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.

That habit kept him alive longer than most.

Across the fire, one of Garron’s lieutenants pointed toward the rough map.

"The east drainage route still works?"

Another nodded immediately.

"Checked it three nights ago."

Good.

That route mattered.

Falmouth’s eastern drainage tunnel was old and partially collapsed in some places, but small groups could still crawl through sections of it if they knew where to enter.

Perfect for infiltration.

Garron leaned back slightly while resting one arm across his knee.

"We strike the farms first," he repeated calmly.

Several men nodded.

"Burn the outer fields. Make noise. Draw guards south."

One lieutenant grinned.

"Then the east group enters while they panic."

"Exactly."

The camp looked confident again.

Confident men laughed louder.

Drank harder.

Spoke like victory already belonged to them.

Daren glanced around quietly.

There were over seventy men in camp now.

More if the scattered raider groups returned by tomorrow afternoon.

Some were hardened killers.

Former soldiers.

Ex-mercenaries.

Runaway criminals.

Others were simply desperate men who followed strength and coin wherever they found it.

But Garron held them together.

That was the dangerous part.

Without Garron, this would just be another group of violent thieves.

With him?

They moved like an actual raiding force.

Marrick eventually approached Daren carrying two mugs.

"You still thinking about those flying things?"

Daren accepted one mug slowly.

"A little."

Marrick sat beside him near the wagon wheel.

"I don’t like it."

Daren drank quietly before answering.

"Neither do I."

That admission surprised Marrick slightly.

"You think they’re dangerous?"

Daren stared into the firelight across the camp.

"...I think they’re unknown."

And unknown things killed careless men.

That was something Daren learned years ago.

A loud burst of laughter suddenly erupted from another fire nearby.

Several brigands were already mocking the outsiders openly.

"Twenty men!"

One drunk raider nearly spilled his ale while laughing.

"The city really thinks twenty mercenaries can stop us?"

Another grinned.

"Maybe they’re noble bodyguards."

"Noble bodyguards don’t carry black sticks."

"They probably break after one swing."

More laughter.

Daren said nothing.

Because honestly—

Part of him wanted to believe the same thing.

The outsiders were strange.

But strange did not always mean strong.

Still...

The way they moved bothered him.

Disciplined.

Controlled.

No wasted motion.

Not like normal mercenaries.

Mercenaries swaggered.

These men didn’t.

Marrick lowered his voice slightly.

"You notice how calm they looked?"

Daren glanced toward him.

"Yeah."

"That bothered me more than the flying things."

Honestly—

Same.

Most city guards looked nervous before battles.

The outsiders didn’t.

Not from what Daren saw through the spyglass.

They looked focused.

Like men already expecting violence.

That was different.

Before either scout could continue, another brigand approached their wagon.

Keller.

Tall.

Thin-faced.

Former caravan guard before joining Garron months earlier.

He pointed toward them with a grin.

"Garron wants the scouts."

Daren stood immediately.

Marrick followed.

The two moved through the camp toward the central fire where Garron still sat beside the crate map. Several lieutenants remained nearby while others dispersed to prepare their own groups.

Garron looked up as they approached.

"You two know the city best right now."

Daren nodded once.

"We saw most of the southern wall."

Garron pointed toward the map.

"Then tell me exactly where those outsiders positioned themselves."

Daren crouched near the crate and pointed carefully.

"Main concentration along the southern wall."

His finger moved.

"One group near the road."

Another.

"One near the eastern bend."

Another.

"One overlooking the mill approach."

Garron studied the layout carefully.

"Spread evenly."

"Yes."

One lieutenant snorted.

"They’re trying to scare us."

"Maybe," Daren answered.

Garron looked toward him.

"You disagree?"

Daren hesitated slightly.

Then answered honestly.

"I think they’re preparing properly."

The nearby laughter faded slightly.

Garron stared at him for several seconds.

Then slowly nodded.

"Good."

That surprised some of the men.

Garron pointed toward Daren.

"Arrogant scouts die early. I’d rather hear caution than stupidity."

Several brigands looked mildly embarrassed after that.

Garron leaned over the map again.

"You said they placed strange weapons on the walls."

"Yes."

"Describe them again."

Daren repeated everything carefully.

Black metal weapons.

Mounted tripods.

Metal belts feeding into them.

No visible strings.

No runes.

No cranks.

Garron listened quietly.

Then looked toward one of the older brigands nearby.

Vern.

Former siege engineer before becoming outlaw years ago.

"You ever hear of weapons like that?"

Vern scratched his beard slowly.

"No."

"Not mage tools?"

"If they were mage weapons, there’d be catalysts. Crystals. Runes. Something."

Daren nodded slightly.

That matched his thinking too.

One lieutenant crossed his arms.

"Then what are they?"

Vern shrugged.

"Foreign maybe."

Another brigand laughed.

"Maybe the rich city hired performers."

A few chuckled again.

But Garron remained focused. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

"Foreign or not," he said calmly, "they bleed like anyone else."

That line restored confidence around the fire almost immediately.

Daren noticed it.

Garron understood people well.

Whenever uncertainty spread too much, he crushed it quickly.

Fear weakened raiders just as easily as civilians.

Garron looked back toward Daren.

"You still think the city’s vulnerable?"

Daren answered honestly.

"Yes."

That part was still true.

The civilians were frightened.

The walls were old.

The city guards lacked confidence.

And despite the outsiders—

There still weren’t enough of them.

Twenty soldiers could not guard an entire city alone.

At least, that was how Daren saw it.

Garron finally stood from the crate.

"Good."

He grabbed the axe resting nearby and slung it across one shoulder.

"Then tomorrow night we remind Falmouth why they should’ve paid us when they had the chance."

Several brigands laughed darkly after hearing that.

Because this entire conflict started from greed.

Months earlier, Garron approached Falmouth quietly through intermediaries.

Protection money.

Simple.

Pay regularly and caravans pass safely.

Refuse—

And the roads become dangerous.

Falmouth refused.

Now here they were.

The city bleeding slowly while trade routes collapsed around them.

And tomorrow night?

Garron intended to finish the lesson.

The meeting eventually dispersed afterward.

Groups returned to their fires while others prepared equipment for the coming attack.

Daren walked away from the center camp slowly while Marrick followed beside him.

"You think Garron’s underestimating them?" Marrick asked quietly.

Daren thought about it.

Then shrugged slightly.

"Maybe."

"That doesn’t bother you?"

"It does."

Marrick frowned.

"Then why aren’t you saying more?"

Daren looked toward the dark forest surrounding the valley.

Because brigands followed confidence.

Not fear.

And right now, Garron’s confidence held the camp together.

If that cracked—

The entire raiding force could split apart before the battle even began.

"You know what happens if raiders smell weakness," Daren muttered.

Marrick stayed quiet after that.

Because he knew too.

Garron ruled through strength.

The moment men doubted him too openly, things would become ugly fast.

The two scouts eventually stopped near the edge of camp where several horses rested beside supply wagons.

The night air felt colder here away from the fires.

Daren looked north again.

Toward Falmouth.

Hidden far beyond the trees.

The outsiders were there now.

Preparing.

Waiting.

The image of those strange black weapons returned to his mind again.

And the flying steel.

He still did not understand either of them.

That bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

Nearby, another group of brigands laughed loudly while placing bets on how quickly the city gates would fall tomorrow night.

"One hour."

"Less."

"They’ll panic the moment the fires start."

"Especially those rich merchants."

More laughter.

Marrick listened quietly before muttering:

"They really think this’ll be easy."

Daren stared toward the darkness.

"...Maybe it will be."

But his voice lacked confidence now.

Far above the forest canopy, invisible against the night sky, the Predator drone continued circling silently.

Its thermal optics tracked heat signatures across the valley below.

Campfires.

Supply positions.

Guard rotations.

Horse lines.

Tents.

Movement patterns.

Everything.

Inside Falmouth, several miles away, Marcus stood inside the command center watching the live feed on a monitor while Atlas personnel worked around him.

The hidden brigand camp glowed clearly across the screen like exposed embers in darkness.

The pilot leaned beside him with crossed arms.

"Well."

Marcus stayed quiet while studying the image.

The co-pilot smirked slightly.

"They really have no idea."

No.

They didn’t.

Not even remotely.

Marcus watched another brigand patrol move through the camp perimeter before calmly speaking:

"They still think this is a medieval siege."

The pilot nodded.

"And tomorrow?"

Marcus looked back toward the glowing camp on the screen.

Then answered simply.

"Tomorrow they learn otherwise."