Teren does her own mental calculus, then steps back with a sneer: twenty-four isn't a terrible number, especially if they're all like this, but one or two at a time. In the dark. Not now, not all here, not without her arsenal of blades.
She just has the one now, the young guard's shortsword, heavy and ungainly to her arm-- she grips it anyway, allowing him to turn as she stares him down, grants him his life.

He stares back at her uneasily, like he isn't sure whether or not to ask her for it. Teren doesn't help.