Hearing Dismas's urgent shout, Caedmic froze.
For a split second, his body refused to move. He had played through this scenario countless times. He knew exactly what was supposed to happen.
But this time, it wasn't on a screen.
Then—a deep, steady voice cut through the tension.
"Don't panic. Follow my lead."
The words, though calm, carried a quiet authority that grounded him.
Reynauld!
The realization jolted him back to the present.
The crusader slammed his boot against the carriage door, sending it flying open. Without hesitation, he turned back and barked a final order—
"Jump into the treeline!"
Then he was gone, vanishing into the darkness outside.
Caedmic clenched his teeth. No time to hesitate. He pushed off the seat, muscles tensing, and hurled himself into the night.
Then, He hits the ground hard.
The impact sent him tumbling into the damp underbrush, his shoulder colliding with an exposed root. He rolled through the wet leaves, the scent of soil and decay rushing into his nose. His palms scraped against rough bark, a sharp sting shooting through his skin. For a brief moment, he lay there, his breath shallow, ears ringing from the sudden impact.
This is real. Caedmic think.
"You're alive. Good."
The voice was deep, steady—calm in a way that only a seasoned warrior could be.
Caedmic blinked away the haze and looked up. Standing before him, silhouetted against the faint glow of the overturned carriage, was a knight clad in full plate armor, marked by the crimson cross of his order. The dull sheen of the metal caught the flickering firelight, casting shifting shadows over his imposing form.
Reynauld.
A crusader, a soldier of faith and war.
His gauntleted hand reached down, firm and unwavering. Without hesitation, Caedmic grasped it, and with one effortless pull, Reynauld hoisted him to his feet.
As he steadied himself, his gaze darted to the other figure crouched nearby. Unlike the armored knight, this man moved like a shadow, blending into the night. Dismas.
A rogue, a mercenary, a man who had long lived on the edge of a blade.
His short black hair was barely visible beneath the tattered hood of his weathered leather coat. A dark red scarf, faded with time and wear, was wrapped around his neck and lower face, concealing all but his sharp, assessing eyes. At his waist, a short sword rested on one side, a well-worn flintlock pistol on the other.
The three of them had made it out of the wreck. But the night was far from over.
Caedmic's eyes adjusted to the dim light. The carriage lay on its side in the middle of the road, its wooden frame shattered, one of the wheels splintered beyond repair. The horse, panicked and whinnying, stomped at the ground in distress, its reins tangled in the wreckage. The flickering glow of an overturned oil lantern, its contents spilled across the broken wood, cast jagged shadows across the ruined scene.
Beyond the wreckage, a crude barricade of felled trees and scattered rocks blocked the path forward. It was a trap. And whoever had set it was still here.
Dismas moved first. Without a word, he raised a gloved hand, signaling silence. His stance shifted, weight balanced, eyes locked onto the darkness beyond the fire's glow.
"They're watching us." His voice was quiet, but edged with certainty.
Caedmic stiffened. His pulse pounded in his ears. He followed Dismas's gaze but saw only shifting shadows and the black silhouettes of trees.
"How can you tell?" he whispered.
Dismas gave him a sideways glance, the hint of a smirk behind his scarf. "Because I can see them."
Caedmic's stomach tightened.
Night Owl.
A trait from the game, one that granted heightened vision in darkness. But this wasn't a game. Dismas could truly see in the dark.
Reynauld, standing firm beside them, exhaled through his nose. "They won't let us walk away."
Dismas scoffed lightly, his fingers brushing the grip of his pistol. "Of course not. They went through all this trouble. Wouldn't be polite to leave before giving them what they came for."
Caedmic tightened his grip on the sword, heart hammering in his chest. He still couldn't see anything beyond the flickering firelight, but Dismas clearly could.
"How many?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay steady.
Dismas exhaled through his nose, tilting his head toward the barricade. "Five." His voice was quiet but certain, as if he were reading it off a page. "Three in front, light armor, both carrying blades. They're tucked behind the logs, waiting to rush us when we move. Back behind them—about ten paces out—there's a rifleman. Long-barrel flintlock. He's perched behind a fallen trunk, got his sights set on us already."
Caedmic swallowed hard. That meant if they made a wrong move, the first gunshot would be theirs to take.
Dismas continued, shifting his gaze slightly. "And then there's the big one."
Caedmic forced himself to follow Dismas's line of sight, though he saw nothing but darkness. "Where?"
"Further back, keeping his distance," Dismas murmured. "Stocky bastard. Head and shoulders taller than the others. Got a whip coiled in his hand, pistol at his hip." He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if amused. "Probably their boss. The ones up front won't move until he gives the go-ahead."
Reynauld let out a slow breath. "Then we don't give him the chance."
Dismas smirked but didn't argue.
"The rifleman is the biggest threat," Reynauld continued. "If we step forward, he fires first. We need him down." He glanced at Dismas. "Can you hit him?"
Dismas snorted, already lifting his pistol. "You really need to ask?"
Reynauld ignored the remark, turning slightly toward Caedmic. "Once the shot is fired, the others will charge. Stay behind me. Strike only when there's an opening."
Caedmic barely had time to nod before Dismas moved.
His pistol came up, steady as if he'd done this a thousand times before.
A quiet breath.
The sharp crack of gunpowder split the night.
From the treeline, a strangled cry.
The brigands attacked.