The Bandit Run In

The fire still burns beneath the snow-coated ring. The dead broad-shouldered bandit lies beside it, while the four surviving prisoners remain sealed in crystal, weapons trapped in raised hands.

Kynd’s injured sword arm stiffens beneath his winter robes, pain tightening whenever the cold creeps through the fabric. Fine fractures spread across the prisoners’ icy shells.

The axe wielder’s eyes shift toward the fire, then toward Kynd. The knife carriers stare through whitening lashes, while the bowwoman watches him most intently.

The words come muffled through ice, but fear gives them force. A sharp crack answers from the bowwoman’s prison, and a shard drops into the snow.

Heat from the fire could restore one captive’s breath, while a careful thread of ice might preserve the others. The prisoners watch Kynd through their crystal prisons, waiting for his choice.

Kynd draws the silver katana. His injured arm trembles under the effort, but the cold iron tip clears its sheath and hangs bright above the fire.

The answer lacks courage, yet it gives the prisoners something to cling to. They brace together, and their icy shells crack across shoulders and raised weapons.

A slab of crystal breaks from the bowwoman’s arm and drops beside the fire. Her fingers remain trapped, but the bowstring slackens, leaving her weapon useless.

Kynd reaches toward the travel gear for rope, keeping the silver katana angled away from the prisoners. His injured sword arm tightens with pain as he searches the bundled straps and blankets.

There is no rope among the gear. The expected coil is absent, leaving only frost-stiffened straps that cannot circle four bodies or hold them securely.

The fire eats deeper into the nearest shells. Crystal splits from the prisoners’ shoulders and legs, and the four begin to separate as the ice releases their footing.

The axe wielder’s frozen grip loosens first. The four prisoners remain exposed and unarmed, but the missing rope has left no restraint between them and the open road.

Kynd presses his hand over the injured sword arm. Divine light answers from within his fused soul, spreading through torn muscle and bruised bone until the pain releases and his strength returns.

The silver katana steadies in his healed grip. He searches the blankets, straps, and scattered camp gear again, finding no coil hidden among them.

Kynd’s gaze moves beyond the gear to the frozen roadside tableau. Near the dead leader’s discarded pack, a weathered length of binding rope lies half-buried beneath snow.

He crosses to it and pulls the rope free. It is long enough to secure four prisoners, its fibers stiff but sound beneath the frost.

The four survivors stand exposed beside their broken prisons, unarmed and watchful. The rope hangs from Kynd’s healed hand as the fire burns steadily behind him.

Kynd loops the weathered rope around the four prisoners, binding their wrists and joining them in a short, manageable line. He strips away their remaining weapon belts and leaves them unarmed beside the cold campfire.

Kynd braces the rope across his hands and pulls. The prisoners stumble into motion behind him, boots scraping over snow as the dead leader and abandoned camp recede along the roadside.

The effort bites into Kynd’s palms and bruises one shoulder beneath his winter robes. He keeps moving anyway, dragging the uneven line through drifts and over frozen ruts.

By dusk, Kynd hauls the four bound bandits beneath the nearest city’s open gate. Their rope remains secure, their weapons are gone, and the road behind them lies clear.

The gate guards turn toward the arriving prisoners as Kynd brings the line to a halt, his raw palms wrapped around the binding rope and his breathing heavy from the journey.