The convoy moved steadily down the winding road, the afternoon sun casting dappled light through the canopy of dense forest. The air was cool, the faint scent of moss and pine lingering. The royal knights rode in disciplined formation, their polished armor glinting occasionally through the breaks in the trees. By contrast, the Shadow Blades were a looser group, their dark leathers blending seamlessly into the muted colors of the forest. It was a stark contrast—one that had always made Lysandra feel more at home with the mercenaries than the knights.
As the convoy slowed to navigate a narrow bend, Captain Roderic, the Shadow Blades' grizzled leader, rode up beside her. His sharp eyes scanned the road ahead before settling on her with a nod.
"Lysandra," he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the steady clatter of hooves. "Scout ahead. Make sure the path is clear."
She gave a curt nod, already reaching for the bow strapped across her back. "How far?"
"Half a mile, then circle back," Roderic replied. "And keep your eyes sharp. This forest is too quiet for my liking."
Lysandra didn't need to be told twice. Nudging her horse forward, she broke away from the convoy, her movements fluid and practiced. The sound of the group faded behind her as she rode ahead, her sharp gaze sweeping over the dense underbrush and towering trees.
The forest was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. It put her on edge. Forests were rarely this still, and she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Her thoughts flickered briefly to the hooded figure from the night before and the cryptic message they had delivered.Have faith in Eldren. The words lingered in her mind like a splinter she couldn't remove.
Slowing her horse to a walk, Lysandra dismounted, leading the animal by the reins to keep the noise to a minimum. Her boots crunched softly against the leaf-strewn path as she advanced, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her dagger. The road ahead twisted out of sight, and the shadows seemed to deepen with every step.
She paused, her sharp eyes catching something out of place—a faint scuff mark in the dirt, as if someone had hastily swept leaves over the trail. Dropping to a crouch, she examined the ground more closely. Tracks.—boot prints heading into the woods off the road.
She straightened slowly, her gaze following the tracks as they veered off the road and disappeared into the dense woods. Her grip tightened on the reins of her horse, and she led it a few steps closer to the treeline, her instincts warning her that something wasn't right.
Then she saw it.
Carved into the rough bark of a tree just beyond the edge of the road was a symbol she didn't recognize. A rune, intricate and deliberate, etched deep enough to suggest it wasn't the work of a passing traveler. It was angular, with intersecting lines forming a shape that seemed to twist and shift the longer she looked at it. Something about it made her stomach tighten.
Lysandra let go of the reins, stepping closer to the tree. Her fingers brushed the carved lines, the grooves cool beneath her touch. There was no moss or weathering on the marking—it was fresh. The air seemed to hum faintly around it, an almost imperceptible vibration that made her feel as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
She frowned, pulling her hand back as unease prickled down her spine. The symbol stirred something in the back of her mind, a nagging sense that she should know what it meant, but the memory stayed just out of reach. It wasn't anything she'd seen, nor among the Shadow Blades' collection of cryptic lore. It felt ancient, foreign, and entirely out of place.
The sound of hooves approaching behind her snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned sharply, her hand instinctively flying to the dagger at her belt. Emerging from the winding road was Alaric, his horse moving at a steady trot. He pulled the reins lightly, slowing as he reached her.
"You were taking too long," he said, his voice carrying a faint edge of concern as his gaze swept over her. "What have you found?"
Lysandra didn't answer immediately, her hand still resting on the hilt of her dagger as she stepped slightly to the side, blocking his view of the rune.
"Unusual tracks," she said curtly, brushing her gloved hands off on her cloak as she gestured toward the faint boot prints leading into the woods. "Nothing I can't handle. I'm going to scout a little further ahead. You can ride back to the convoy and tell them what I've found."
Alaric didn't move. Instead, he swung down from his horse with practiced ease, landing lightly on his feet. His expression was calm, but the set of his jaw betrayed his determination. "If you're going, I'm coming with you."
Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her chest, the irritation in her voice sharpening. "You're not coming with me. I work better alone, and this isn't exactly a safe stroll through the woods. Go back to the convoy and let the Roderic know I'm scouting further ahead."
"I'm not going back," Alaric said firmly, stepping closer. "And if you think I'm letting you investigate it alone, you're mistaken."
Lysandra's frustration flared, and she took a step toward him, her tone dropping into a low growl. "You're a prince. Your duty is to stay safe, not run into danger for the sake of stubbornness. I don't need you slowing me down or putting us both at risk."
"And you think leaving you alone doesn't carry its own risks?" Alaric shot back, his voice steady but resolute. "You're more than capable, Lysandra—I know that. But..
It's about making sure someone has your back."
She opened her mouth to argue further, but the look in his eyes stopped her. It wasn't arrogance —it was resolve and concern. For all his princely airs, she could see he wasn't going to budge on this. It was infuriating, and yet… she couldn't deny there was something reassuring about the thought of someone else watching her back, even if it was him.
With an exasperated sigh, she threw up her hands. "Fine. But don't get in my way, and if I say we're leaving, we're leaving. Got it?"
Alaric gave her a small, knowing smile, his tone light but sincere. "Got it."
Lysandra shook her head, muttering under her breath as she swung herself back onto her horse. "Stubborn ass of a prince…" She adjusted her grip on the reins, throwing him a pointed look. "Let's go, then. Stay close—and try not to get us killed."
With a light nudge of her heels, she urged her horse forward, moving down the main road and further into the forest. The dense canopy above filtered the afternoon sunlight into scattered beams, casting long shadows over the uneven path. The air was thick with the earthy scent of damp leaves and moss, and the occasional rustle of wildlife provided the only break in the silence.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Lysandra kept her eyes on the trail, her body tense and alert, while Alaric rode slightly behind her, his movements less rigid but no less watchful. Then, as if the quiet was too much for him, he cleared his throat.
"So," he began, his tone conversational, "what's your favorite color?"
Lysandra shot him a sidelong glance, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. "Are you serious?"
"Completely," Alaric replied with an easy smile. "It's a perfectly normal question. You can learn a lot about someone from their favorite color."
She huffed, turning her attention back to the path ahead. "I don't have time for 'normal' questions."
"Fine," he said, undeterred. "Then how about this: Do you prefer wearing pants or dresses?"
She stopped her horse abruptly, twisting in the saddle to glare at him. "What part of 'stay quiet' did you not understand?"
Alaric held up his hands in mock surrender, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I'm just trying to get to know you better, Lysandra. You've been riding with the convoy for almost a week and yet, I know more about your dagger preferences than I do about you."
"Maybe that's intentional," she shot back, turning her horse and continuing forward.
"Come on," he said, catching up to her easily. "Humor me. Pants or dresses?"
"Pants," she replied flatly. "Because I don't have time to trip over skirts while someone's trying to kill me."
"Fair enough," Alaric said, a hint of admiration in his voice. "And your favorite color?"
"Black," she deadpanned.
He chuckled softly. "Of course it is."
Lysandra opened her mouth to retort but froze as her sharp eyes caught movement further down the trail. She raised a hand, signaling for him to stop. Alaric obeyed immediately, his playful demeanor vanishing as his gaze followed hers.
Ahead, a small group of travelers emerged from the dense forest, their horses laden with packs and their clothes worn and dusty. There were three of them—two men and a woman—moving at a slow, deliberate pace. They didn't appear armed, but something about the way they glanced around, their eyes darting nervously, set Lysandra on edge.
She tightened her grip on the reins, her voice low and firm. "Stay close. And don't trust anything they say until we know who they are."
Alaric nodded, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword as they urged their horses forward. The travelers looked up at the sound of their approach, their expressions shifting into something unreadable as Lysandra and Alaric drew near.
The three travelers turned to face them as they approached, their expressions a mix of relief and hesitation. The two men appeared older, with grizzled beards and weathered faces, while the woman, younger and with a kerchief tied around her hair, clutched the reins of a mule laden with supplies.
"Afternoon," one of the men said, tipping his hat. His voice was gruff, but there was an attempt at friendliness in his tone. "Didn't expect to see anyone else out this way."
"What brings you here?" Alaric asked, his voice steady but kind, his princely demeanor softening the edges of his formality.
The second man stepped forward, gesturing back toward the woods behind them. "We're farmers," he said. "Heading to the next village over to trade goods. But the wheel on our wagon broke a ways back, and we had to leave it behind. Been walking ever since, trying to get to the main road."
The young woman nodded, her grip on the mule's reins tightening. "We've been out here longer than we planned. Food's running low, and it's not safe in these woods after dark."
Alaric's brow furrowed with concern. "You left your wagon behind? Was it just the wheel, or was it damaged beyond repair?"
"Just the wheel," the first man replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "But it's not something we could fix on our own. We were hoping to reach the next village and find help."
Alaric dismounted swiftly, his movements filled with purpose. "Where is it? If we turn back now, I can have my knights assist you. We've got supplies, tools—"
"Wait," Lysandra cut in, her voice sharp and commanding. She stayed mounted, her sharp gaze fixed on the trio. "Where exactly did this happen? And how far back is the wagon?"
The men exchanged a brief glance before the first spoke again. "About half a mile, just off the trail. Took a wrong turn and ended up on uneven ground into a ditch in the forest."
Lysandra narrowed her eyes. The explanation made sense on the surface, but something about their demeanor put her on edge. The way the men shifted their weight, avoiding her gaze, and the tight grip the woman had on the mule—it all felt too rehearsed, too deliberate.
She glanced at their packs. For farmers, they seemed unusually well-stocked for a trade run, especially if their wagon had been lost. And the mention of food running low didn't match the weight of the mule's burden. Her hand brushed the hilt of her dagger, her instincts screaming that something wasn't right.
"Alaric," she said, her voice low and firm. "Don't be so quick to offer help."
The prince turned to her, frowning. "Lysandra, they're stranded. We can't just leave them out here."
Before Lysandra could respond, the sound of rustling leaves and heavy footsteps shattered the tense quiet of the forest.Half a dozen men armed with swords and axes, their faces obscured by dark cloths tied around their mouths and noses. They moved quickly, encircling Lysandra and Alaric with practiced efficiency.
"It's a trap!" Lysandra hissed, drawing her dagger in one swift motion. She twisted in the saddle, scanning the trees and underbrush for more attackers. The farmers—if that's what they were—had already vanished into the forest, slipping away unnoticed in the chaos.
"Stay close!" she barked at Alaric, her voice sharp as steel. She urged her horse forward, slashing at one of the attackers who lunged toward her with a curved blade. Her dagger connected, and the man staggered back with a cry, clutching his arm.
Alaric drawing his sword with a fluid motion. His movements were steady, his stance solid as he engaged another attacker. He parried a blow aimed at his shoulder and retaliated with a precise strike, forcing his opponent to the ground.
The forest erupted into a cacophony of clashing steel, shouted commands, and the thud of boots on soft earth. Lysandra fought with lethal precision, her dagger flashing as she cut through the men. She ducked beneath a wild swing, planting her boot into the attacker's chest and sending him sprawling. Spinning on her heel, she blocked another blow with her forearm, slashing upward and catching her assailant's chin.
Alaric held his own beside her, though it was clear he wasn't as accustomed to this kind of skirmish as she was. He fought with the discipline of a trained knight but lacked the ruthless efficiency. Still, his blade struck true, and he managed to keep the attackers at bay.
In the midst of the chaos, something caught Lysandra's eye—a flicker of movement above. Her gaze darted upward, and her breath caught as she spotted a figure perched in the branches of a nearby tree. Clad in dark clothing, the figure was nearly invisible against the shadows, but the glint of an arrowhead aimed directly at Alaric gave them away.
"Alaric!"