The lock clicked shut with a sound of finality.
Twelve people stood or sat in the cramped wooden cage.
The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, damp straw, and hopelessness.
Outside, the bandits laughed. They cracked open a cask of ale.
Inside, the reality of their situation began to sink in.
The tool man, Gareth, slid down the bars. He buried his face in his hands.
"We are dead," he moaned. "We are all dead."
The onion man was pacing. It was a tight circle. Three steps, turn. Three steps, turn.
"They can't do this," he muttered. "I have a shop. I have customers waiting."
One of the merchants, a sharp-eyed man named Silas, was staring out at the bandits.
He wasn't crying. He was pale. He was trembling.
"Did you see it?" Silas whispered. His voice shook.
"See what?" the other merchant asked.
"The tattoo," Silas said. "On the skinny one's arm. The black serpent wrapped around a hammer."
The other merchant gasped. "No. Are you sure?"
