Bloodied Maps and Rising Tides

The roar dies to a hush in the smoke-thick pit. Goblan leans close to the Stranger and gives him the toll-house name at last.

The Stranger’s eyes catch the firelight. He draws a weathered, hand-drawn map from his cloak and slides it across the blood-stained boards toward Goblan.

The map stops between them, one corner curling in the damp. Around the ring, ringside faces stay frozen, waiting for the first wrong move.

The Bandit Captain watches from the edge of the pit, sword hilt under his palm, amused but ready. Goblan has the name spoken, the answer paid, and the room holding its breath for the next hand to move.

Goblan snatches the map in one smooth motion and folds it twice before any hand can follow. He slips it into his armor with a flick of his wrist.

The Stranger lets out a breath he was holding. His shoulders loosen, but his eyes stay on the captain.

A few ringside faces shift in their places, coin and mug noise dying under the captain’s voice. The pit feels smaller now, tighter with attention.

The captain’s smile widens at that, and he taps the sword hilt once, like a man choosing his next wager.