Lark's throat grew tight as he fumbled with the clasps of the saddle bags. A triumphant sound escaped him, when he reached inside and almost immediately found a handful of small bottles. He pulled one out and held it against the dim light falling in through a dirty window. He squinted and gave the bottle a little shake, making the sluggish golden substance inside slosh around. Whatever this was, the unusual colour alone must make it extremely valuable. Never before had Lark seen a liquid of such a strange colour.

He leaned closer to uncork the bottle and take a sniff at its contents, but found his limps not obeying him. Something uncomfortable squirmed in his guts, an almost nauseating feeling of danger, warning him not to touch these bottles and commanding him to put them back. He ignored the strangely growly voice in his mind. He was a self-respecting thief, after all, and as such, he would not let a bad gut feeling derail him.

Shaking his head to get rid of the unsettling feeling, he dug around in the bag again and pulled out another bottle, stuffing it into his pockets, without trying to find out what it was he was bagging. Though it would be nice to know just what exactly he was taking with him so he could discern what it was worth, there was no doubt he wouldn't be able to make up what it was and get a decent prize for it when he sold it even so.

Spurred on by his find, Lark moved on to the next saddlebag, digging around in it carefully, trying not to disturb the order of the things in it too much.

A frown furrowed his brows as he pulled out a simple shirt that looked even worse than the ones he was used to wearing. There were holes in it and a strange stain covered its lower half. Confused, Lark brought it closer to his face and squinted at it. The dim light in the stable wasn't bright enough for him to be sure but it almost looked like... like blood.

Immediately, Lark shoved the shirt back into the bag and stumbled backwards till he hit the wall of the box. The horse snorted and nudged him again with its nose.

Lark paid it no attention. His heart was pounding painfully fast against his ribs. The fuck kind of person carried a silver sword and bloodied clothes around?

A distant sound snapped him out of his shock. A door being thrown open so harshly that it connected with the wall with a bang and the sound of quick, angry steps and mutterings came closer.

Lark couldn't see yet whom this deep and frustrated voice belonged to, but he didn't care to stick around and find out.

His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, as he pushed the door to the box open with trembling fingers, just enough to slip through and dash into the empty box opposite of the one with the horse carrying the silver sword. He cowered down and pressed his back against the wall, praying that the man, whose steps came closer still, wouldn't notice him.

Lark screwed his eyes shut tightly, as he heard the door to the box he had just been in open again. The two bottles he had stolen from him felt like they were burning in his pockets.

The man was going to know. He was going to realise that Lark had stolen from him and he had a sword and a bloodstains on his shirt. Lark didn't want to find out what such a person would do to him if he realised Lark had taken something of his. He shouldn't have come here. He should have just gone inside the tavern, where he had known he would get enough coin to last him and Desanka a while.

Oh gods, Desanka! She was waiting for him to come back. She probably wouldn't even realise that something was wrong until nightfall. And even then, there was no telling what she would think. As protective as she was of Lark and how much they loved each other, she still got that hint of trepidation and fear in her eyes every time he left for town or said something wrong, though he never could figure out what exactly he had said to set her off, as if she was still worried that he would leave her. He couldn't leave her!

Lark didn't dare to even do as much as look at the dangerous stranger, for fear of him somehow feeling Lark's eyes on his back and turning to find him.

"Come on, then," the stranger said to his horse with surprising softness,considering he had just cursed up a storm under his breath. "Can't catch a break. Gotta find the beast and then we can get our well-deserved break. If these shitheads don't short us again."

The clacking of hooves indicated that the man was releasing his horse from the box and leading her outside.

Lark held his breath, until the sounds had faded and he could be sure that the man was well and truly gone. Only then did he release a shuddering breath and got back up on trembling legs, still leaning against the wall until his heartbeat had calmed enough to let him breathe evenly and give him control over his fingers again. A thief with trembling fingers was a thief waiting to get caught and thrown in a prison. The though alone of sitting in a dark cell with rats and no food, was enough to make his skin crawl.

Taking one more deep breath, he straightened out his doublet and put on a smile that spoke of confidence he didn’t feel, before making his way out of the stables and into the adjoining tavern.

The Silver Heron was full of patrons, just as Lark had suspected, but instead of raucous laughter and shouts for more ale, a strange tension hung in the air. Not that Lark could blame them. If the man with the silver sword had just been in here, he wouldn’t have been having a good time either. But be that as it may, Lark needed those folks in here to be less tense and on guard. No one who was already suspicious of people around them, made an easy target for sticky fingers.

Lark let his eyes roam across the room; over the large windows letting in the midday sun, the decorative heron figures standing over a mantelpiece and the paintings adorning the walls. This was no shady tavern, no seedy place for never-do-wells and slackers to come. People who visited this sort of establishment for lunch, had coin enough to spare some for Lark, surely. If only they stopped shooting glares at the door and murmuring amongst themselves.

Well, good thing Lark knew exactly how to get people to ease up a little. He ran a hand over his doublet and through his hair and strode to the middle of the room, where he’d be able to see most of the people sitting at the tables.

For a moment, he just stood there silently, wearing a mask of calm confidence. The table with three burly men in fine clothing that didn’t quite fit the style of their unkempt beards, was the last to go quiet. Confused but curious, the patrons stared at Lark, waiting to find out what he was standing in the middle of the room for.

Lark preened under the attention, though a small part of him still wanted to flee from crowds. He threw a dazzling smile at the people and began to sing.

It was a song he had heard a bard sing a couple of weeks ago, when Lark had used the distraction created by the lutist to let his hands wander into other people’s pockets. And yet, even as he had made sure Desanka and him wouldn’t have to worry about coin for a couple of days, he had been mesmerized by the bard himself, so much so, that after only a couple of minutes, he had given up on his work and had sat down to listen to the musician, leaning forward with wide eyes and his lips moving with the lyrics of the song.

He had come back to Desanka that day, with less coin than he had promised, but with a new song to sing to her. She had clapped along and danced a little with him, but at the end of the day, laughter and music wouldn’t feed them.

Not until now. Lark new he was no bard. His doublet, though colourful was not as rich in embroidery and frills as an actual bard’s would be. He had no instrument to create sweet harmonies to his voice and his songs, like all of his belongings, were stolen from people better than him.

And yet, as his voice soared up or fell into a near-whisper, he saw a blond woman lean closer, a man with important looking papers spread out in front of him, ignore his work in order to listen to him and even the barkeep, who had been scowling at everything that moved, uncrossed his arms and tabbed the rhythm of Lark’s song onto the counter.

Lark took that as a cue to start moving. It was risky to try and steal from people while he was the one they paid attention to, but the attention made Lark dizzy and bolder than he probably should be.

Every note he sang chased away a bit of the fear that had flared up at him in the stables.

He moved with a graze he hadn’t known he possessed, as if this was something he had done a hundred times before. Lark winked at the blonde woman, bringing her bejewelled hand to his lips and slipping one of her rings off her finger unnoticed, while she was sighing and looking deeply into his eyes.

A spark of pride and excitement shot through him, when he slipped the ring into his pockets, unseen by anyone, though all eyes were on him.

He draped his arm around a young man’s shoulders, who blushed furiously, as Lark leaned closer, as if singing only to him, though the entire tavern was watching. His other hand dipped lower, sneaking into the man’s pockets and swiping a couple of coins.

With a roguish smirk that made the man’s blush deepen even more, Lark pulled away again, striding over to his next involuntary benefactor.

Strangely enough, though, before he could slip his hand into the tall moustached man’s pocket, the man did it himself, producing a noble and tossing it to Lark, who caught the coin, his eyes wide in surprise. The man inclined his head to him and continued swaying a little to the rhythm of Lark’s tune.

To Lark’s surprise and joy, the single coin he earned legally didn’t stay alone. Soon enough, other members of his audience tossed coins to him, giving him approving smiles or lifting their tankards to him in a toast.

Lark could have gotten drunk on the praise and a small part of him was filled with righteous smugness. He would bet anything he owned, that those people who were now so easily charmed by a young adult with a bright smile were the same ones who wouldn’t have wasted a single copper on the starving child he had been. It felt unbelievably good to rid them of their coin, whether they gave it to him willingly or not. Perhaps he even enjoyed it more when they paid him, if only so he could laugh silently about the knowledge that he had tricked them into liking someone they would have scoffed at, if he weren’t wearing a doublet and wasn’t prancing around, as if he belonged in their midst.

He finished his performance with a high note that got drowned out in applause and swept his arms to the sides as he bowed deeply. After he collected all of the coins littering the floor, he turned towards the bar, where the barkeep was already waiting for him with an ale.

“On the house,” he said gruffly, but with a warm smile beneath his bushy beard that lark returned brightly, as he snatched up the pint and took a swig, hiding his grimace behind the tankard. It wasn’t often that he got to drink ale and he still wasn’t used to the taste. One time, he had bought a bottle of the stuff for Desanka, just to see if she shared his sentiment about the drink. Her disgusted face when she had taken a too large swig had made Lark burst out into laughter, which then in turn had made her dump some of the ale onto his head, making both of them laugh even more. If she were here, she would look so smug when Lark hard to force down the gulp to not offend the barkeep.

“Thank you,” Lark said, when the bitter taste had disappeared somewhat from his tongue. “If you were so kind, I’d like to buy two hearty meals for the road, if that’s possible.”

He pushed three nobles across the counter and the barkeep took them and turned around to grab some bowls with lids, so that Lark would be able to carry them back to the camp in the nearby woods where Desanka was waiting for him. He couldn’t wait to tell her about his performance.

That is, he still had to wait a little longer, because there was no way, he would be able to finish his ale anytime soon. Small sips was all he could get down, so he’d probably be stuck here for a little while longer.

When the barkeep handed him the bows and a cheap bag to carry them in, Lark balanced them in one hand and grabbed the pint with the other to search for a table to sit down at. His mouth twisted in displeasure, when he realised that the only free table was right next to the one with the three men who had been staring daggers at the door earlier and who were now back to heatedly talking amongst each other, the anger and disdain pouring off of them almost palpable.

Lark didn’t intend to listen in, but as he sipped his ale and counted his coin, it was inevitable that he heard what they were discussing so animatedly.

“- greedy bastard asked for more money than his own life is worth,” the man with the longest beard hissed. “You heard how he refused to kill the beast for less than 150 nobles?”

One of the other men, the tallest of them with short cropped dark hair and a deep furrow between his brows, grunted in response and took a swig of his tankard.

“As if he really needed that coin! That silver sword of his would already fetch a nice price. Not to mention the medallion.” He gave his friends a smile that sent an unpleasant shiver down Lark’s spine and made him avert his eyes quickly. “I know a guy or two who would pay good coin to get their hands on one of those medallions.”

“Collectors?”

“Of course.” The unsettling grin got even wider. “I already sold a cat and a bear medallion to them. Got lucky and found the first witcher dead already. The second one wasn’t too hard to take out after he was already hurt from a fight.”

A different man, blond and a bit leaner than the one who had just spoken, ran a hand through his beard and threw a glance around the tavern, making sure no one was listening in. Lark tightened his grip around his pint to stop his fingers from twitching nervously, and did his best to look interested in the paintings of herons on the opposite wall.

“What are you suggesting, Leslaw?”

Leslaw leaned in closer to his companions.

“I think you know what I’m suggesting. Let’s get rid of the bastard. No one will cry over a witcher. Fuck, the alderman might even thank us that he won’t have to pay him after all.” He lowered his raspy voice until Lark had to strain his ears to understand him. “I say we wait for him to come back from the hunt and slit his throat while he’s tired from the fight.” Lark watched as Leslaw’s hand went to his belt and patted the dagger that was fastened to it. “The three of us should be able to handle him easily. We split the coin we get for the medallion and the sword and whatever else he has with him. Bet that horse of his isn’t cheap eitcher.”

The blonde man cocked his head in contemplation. “How about we wait a little longer? Let him collect his coin first. You’ve seen him. The way he behaves, I wouldn’t be surprised if he manages to piss of the town and get chased out.”

The words made Lark flinch, his ale sloshing onto the table, but he paid no mind to the mess. In an instant, his mind was roaring with phantom crowds, chasing him away, throwing rocks, hurling insults and waving pitchforks at him.

His throat grew tight and his hand pressed against his stomach, trying to get rid of a pain that wasn’t truly there. His breath came out in pants and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to fight off the images of an angry mob that made his heart race.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to focus back on the conversation of the strangers.

“- that’ll tire him out even more and we’ll make more profit if he has the 150 nobles he was promised.”

Lark’s stomach churned and he had to push the ale away, lest the smell made him even more nauseous. Knowing now, that these men were bandits, it wasn’t hard to recognise that the clothes they were wearing had likely not been bought by their own coin – or hadn’t been bought at all, but taken from travellers.

And now they planned on killing a man who was ridding the town of a nearby monster.

Lark’s hand clenched on the table and he could feel his entire body start to tremble from how tense he was. This wasn’t right. Yes, he had been terrified for his life earlier, when the man with the silver sword had been near, but this? Robbing and assassinating him? The thought alone made Lark want to throw up. He had to hold onto the table to keep himself from doing something stupid like going over to the man and demanding what gave them the right to hate the stranger and plan on doing such terrible things to him.

Doing so would only end in his death, or in him being beaten black and blue in the best case.

He knew he should just leave it be. Hell, he was a thief himself! What made him so much different from there men? Just minutes before had he stolen from people in this very room. He kept joking around with Desanka about how nice it was of them that they were helping people carry their bags, permanently. Right now, he had the bottles he had stolen from the stranger with the sword in his pockets.

And yet, the words of the men from the other table didn’t sit right with him. A surge of protectiveness that he couldn’t explain flared up in him. Lark glared at the tankard he had gripped tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.

The scraping of chairs across the floor made him wince and he whipped his head around, just in time to see the bandits get up and shove each other’s shoulders jokingly as they left the tavern.

Standing up as well was a split-second decision for Lark. Without knowing what he was doing, he followed them outside and into an alley leading away from the tavern.

“Hey!” He called out after them, cursing himself for his stupidity, when they turned around with expectant and annoyed expressions. “Uh…” Lark swallowed dryly, his eyes darting from one bandit to the other.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t do this. He had enough coin. He had a friend waiting for him. He had no way of talking these men, who were not only greater in number, but also clearly taller and stronger than Lark, out of attacking the man with the silver sword.

And yet, his insides burned with the knowledge that he had no choice. “I heard you talking in there.”

“Oh?” The blond man’s lips quirked up and he raked his eyes over Lark, assessing him with a mocking smirk. “We don’t need a fourth man. And if we did, we wouldn’t ask a short arse like you. Go back to singing your songs.”

Leslaw snorted and fixed Lark with an unsettling grin. “I don’t know, Sven. He could be bait. I heard rumours that a witcher is looking for a blue-eyed boy.” At the laughter of his companions, Leslaw’s grin grew wider. “You hear that, boy? One of the witchers is going to come and eat you.”

A shudder ran down Lark’s back and his fists clenched involuntarily, but he straightened his spine and stared Leslaw unflinchingly in the eyes.

“I don’t want to join you. I want to stop you.”

For a moment, the three bandits just stared at Lark dumbfounded. Then they exchanged looks and burst into laughter, which cut off, as Leslaw stepped uncomfortably close to Lark. Lark stumbled backwards but caught himself.

“Oh that’s adorable,” the bandit drawled. “And how exactly did you plan on doing that?”

Lark didn’t know what possessed him. If anyone had asked him, he would have said that it was the alcohol in his bloodstream making him rash, though he hadn’t drunk nearly enough to get tipsy.

And yet, there was no denying that what he did next, was the stupidest thing he could have possibly done.

He spat at Leslaw’s face and while the bandit squeezed his eyes shut to not get any spit in there and raised his arms to wipe the spit away, Lark threw a punch.

His fist never connected with its mark. The blond man, Sven, caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it painfully.

Lark let out a gasp, his knees folding beneath him to lessen the fire razing through his twisted wrist.

Sven let go of his arm, but before Lark had time to right himself, a kick hit him in the stomach. All air was pushed out of him. His hands scraped on the hard ground when he tried to catch his fall.

“Little bastard!” Leslaw spat and kicked him again. “The fuck do you think you’re doing? You want to end up like the witcher will?”

He grabbed Lark by the front of his doublet and yanked him up. Immediately, Lark’s hands came up to braze himself against the man.

“You’re friends with the mutant?” Leslaw’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’d want to protect his life? Well, listen to me, arsehole. Your own life is worth barely more than that mutants.”

Lark flinched at the words and his heart hammered rapidly in his chest. But not only because of Leslaw’s words and the burning pain in Lark’s side and palms. Oh no. His heart was racing, because Leslaw in his rage, gave no sign of noticing that Lark’s hands had wandered down and snatched the dagger strapped to his belt. With a flick of his wrist, Lark let the weapon disappear into the sleeve of his doublet, praying neither one of the other bandits had noticed the movement.

“You can count yourself lucky that we won’t kill you like him.” Leslaw shoved him off. Lark’s bag fell to the ground, the food he had packed spilling onto the street. “You’re not worth it, little rat.”

Lark’s eyes darted over to Sven and the third bandit. Sven’s hand twitched towards a pocket in his coat.

When Leslaw shoved Lark again, Lark made sure to direct his stumble straight into Sven, using the flash of surprise to dip his hand into the pocket.

He could barely contain his triumphant grin, when he found a small knife in it. The small moment of pride and triumph quickly got replaced by agonizing fire flaring up in his nose as a fist connected with it.

Lark didn’t know how long the bandits continued shoving him from one to the other, while hurling insults and threats at him. He didn’t know how many punches and kicks he endured, until he no longer had the fight in him to lighten the bandits’ load by taking their weapons off of them.

At the end, he was just a boy, cowering on the ground with his hands clutched over his head to shield his face from any more attacks. Blood ran out of his nose and the split on his lip.

He barely registered the bandits crouching down beside him to grab his bag. A whimper left Lark’s lips as they took his coin away from him and left him, each one giving him a last kick as a warning when they abandoned him there.

For what felt like an hour, Lark just lay there in that dark alley, trembling and flinching every time he moved and got hit by another wave of pain. Already, dark bruises were blooming on his skin.

And yet, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall of a house, cursing himself with every motion.

How could he have been so stupid? He didn’t attack people. Never! Not even when his own survival was on the line. So why on earth had he thrown that punch? Especially, when he had known that that wasn’t a fight he’s ever be able to win? Confronting those men at all had been foolish, but fighting them? He might have just as well signed his own death sentence. He was so damn lucky that they didn’t care enough about him to actually kill him.

And yet, he couldn’t find it in him to regret it. It didn’t make sense! Risking his life for a complete stranger, one that would probably not hesitate to cut him down, was madness!

He shook his head, but the feeling that he had done the right thing – that he should do it again, if he needed to – didn’t leave him.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing his thoughts to calm. He needed to breathe. He needed to get out of here before the bandits realised that Lark had stolen from them and came back to teach him another lesson.

With pain racing through his veins, he gritted his teeth and pushed off the wall, coming to stand on wobbly legs. The small weapons he had stolen clattered to the ground and in a fit of helpless rage, he kicked them away, until all he had left was Leslaw’s dagger. He stared at it and took up back, running his fingers over the sheath. The weight of the dagger felt unfamiliar in his hand. Too heavy, when compared to the prop dagger Lark owned. This weapon had been used to hurt before.

But it would hurt no more. The man whom this blade had been intended for would not die by it.

Lark’s expression turned to one of grim satisfaction. Someone as ruthless and determined to inflict pain as the bandits were, probably didn’t need knifes to win a fight – Lark was living proof of that – and it wasn’t unlikely they had more weapons stashed somewhere else. But for now, Lark let the feeling of triumph sweep over him. Though he might not have thwarted their plans, he had definitely inconvenienced them. Maybe it would be enough to give the stranger with the silver sword the edge during a fight. Whether he lived or died, Lark had done all he could to help him. He had no reason to keep thinking about him.

Lark just wanted to go home. He just he wasn’t alone and in so much pain. The feeling of maybe having saved the stranger’s life, didn’t help against the way his body ached.

Yet, as he made his way back to the woods outside the city, his pain miraculously lessening with each step he took, he found that he couldn’t stop thinking about the stranger and wishing against his better judgement that he would get to see him safe and alive. But what a foolish wish that was. Lark had other things to worry about.