The wind smelled of pine and dust as their horses pounded along the northern road. Richard rode in the center of the formation, the reins steady in his hands, expression unreadable.
Lucy, seated behind him and holding on to his waist, couldn't contain her excitement. Every few minutes she would tug at his sleeve and gasp in wonder.
"Master Richard, look! That bird—how big it is!"
A pause.
"And there—a rabbit!"
Her voice was bright, her delight contagious, but the First Guard who rode beside them remained silent, eyes fixed on the terrain. Turku led the column at the front, face hard and unshaven after four sleepless days. The scar across his cheek looked deeper now, like a streak of iron.
They had traveled fast—too fast for comfort—but the urgency of the mission left little room for leisure. By the fourth day, the hills began to thin, the soil turned a dusty red, and the last pines of the barony faded behind them.
Turku's horse suddenly reared, hooves striking the earth with a dull thud. Dust rose in a slow spiral.
The entire column halted.
He leaned forward in his saddle, eyes narrowed, scanning the landscape. Then he gestured toward a solitary standing stone half-buried by the roadside. "Master Richard," he said, voice low, "once we pass that rock, we'll be in Lord Ranster's lands. Do we proceed? The Baron and Ranster never saw eye to eye."
Richard slowed his mount beside him, gaze following the direction of Turku's finger. The stone was ordinary enough, but he understood what it meant—a boundary line, and a choice.
The feud between Baron Leo and Lord Ranster was no secret. Disputed borders, broken promises, and small-scale skirmishes that had never quite become war. Still, the tension lingered like a wound that never healed.
They could wait here, on their own side, for the caravan to arrive. Or they could cross over and meet it head-on. Waiting meant uncertainty—days, perhaps weeks. Crossing meant risk.
Richard made his decision without hesitation.
"We saw no heavy wheel tracks on the way here. The caravan must still be traveling through Ranster's territory. If we stay, we waste time. We move."
He nudged his horse forward, crossing the invisible border as easily as stepping over a puddle.
Turku opened his mouth, then closed it again, muttering something under his breath as he cracked his whip. The rest of the First Guard followed, their armor glinting briefly before the dust swallowed them whole.
The landscape beyond was subtly different—more cultivated, yet less orderly. Fields stretched in uneven patches, dotted with abandoned cottages and half-fallen fences. In the distance, hills rolled toward a faint silver horizon.
Titles meant little here. In theory, nobles were ranked Duke, Marquis, Count, Viscount, Baron, and Knight—but in practice, land spoke louder than blood. Lord Ranster's territory was nearly twice the size of Baron Leo's, expanded through decades of cunning, greed, and opportunistic wars. His wealth had grown vast, but his borders were porous, gnawed at by bandits and worse.
By late afternoon, the sun dipped low, bleeding crimson into the clouds. From a ridge, Richard caught sight of movement—a cluster of wagons circled along the roadside, campfires flickering between them.
The caravan.
They spurred their horses forward.
The merchants noticed them long before they arrived. Panic spread through the camp like sparks in dry grass—guards drew their blades, laborers froze in place. A few mules brayed nervously, hooves stamping the dirt.
Richard slowed the column as they approached, raising one hand in a gesture of calm. The guards didn't attack, but neither did they lower their weapons. Suspicion hung thick in the air.
He studied them in silence: a couple dozen in total—two or three overseers, a dozen laborers, and seven or eight armed escorts. The division of labor was obvious even without uniforms.
Finally, one of the overseers stepped forward—a weathered man with windburned skin and cautious eyes.
"I'm Mura, the caravan master," he said. "We're merchants out of the Mylen Alliance. And you are…?"
Richard didn't answer immediately. His voice, when it came, was even and unhurried.
"You're delivering a shipment to Baron Leo, aren't you?"
"Yes," Mura replied, blinking. "That's right."
"I'm from his castle," Richard said. "Richard Angliel, second heir to House Leo. The Baron sent me to meet you—security in the region's been poor lately. Bandits, deserters, that sort of thing."
Recognition flickered in the merchant's eyes, followed by visible relief, though caution lingered still. "Ah. I see. Well… that's a relief indeed, my lord."
"You don't have to call me lord," Richard said. "Just Richard will do. We'll make camp beside you tonight. My men won't interfere with yours."
Mura nodded quickly, still unsure whether to bow or salute. "Of course, of course. That's… good."
"One more thing," Richard added as he dismounted. "We leave at first light."
"Tomorrow?" Mura blurted, startled.
Richard didn't bother to respond. He simply walked toward his men and began giving quiet instructions. The guards dismounted, setting up their own small encampment nearby—efficient, silent, disciplined.
Behind the wagons, a young woman had been watching everything unfold with growing irritation. Her brows drew together, and she whispered sharply to the servant beside her.
"Who does he think he is, ordering us around like that? We're merchants, not his soldiers!"
Her voice had a musical lilt even when it dripped with anger. "And 'second heir'? That's just another way of saying irrelevant, isn't it? No title, no authority—just arrogance."
When Richard turned slightly, the girl shot him a glare so fierce it could have ignited dry grass, then rolled her eyes with theatrical contempt.
Her name was Melissa, seventeen years old, daughter of the Magnolia Chamber's president in the Mylen capital.
A noble merchant's child in all but name—spirited, spoiled, and dangerously bored.
From childhood she'd been surrounded by etiquette tutors and perfumed soirées. She preferred stories of pirates and monster-hunters. When her father forbade her from "adventuring," she had thrown a tantrum that could have toppled a ministry.
In the end, the man had relented—partially.
She would travel, yes, but only under escort, and only with the safest possible caravan. A little journey to the far Empire to "oversee a trade deal," he'd said. A harmless outing.
Now, seated on a wagon step, watching soldiers pitch their camp with mechanical precision, Melissa scowled.
Adventure, she had imagined, would be daring duels and secret ruins, mysterious strangers and stolen kisses.
Instead, she found dust, exhaustion, and a dour young man who treated her as though she didn't exist.
The campfire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a thin, lonely sound.
Melissa hugged her knees, staring into the flames.
She told herself that tomorrow, things would get interesting.
And in the gathering dark beyond the road, unseen eyes watched the flickering campfires, waiting.