"Havel! havel!"
The wyvern rider immediately quelled the wyvern, rubbing the side of its neck with her hand and whispering calming words to it in Daki'an.
Troan glanced up in annoyance.
'A wyvern and it's rider? The fool! She should have stayed up in the sky. Her presence there is of more value to me. She has only made herself vulnerable here."
But then his eyes fell on the men gripped so utterly with fear before him.
'But...this serves as well. Terrified men are easiest to read."
"Where is your leader?" He inquired as his gaze settled on them.
They looked at each other nervously.
"Who planned this attack?" Troan pushed, patiently observing their expressions.
From their body language, particularly how a few eyes kept glancing at a single man, he knew.
His gaze shifted to this man, a large figure, and in an even voice devoid of doubt, he addressed the man.
"Why have you done this?"
The man was startled. He looked ashamed as tears suddenly filled his eyes.
He drew closer and bowed.
"Is that really you, Troan El' Seasult?"
Troan blinked back slightly, wondering how long it had been since he'd been addressed as such.
"I no longer go by that name." He informed lightly.
"To us you do!"
The large man looked up at Troan earnestly.
"We are sailors, formerly from the Abby guard fleet. For decades we've protected Channel Abbey from Navethian incursions. But ever since the late king ordered that the Channel be made open. It has made the job much more risky. We lose more seamen in a month now, than we did in three seasons when it was still closed."
Troan's lips were pressed tight, the annoyance bleeding into his neutral expression finally settled into exhaustion.
'Vitrus' decision has come to stab Kaydin in the back. I warned him obeying the Empress would make no small number of people disgruntled. He didn't even consider attaching commissars from the Sacristy to the fleet as I recommended, having an aversion to the Sacristy's intervention."
Ever since the Channel was made open a decade ago. There has been a surge in immigration from Naveth into the continent of Luen, due to war and strife ravaging their lands.
This put a great strain on the Abby guard fleet, as a fleet trained to attack, deter, and turn away every ship that came from Naveth, now had to handle the delicate and risky task of sifting through every Navethian ship for contraband, occult items, spies, cultists, and celestials who may try to infiltrate Luen.
Naturally, when two groups with extremely biased views about each other interact, there tend to be altercations that lead to fights and sometimes casualties on both sides.
Although the commissars of the Sacristy were the most biased, they were still educated enough to manage their emotions, consider the consequences of their every word, and teach others to do so. They were also better trained at handling deadly and cursed occultic items than sailors.
The man shook his head with grief.
"We always knew you were against opening Channel Abbey but the late king ignored your wisdom!"
His hands clenched tight, fingers digging into the dirt. "I lost many good men. So many brothe—"
"Enough!"
Troan cut him off with a sigh, caressing his forehead.
"I understand, but this was Vitrus' decision. Why attack a caravan belonging to his successor?"
"Bah!" The man suddenly barked out a laugh with a vicious expression.
"Successor?! That wayward wayfarer of a boy? He is a mistake! Another one of the late king's poor decis—"
Before he could finish, Wriggler walked forward and kicked him in the mouth, setting some teeth to flight.
"Ah, damn! Now I've got blood on my boots." Wriggler complained as turned and went back to Troan's side."
The man spat out blood. He had a pained frown on his face as he glared at Wriggler.
Wriggler blinked at him, surprised at the man's demeanor.
"What? I just saved your life." He said, pointing a thumb at Troan.
The man's gaze shifted to Troan and he flinched.
Troan had an impassive expression, but his eyes held a chilling gleam. He scrutinized the man like a butcher considering how best to dismantle a pig.
The man looked down, not daring to meet his gaze again.
"Go on, mind your words this time," Troan said softly. However, something in his tone made the man shiver.
"Yes. Milord..." He said, clearing his throat. "A few months after the opening of Channel Abbey, Prince Kaydin selfishly journeyed to Naveth where he lived for over a year. When he returned, he soon traveled to Xagarios Imperial Academy of Magic to receive an education there. Now, after many years, he returns for the late king's burial ceremony?!" He scoffed, but it was without mirth.
He then looked at the damaged royal carriage behind Troan knowing that the Prince could hear him.
"Does he intend to rule us now?!" He yelled. "To reign over a people he knows nothing about?!"
The men behind him clenched their fists, a mix of grief, frustration, and hostility in their expressions.
"How does he wish to rule over us? Does he plan to have us worship the Navethian gods?! Or is it Runetile the 'god of magic'?! Perhaps even lead us with Argen's philosophy! Shall we become tinkers?!"
He spat.
"We are men of the sea! We put our faith in the Lord of the Northern Star! We do not—cannot accept such a ruler."
As if all his energy had been spent in his outcry, he said the last sentence in a grievous, exhausted tone; a final declaration from the depths of his weary soul.
"..."
Troan had a grim expression.
He slowly looked to the side and watched the expressions of the dragoons and houseguards. To his amazement, he found several with sympathetic gazes.
Troan then glanced at the window of the royal carriage behind him.
The curtain which was slightly opened, closed suddenly at his movement.
Troan's mouth worked for a moment, but then he relaxed.
'This is not my problem. I have sufficient issues of my own to deal with at the moment. For now, I will close this case and send this entourage back on its way."
Having this thought, he let out a quick sigh and began giving out orders.
He looked at the guards.
"This spectacle is over, you three arrest these men!" He instructed some houseguards.
Then he looked around.
"Lieutenant Sol, direct the replacement of the wounded horses! The caravan continues onward!" He commanded in a tone that brooked no debate.
"Ensign Jigimon!" Troan called out.
A door which stood slightly ajar came open and a girl peaked out.
His gaze shifted to her.
"Access the roadworthiness of the carriages, and direct the men on repairs! I need this caravan moving, ice on ice!"
Seeing the carnage before her, she paled slightly as she came down and saluted.
"Ice on ice, Milord!" She said, before running off.
His gaze went to the others.
"As for the rest of you secure the caravan!" He commanded before calling a houseguard to his side.
"You will assist me with the wounded. But first, I need you to look for those still alive!"
The soldier nodded. "Yes, Lord Seventh."
Soon, there was a bustle of activity around the caravan.
Seeing that everyone was moving as commanded. Troan turned and approached Wriggler.
"What do you think of the situation?" He whispered.
Wriggler instantly understood his words and looked at the sailors being bundled up.
"It seems these chumps are working alone out here." He said with a slight shrug. "At least, I haven't sensed anyone else yet."
Hearing this, Troan nodded. "I thought the same."
The side of Wriggler's lips pulled up slightly as his eyes settled on the sailors.
"They seem a little too eager to see you on the throne boss. What do you think?"
Troan's scoff rumbled within his chest as a dark expression formed.
"That is not happening. If by some stroke of misfortune, Kaydin is made 'unable' to rule. That would make Lurin, next in line..."
He then pictured Lurin sitting on the Sea King's throne and shivered.
He shook his head as if trying to get rid of the scary thought.
"These men do not know that their actions only serve to worsen matters."
He then glanced at the royal carriage and said. "Watch over Kaydin for me. I do not trust these soldiers, or that—girl that seems to be his guard as much as I would like."
Wriggler nodded with a slight smile.
"Got it."
Troan was about to leave to check on the wounded when Wriggler suddenly grabbed his shoulder.
Troan's brow furrowed as he glanced back.
"What is it?"
Wriggler sighed and said. "I'm not certain, boss. But I suddenly feel like we're being watched."
Hearing this, Troan had a thoughtful expression, and then he nodded. "I trust your senses, Wriggler. I will take your words seriously."
He said, before leaving him to attend to the wounded.
Unfortunately, he soon discovered that most were already dead, unable to withstand the heavy wounds dealt to them by the explosion.
He soon spotted Capt. Vahn standing still, hands clenched tightly with a dark expression.
He approached him and followed his line of sight.
Lt. Ulan's corpse lay before his feet, a few metal pieces of shrapnel were embedded in his armor plating. But it seemed the fatal blow was the one that hit his neck. His head had detached from his body, laying a meter or so away from his torso.
Troan stood by his side for a moment in silence.
"Milord! This one's alive!" The soldier assisting him yelled from the back of the caravan.
Troan glanced at the soldier, before looking back at Vahn. He patted his shoulder in sympathy before leaving quickly to aid his interim assistant.
He approached the bloodied soldier in thick armor plating, resting on a carriage's wheel.
Troan eyes widened in horror when he recognized who it was.
"Valerie!"