The Gentleman Burglar and the Ice Knight

The fire at Camp Stormarrow burned brightly, its warmth drawing in the soldiers, knights, and workmen who’d finished their day’s tasks. Fancy Korac leaned casually against a supply cart, his polished boots propped on a crate, the picture of relaxed confidence.
“Well,” he began, swirling his tankard dramatically, “if Marshal Braga gets to tell tales of my heroics, I suppose it’s only fair I share one myself. This one involves your esteemed Marshal, of course, and the ever-lovely Dame Vennymara—who, let me assure you, is every bit as formidable as you’ve heard.”
A murmur ran through the crowd at the mention of Dame Venym. Braga, seated on a stump nearby, rolled her eyes but didn’t interrupt.
“She’s not here to defend herself,” Braga said dryly, “so don’t overdo it.”
Korac placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Me? Overdo it? Never.”
---
“It was in a quaint little hamlet called Rivermist,” Korac began, his voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence. “A picturesque place, really. Rolling hills, charming cottages, and a market square that smelled of fresh bread and sheep dung. But the peace of Rivermist was shattered by a gang of ruffians extorting the villagers. The lord of the region, of course, was conveniently absent—rumor had it he was taking a cut of their earnings.”
He paused, letting the crowd’s disdain for such corruption settle in. “Marshal Braga and Dame Vennymara were there to set things right, naturally. Justice, honor, the usual knightly virtues.” He gestured to Braga, who nodded in grudging acknowledgment. “I, on the other hand, was there to ensure their noble efforts didn’t go unrewarded—especially for me.”
The soldiers laughed, and Braga muttered, “Shocking.”
“Don’t judge too harshly,” Korac said, flashing a grin. “I never let my pursuit of profit interfere with the greater good. At least not much.”
He took a sip of his ale before continuing. “The plan, as devised by the Marshal, was simple: she and Dame Venym would draw the brigands into a confrontation at their hideout—an abandoned mill on the outskirts of town. While they kept the gang occupied, I would slip inside, recover the villagers’ stolen treasures, and, perhaps, a little something extra for my trouble.”
Braga snorted but didn’t interrupt.
“The mill was a sight to behold,” Korac said. “A crumbling relic of wood and rust, creaking ominously with every step. I slipped inside, silent as a shadow—naturally—and found the gang’s stash: crates of coins, jewelry, and heirlooms taken from the villagers. And among them, a silver mirror. Exquisite craftsmanship. Far too beautiful to waste away in a dusty mill.”
He paused dramatically, scanning the faces around the fire. “It was at that moment that I heard shouting outside. The confrontation had begun.”
---
“Marshal Braga and Dame Venym were a sight to behold. Venym was as precise and graceful as a dancer, each strike of her blade a masterclass in discipline. And Braga…” He gestured to her, his grin widening. “Well, you know how she fights—like a thunderstorm made flesh.”
The soldiers chuckled, nodding in agreement. Braga’s reputation for fierce combat was well-earned.
“The brigands didn’t stand a chance,” Korac continued. “But they were still numerous, and the chaos outside provided me with the perfect cover to make my exit—treasures in hand.”
“And the mirror,” Braga added pointedly.
Korac spread his hands innocently. “An antique of such beauty deserves a better home than a brigand’s crate. I saw it as a rescue mission.”
“You sold it,” Braga said.
“Auctioned,” Korac corrected with a flourish. “It fetched a tidy sum, which I generously split with the villagers after deducting a modest finder’s fee.”
“Modest?” Braga asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Reasonable,” Korac said, unperturbed. “The villagers were overjoyed, the brigands were routed, and Dame Venym didn’t even have to say a word to convey her… disapproval of my methods. A win for everyone involved.”
---
The gathered crowd laughed, and Braga shook her head, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “You’re lucky Venym isn’t here to hear you spin this.”
“Lucky, indeed,” Korac said, lifting his tankard in a mock toast. “Her cutting remarks are sharper than her blade. But as ever, I remain an indispensable part of your efforts, dear Marshal.”
Braga rolled her eyes but said nothing, letting the laughter of the soldiers and workmen carry the moment. As the fire crackled on, Korac leaned back against the cart, his grin never fading. He’d gotten away with it—again. For now.