"Is this really how it's supposed to be done?" Lucy's voice broke the quiet evening air, a mix of frustration and disbelief. Her small hands clenched around the edge of the wooden box containing the pressed plants, the smell of the river mist lingering on her apron. She stepped back from Richard slightly, shaking her head in exasperation, eyes wide and glimmering with emotion.
Richard glanced at her, noting the spark of agitation, and for a moment, he allowed himself the briefest flicker of amusement. Yet he said nothing, lifting his gaze to the west where the last tendrils of sunlight clung stubbornly to the horizon. His voice was soft, carrying an almost imperceptible melancholy. "This… this is how it's done back home."
Lucy blinked, unsure what he meant. She had never heard him speak like this, so quiet, so reflective, as if the words themselves carried weight far beyond the immediate moment. "Back home?" she repeated tentatively.
Richard's eyes did not leave the river's gentle shimmer. "I don't know if I will ever return," he murmured, voice low, almost a whisper meant only for himself. "I don't know if I will ever taste those foods again, or see that place again…"
Lucy hesitated, stepping closer, her small hand brushing his sleeve. "Master… you sound… sad," she ventured carefully, unsure if speaking the thought aloud would make it heavier or lighter.
Richard finally looked at her, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sad?" He shook his head quickly, as if to shake away the heaviness in his chest, and his voice took on a teasing lilt. "Of course I am. How could I not be?"
Lucy tilted her head, puzzled. "But why?"
Richard's gaze wandered back to the fading sunlight, his tone half-serious, half-jesting. "For example, we brought all the alcohol, the fine needles, the jars for insects… and yet, not a single one was caught. All that preparation, all that effort, wasted."
Lucy frowned, trying to understand. "But… couldn't you catch some tomorrow, when we go back?"
"True," Richard admitted, rising to his feet, his hand briefly patting her shoulder before sliding to the small of her back in a playful gesture. "But tonight, the riverbank is damp. Staying too long and you risk catching a chill. Come on, let's go."
Lucy let out a small pout, rubbing at her backside, still feeling the echo of Richard's playful slap. "It hurts," she muttered, more in mock protest than genuine pain.
Richard allowed a faint smile, adjusting the folds of her skirt and leading her away. "All right, back home now."
The pair returned quietly to the Hughes household, the sounds of the river and wind fading behind them as the sun vanished completely. The night passed without incident.
Dawn brought its pale, cool light over the village. The first guard detachment had already saddled and was waiting outside the Hughes estate, preparing to return to the baronial castle. Alice lingered a moment longer, her farewell with her brother tinged with warmth and hesitation, while the other villagers made their own quiet preparations. Richard gave a low call, and the group swiftly turned their horses, heading toward the castle in a steady, purposeful line.
Shortly after leaving the village, Hughes spurred his horse to catch up, the wind whipping his hair and cloak as they traversed the familiar path. Half an hour later, they reached the wasteland where Richard had collected plants the day before. Horses' hooves kicked up dry soil and grass as they navigated the uneven terrain.
Halfway through the open plain, Richard suddenly reined in his mount, halting the procession. His eyes swept across the horizon, scanning the fields with an intensity that made even the most seasoned riders uneasy.
"Yesterday," he said, voice low and measured, "the female assassin appeared somewhere near here, didn't she?"
"Yes," Turku replied, halting beside him, curiosity and a faint unease flickering in his expression. "What is it, Master?"
Richard's lips curved slightly, a trace of amusement beneath the serious tone. "Don't you feel it? Too quiet. The wind, the grass… even the insects. Everything is too still."
At that instant, Richard's heightened senses, honed through meditation and relentless mental discipline, detected what others could not. Movement, breathing, subtle shifts in the wind—all betrayed the presence of hidden figures. He knew precisely how many were present, how far, and even some of their approximate positions.
"Master?" Turku's voice broke the momentary silence. He glanced around and realized Richard was right. The wasteland, normally alive with the hum of insects and the rustle of small creatures, was eerily silent. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine.
"Alert!" Turku shouted, attempting to prepare the men. But before he could even finish the word, a cluster of ten figures burst forth from the tall grass. Their clothing, made of coarse, faded linen, hung loosely over gaunt frames, their skin pallid from malnutrition. Weapons glinted sharply in the fading light, crude yet dangerous.
They surged forward with a terrifying, almost animalistic energy, shouting and brandishing swords and knives in a chaotic wave of motion. Only two remained behind momentarily, laboriously pulling long wooden bows and launching jagged, crooked arrows toward the approaching group. One arrow struck a companion accidentally, eliciting a scream that pierced the tense air.
The remaining bowmen, startled by their own mistake, dropped their weapons and joined the melee with crude blades in hand.
Richard observed from his horse, the faintest arch of his eyebrow betraying his amusement. He found it remarkable that these desperate, starving figures had the audacity to attempt an attack against him. He shook his head, then quickly turned to Lucy, still mounted behind him, and carefully tied a cloth over her eyes.
"Master, what are you doing? I want to watch!" Lucy protested, her voice tinged with indignation.
"You are too young for what will follow," Richard replied calmly. "It will be… bloody. You should not see it."
"When can I remove it?" she asked softly, the edge of complaint in her tone.
"When I tell you," Richard answered evenly, dismissing her protests with the faintest smile.
Lucy huffed, lips pursed, but allowed the blindfold to remain.
The attackers continued their charge. Turku's jaw tightened, fury flashing in his eyes. Their arrogance, their sheer audacity to challenge the baron's second heir and his elite guards, was an insult beyond toleration.
"Kill them all!" one of the attackers shouted, a ragged, desperate roar.
"Die!" Turku bellowed, his voice rolling across the plain like thunder, cutting through the chaos. In one smooth motion, he drew his longsword, kicked his horse's flank, and charged into the oncoming horde.
The hooves thundered, the blades clashed. One swing of Turku's sword sent a head flying through the air, blood arcing in a crimson fountain, the sight freezing the remaining attackers in momentary shock.
The first guard squad, spurred by Turku's ferocity, quickly joined the fray. Their horses trampled the ground, blades flashing, cutting down the attackers with precise, deadly efficiency. Despite the attackers' desperation, the engagement was over in minutes, a tragic spectacle that left half the enemy corpses decapitated and the others fleeing in panic.
When the dust settled, Richard approached the aftermath. Turku wiped the blood from his sword, expression calm yet satisfied.
"Any survivors?" Richard asked.
Turku gestured to a shivering figure on the ground, his voice subdued. "One, over there."
Richard dismounted with fluid grace, approaching the lone survivor. Covered in the blood of his fallen companions, the man cowered, eyes wide with fear, trembling. The majority of the blood on his body was not his own, but that of those he had attacked.
Before Richard could speak, the man cried out, desperation bleeding through his voice. "I… I know everything! Please… don't kill me!"
Richard raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He dismounted fully and circled the trembling man slowly, voice calm and deliberate. "Wait… let me guess first."
The man froze, confusion and terror etched into every line of his face.