By morning, the sun rose over a camp shrouded in grief. The light revealed the full toll of the attack—shattered weapons, torn tents, and, most poignantly, the lifeless forms of those who hadn't survived. The Shadow Blades and knights moved with quiet efficiency, digging graves just beyond the camp's edge.
Lysandra worked alongside Kellan and Donall, her movements steady but tense. She didn't speak, letting the weight of the moment settle over her. For all the tension between the two groups, the task of burying the dead united them in solemn silence.
Prince Alaric stood nearby; his expression grim as he oversaw the burials. He offered quiet words of thanks and prayer to the fallen knights as they were laid to rest. His voice steady despite the loss etched into his features. Captain Roderic did the same for the Shadow Blades, his tone softer than usual as he honored those who had fought and died in the night.
When the last grave was filled and marked with a simple stone, the camp gathered briefly, standing in shared mourning. There were no grand speeches, no lofty promises of vengeance—just a moment of quiet reflection before the journey resumed.
By mid-morning, the camp was packed, and the group was back on the road. The once uneasy truce between the knights and the mercenaries now felt heavier, their shared experience forging a fragile bond. The pace was brisk but respectful, the usual banter and grumbling replaced by quiet determination.
Lysandra rode near the front, her expression unreadable as she scanned the horizon. The flatlands stretched endlessly before them, the open space both a comfort and a reminder of the dangers that lurked just beyond the visible.
As the group moved forward, Kellan guided his horse closer to hers, his usual grin absent. "Hell of a night," he muttered, his voice low.
"Yeah," she replied simply, her gaze still fixed ahead.
Donall joined them, his tone somber. "Think they'll come back?"
"If they do, we'll be ready," Lysandra said, gripping her reins tightly. "We always are."
From farther back, Lysandra could feel Alaric's gaze on her, but she didn't turn to meet it. There was no need for words, not now. The battle had left its mark on all of them, and the road ahead was long.
Lysandra urged her horse forward, her sharp eyes scanning the landscape as she crested a low hill. The fading light of late afternoon bathed the flatlands in a warm, golden glow, and in the distance, she spotted it—a small village nestled near a cope of trees`. Smoke from chimneys curled lazily into the air, a sign of life and, hopefully, a chance for rest.
She pulled her horse to a halt, taking in the scene for a moment longer before turning back toward the main group. Her horse moved swiftly over the terrain, her practiced hands steady on the reins. When she reached the convoy, her expression calm but focused as she approached Captain Roderic and Prince Alaric, who were riding near the front.
"There's a village up ahead," she reported, her voice crisp and to the point. "Small, maybe a dozen buildings. Looks quiet."
Roderic leaned forward in his saddle, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Quiet how? Like a place that minds its own business, or quiet like they're hiding something?"
Lysandra shrugged. "Hard to say from this distance. No signs of recent trouble that I could see, but they'll probably be wary of a group our size."
Alaric nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Understandable. People in places like this don't often see knights or mercenaries unless it means trouble is coming."
Roderic snorted. "Or trouble's already here."
Lysandra glanced at the captain, then back to the prince. "What's the plan? Pass through, or do we stop?"
Alaric exchanged a look with Roderic before answering. "We'll stop. The men need rest, and the supplies we've got left won't last the journey. If they've got food or shelter to spare, we'll pay for it."
Roderic grunted his agreement. "Fair enough. But we go in carefully. No unnecessary attention, no unnecessary trouble. That goes for everyone," he added, giving Lysandra a pointed look.
She smirked faintly. "Don't worry, Captain. I'll behave... as long as they do."
Roderic muttered something under his breath, but Alaric's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Let's move out, then," he said, signaling to the group.
As the convoy approached the outskirts of the village, the soft hum of activity grew louder—the distant sounds of livestock, the creak of cartwheels, and the faint chatter of villagers. But as they drew closer to the wooden gate that marked the entrance, the atmosphere shifted. A young man stood guard, his posture stiff and wary, his hand resting on a simple but serviceable sword strapped to his hip. He couldn't have been older than twenty, his face marked with a mix of determination and uncertainty.
"Stop right there," the young man called, his voice steady despite the nervous edge. He stepped forward, planting himself firmly in their path. "Who are you, and what's your business here?"
Prince Alaric guided his horse to the front of the group, his polished armor gleaming faintly in the dying light. He removed his helm, tucking it under his arm as he addressed the young man with calm authority.
"I am Prince Alaric of Valtoria," he said, his voice steady but not overbearing. "We are travelers on our way to the capital. My men and I request permission to set up camp within your village for the night. We mean no harm and are prepared to pay fairly for any provisions or shelter you can spare."
The young man's eyes widened slightly at the mention of the prince's title, but he quickly schooled his expression, glancing behind Alaric to take in the rest of the group. His gaze lingered on the Shadow Blades, their dark armor and weapons giving them an imposing, mercenary edge.
"I… uh…" The man hesitated, his hand twitching at his sword hilt. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but how do I know you are who you say you are?"
Alaric reached into the satchel at his side and retrieved a leather-bound case. From it, he produced a document bearing the royal crest of Valtoria, the wax seal unbroken. He leaned down, offering it to the young man.
"Here are my credentials," Alaric said, his tone patient. "The seal is unbroken. You may verify it with your village elder if you need further assurance."
The young man took the document with slightly trembling hands, his eyes scanning it quickly before nodding. "Thank you, Your Highness," he said, his voice softening. "I'll let the elder know you're here. Please wait a moment."
He turned and hurried into the village, disappearing behind the wooden gate. The group remained quiet, the tension in the air thick as the sounds of distant voices carried back toward them.
"Well, that's a warm welcome," Kellan muttered from his place near Lysandra, earning a smirk from her.
"Can't blame them," Lysandra replied, her tone low. "A group like ours showing up unannounced doesn't exactly scream 'friendly visit.'"
Before Kellan could respond, the gate creaked open again, and the young man returned, accompanied by an older man with a weathered face and sharp eyes that scanned the group with measured caution.
The elder stepped forward, nodding respectfully toward Alaric. "Your Highness," he said, his voice firm but courteous. "Forgive our hesitation. Times are… difficult. You and your people are welcome to stay the night. We'll do what we can to accommodate you."
Alaric inclined his head. "Thank you. We'll keep to ourselves and leave at first light. Your hospitality won't be forgotten."
The elder nodded again, stepping aside to let the group pass. As they entered the village, Lysandra glanced back at the young man who had first confronted them. His gaze met hers briefly, a flicker of curiosity and unease passing over his face before he turned away.
The convoy began to spread out as the group entered the village. Some of the knights and mercenaries dismounted, their horses led away to a modest stable by a handful of wary villagers. A few lucky members of the company were directed to small rooms within the village inn or the homes of kindhearted locals, while others were resigned to finding space in the hay-filled barns or pitching their own tents near the outskirts.
Prince Alaric, accompanied by Captain Roderic, met with the village elder in the small communal hall. The three men sat at a rough-hewn table, discussing the exchange of coin for food, water, and other supplies to replenish the convoy's stocks. Despite the prince's composed demeanor, Lysandra could tell from the glances exchanged between the elder and Roderic that negotiations weren't entirely smooth.
Lysandra, however, had no interest in royal dealings or careful diplomacy. Once her horse was stabled and her gear secured, she turned to Kellan and Donall, who were already eyeing the dimly lit tavern near the center of the village.
"First round's on me," Kellan said with a grin, hooking a thumb toward the tavern door. "I'm in desperate need of something stronger than water."
Donall smirked, adjusting the strap of his satchel. "You're always in desperate need of a drink."
"And you're always in desperate need of my company," Kellan quipped, giving him a friendly shove.
Lysandra rolled her eyes but followed them inside. The tavern was modest, with low wooden beams, mismatched tables, and a warm hearth that crackled with life. The air carried the scent of roasted meat and stale ale, mingling with the low hum of conversation from the handful of patrons scattered throughout the room.
The three Shadow Blades found a table near the back, close enough to observe the room but far enough from the hearth to avoid unwanted attention. Kellan flagged down a barmaid and ordered drinks, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.
As they waited, Lysandra's attention drifted to a group of strangers seated near the center of the tavern. They didn't look like villagers—their clothes were finer, layered with colorful fabrics that spoke of travel and trade. They were a merchant group, no doubt, with an array of goods stacked neatly in crates nearby. The leader, a wiry man with a silver streak in his dark hair, spoke animatedly to one of his companions, his hands gesturing broadly.
"They don't look like locals," Donall murmured, following her gaze. "Travelers, maybe?"
"Merchants," Lysandra said, her voice low. "Probably passing through on their way to one of the larger towns. That, or they've got something to sell to the villagers."
Kellan grinned as the barmaid set down their drinks. "Guess there's only one way to find out."
Before Lysandra could protest, Kellan rose from his seat, drink in hand, and ambled over to the merchants' table. Donall groaned softly, shaking his head. "He can't resist, can he?"
"Not a chance," Lysandra muttered, leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of her drink. "Let's see how long it takes for him to make a fool of himself."
Kellan, to his credit, approached the merchants with the easy charm of someone who'd spent his life navigating unpredictable company. He exchanged a few words with the leader, gesturing toward their table. After a moment, the merchant laughed and waved him over, motioning for Kellan to bring his companions.
"Looks like we're joining them," Kellan called back, grinning like a fox. "Come on, don't be shy."
Donall sighed but stood, grabbing his drink. "This is either going to be interesting or a disaster."
"Probably both," Lysandra said, pushing herself to her feet and following him over.
The merchants made room at their table, their leader offering a warm smile as they sat. "Welcome," he said, his voice smooth and pleasant. "I'm Garin. My companions and I are passing through, much like yourselves. Tell me, are you mercenaries, soldiers, or perhaps something in between?"
"Something in between," Lysandra replied coolly, her sharp eyes studying him. "Shadow Blades."
The name earned a flicker of recognition from Garin, his smile widening. "Ah, the infamous Shadow Blades. I've heard stories. Dangerous and efficient, they say."
"Flattery won't get you a discount," Kellan quipped, earning a laugh from the merchants.
"Fair enough," Garin said, lifting his cup in a toast. "But it might get me a good story or two. Surely, a group like yours has seen things worth sharing."
Lysandra exchanged a glance with Donall, her instincts humming. Garin's charm was undeniable.
"How about a round of cards instead?" she suggested, her tone casual but edged with challenge. "We trade stories if you win. If we win… well, gold will do."
Garin chuckled, his sharp eyes glinting with interest. "A game of cards, is it? Dangerous territory for travelers, don't you think?"
"Only if you're bad at it," Lysandra replied smoothly, setting her cup down with deliberate precision. "What do you say?"
The merchant leader glanced at his companions, who exchanged amused looks, before nodding. "Very well. A round of cards it is. But don't say I didn't warn you—I've been known to have a lucky hand."
"We'll see about that," Donall muttered, pulling out a worn deck of cards from his satchel and shuffling them expertly.
Kellan grinned as he leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. "This just got a lot more interesting."
Lysandra kept her smirk firmly in place, but her sharp eyes stayed fixed on Garin.