The Raider's Den

The air in the raider encampment hung thick and cloying, a miasma of stale sweat, cheap ale, and the ever-present tang of unwashed bodies. It was a far cry from the briny kiss of the sea that Kad had known his entire life, a stark reminder of how far he had strayed from home, or what was left of it. He pressed himself deeper into the shadows of a rough-hewn shed, the rough wood scratching against his tunic, a welcome sensation that anchored him to the present, to the mission. Beside him, Leif was a silent, still presence, his leafy form blending with the encroaching twilight, a testament to his uncanny ability to disappear when needed. Shershey, a coiled spring of nervous energy, was a few paces away, her gaze sweeping across the chaotic sprawl of tents and crude fire pits, her hand never far from the worn leather of her gun belt.

“Anything?” Kad whispered, his voice barely a rasp.

Shershey shook her head, her dark braid swinging against her shoulder. “Just noise and filth. They’re celebrating something. Loudly.” She spat the last word, her lip curling in distaste. The swagger she usually carried was muted, replaced by a sharp, predatory focus. Even in the dim light, Kad could see the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes darted, always assessing, always ready.