Marrow told him. Their band had been forced conscripts of a warlord to the east. When he fell, they fled. They had never wanted to pillage. They had never hurt a villager. They only wanted to cross the pass to the unclaimed marshes, where they could live as trappers and herb-gatherers in peace. But every village saw the crossbows, the axe, the tattoos—and closed its gates.
Kaelen knelt. He took out his own water flask and a small pouch of dried meat—his own rations—and set them down. “What’s your story?” passive pillager
“Give me the crossbow. And the axe.” Marrow told him
And so, in the hills and villages beyond, scouts began to ask a new question before reporting: “Are they raiding, or are they running?” They had never wanted to pillage
Kaelen had his orders. “Passive or not, a pillager is a pillager. Report their location. The captain will send a squad.”
“I’m not your enemy,” he said quietly. “But I’m also not your friend. The patrol from Verveil will reach this ridge by dusk. If you stay, you die.”
In the sun-scorched village of Verveil, a young scout named Kaelen was known for his steady hands and a sharper conscience. He had been tracking a small, separated band of pillagers for three days. These weren't the brutal, horn-helmed marauders of storybooks—just three ragged figures: a weary crossbowman, a pockmarked axe-bearer, and an older woman who carried no weapon, only a worn satchel.