"No blood. No screaming. No spontaneous combustion. I'm almost proud. Not of you, obviously. But of myself—for working with such limited resources."
Time to loot.
First wagon: dried fish.
"Of course," Raven sighed. "Because hauling the scent of death up a mountain is what the nobles crave these days."
Second wagon: gold.
"Ahhh. That's the sparkle daddy likes."
Third wagon: wine. Bottles of it. Real vintage stuff. The kind that made bad decisions taste better.
Raven uncorked one, sniffed it like a snob, and took a sip. "If I die tonight, let this be my last regret... that I didn't steal two wagons."
Then—
"Heyyyyy!"
A slurred voice. A young man stumbled into view. Merchant's son, obviously. Shirt half-tucked. Perfume strong enough to burn through steel. Boots on the wrong feet.
"You robbin' us or joinin' the party?" he slurred. "I got coins in my socks! And wine in my socks! Wait... no, wait—brain in my socks?"
Raven blinked slowly.
"You have the breath of a dying skunk and the coordination of a greased ferret. Sit down, drink your grape juice, and do not speak again until taxes are abolished."
The boy giggled and fell into hay like the useless luxury he was.
Raven turned back to the wine. "See? This is why we rob them. For justice."
Then their informant stepped from the shadows, smirking.
"Well done," he said. "Now, about my—"
He never finished.
Raven's blade went through his chest like it had an appointment.
The man gasped. "Why—"
"Because," Raven said, calm as ever, "I counted six guards. There were eight. That means you either can't count... or you thought you were clever. Both offenses are fatal."
The body crumpled.
Faraq winced. "Boss... he was our guy."
"He was," Raven corrected. "Until he wasn't. I don't share coin with people who make me do math under pressure."
Silas wisely said nothing.
Raven tossed them each a pouch of gold.
"Here. Your cut. Congratulations on not being dead. Treat yourselves. Or don't. I don't care."
He turned to the wine wagon, taking another bottle like a man who'd earned it.
"And if anyone wakes up…" he said, glancing over his shoulder, "we'll just put them back to bed. With extreme prejudice and minor stab wounds."
The fire crackled.
The forest behind them rustled—hungry.
But Raven? Raven just took another sip of wine and smiled.
"You absolute morons," he muttered, kicking over an unfinished tent and dropping onto a pile of hay. "If I die tonight, I'm haunting both your mothers."
Then he lay back, arms behind his head, sipping wine like a man who refused to let stupidity ruin his nap.