head. "Well, at least it finally has flavor."
A smoke pellet dropped by Faraq took out two more. Raven was impressed... mildly.
"Oh good," he said. "You remembered you own actual tools. Miracles do happen."
The final guard got pulled under a wagon by Silas like a swamp monster on a schedule. One yelp. Then silence.
The camp went still.
Just the crackle of fire and the heavy snoring of people who were technically alive.
Raven stepped into the center, calm, composed, and extremely pleased with himself.
"No blood. No screaming. No spontaneous combustion. I'm almost proud. Not of you, obviously. But of myself—for working with such limited resources."