Osric Vayne counted eleven men who called him lord, and not one who had eaten that day. They crouched in the ruined mill by the river, waiting for him to make good on his promise. He had sworn to take back his family's castle from the noble house that murdered his father and stole his name. But a rebellion runs on bread and steel, and Osric had neither. He turned his father's gold signet ring in his fingers. It was the last thing he owned worth selling, and it would buy them a single week. One of the men spat. "Pretty words, Vayne. My belly wants coin." The others watched. Osric knew the look. Loyalty was thinning like broth stretched too far. "You'll have coin," he said. "Tonight." He led them along the river road to a stone building set apart, squat and heavy with iron shutters. A guard leaned by its studded door. Above the door, carved letters named it a counting house. Inside sat the taxes the noble family had wrung from every farmer in the valley. Osric had watched it for three days. Two guards by night. A river at its back. A woman dropped from the roof of the shed beside him. She landed light, bow already in hand, blonde hair loose around a face he half remembered from his father's hall. Alleria Lightborne. She was born to the same rank he'd lost, and she had every reason to hate what he'd become. "You'll get them all killed," she said. She nocked an arrow anyway. "Two guards inside. I counted four." "You've been watching me watch it." "I've been watching you starve." Her green eyes moved over his ragged men. "My family wants that house robbed as much as you do. So I'm here. Don't mistake it for trust." Osric did not argue. He needed her arrows. "The back window," he said. "You put down the two by the strongroom. My men take the door." She went first, over the shed and gone. Osric gave her a slow count of thirty. Then he kicked the leaning guard in the knee and drove him against the wall. His men poured through the door. Inside, a lantern crashed. He heard the snap of a bowstring twice, and two men fell before they cleared their swords. The last guard ran for the river. Osric let him go. He wanted no bodies floating downstream to warn the noble house too soon. The strongroom held four chests of silver. His men wept over them like children. Osric filled his hands and felt the weight of a real army for the first time. Alleria watched from the doorway, an arrow still on her string. "You have your coin," she said. "But that runner reached the road. By morning the whole valley knows the outlaw Vayne robbed their lords." She lowered the bow. "They won't send guards now. They'll send soldiers."

By dawn the silver had become a burden. Osric's men hauled four heavy chests along a wooded trail, and each step slowed them further. Sweat soaked their backs. Behind them, a horn sounded twice. The noble house had sent soldiers on horses, and the horses were closing the gap. Alleria climbed a rise and looked back through the trees. "Two dozen riders," she said. "We carry silver. They carry swords and full bellies." She dropped down beside him. "You can't win a race with your arms full." Osric knew she was right. His men would die for the chests, or drop them and run. He would not let it come to either. He pointed to the river below. "We split the load. Bury three chests here, under the roots. We carry one and run loud. Leave a trail they can follow." "You want them to chase you," Alleria said. "I want them to chase one chest. Not four." He set his men digging. They wrapped three chests in cloak and dirt and packed them under a fallen tree. Osric marked the spot in his mind by a split gray stone. The men hated it. One spat at his feet. "You're giving it back to them." "I'm keeping it," Osric said. "Move." They ran with the last chest, crashing through brush, snapping branches, leaving boot prints in the mud. The horn drew nearer. Alleria stayed at the rear with her bow. When the first rider broke through the trees, she loosed one arrow and dropped him from the saddle. The others reined up, wary now, slowed by the corpse in their path. That pause was enough. Osric's men reached a narrow gorge where horses could not follow. They scrambled down and forded the shallow river. On the far bank, Osric turned and watched the riders search the muddy trail. They found the single chest's tracks and followed, drawn away from the buried three. But a soldier at the rear did not follow. He stood at the tree line, and beside him crouched a black wolf with yellow eyes, straining at a leather leash. A tracker. The beast lifted its head and swung its nose toward the split gray stone. Osric's stomach dropped. He had hidden the silver from men. He had not counted on a nose. "They have a hunting wolf," Alleria said. She nocked another arrow, but the range was too great. "It'll find your chests by nightfall." Osric looked at the far bank, at the beast pulling toward his buried fortune. One chest was safe across the water. Three were as good as lost the moment that wolf reached the roots. "Then we don't run," he said. "We go back for it. Tonight. Before they dig." He had bought his men their lives and one chest of silver. He had left three behind, and now a yellow-eyed hound stood ready to hand them back to his enemies.