A few hours had passed on the road, And as the carriage rattled on, wheels grinding over the uneven path as the forest thickened around them. Inside, the air felt heavier now—thick with the scent of blood that had seeped through the canvas flaps. Joel sat across from the stranger, spear resting against his knee, the leather pouch of looted coins heavy in his lap. The driver's tail still twitched occasionally, a nervous tic that hadn't stopped since the fight ended.
The driver—furred, long-eared, with a merchant's practical cloak—kept glancing back at the two of them through the gap in the curtain. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, the way someone looks after seeing something they can't unsee.
"That was…" he started, voice cracking. Then he swallowed hard and tried again. "I've seen guards. I've seen mercenaries. But that…" He gestured vaguely toward Joel, tail flicking again. "You moved like death itself decided to take a walk. The way you just… opened them up. Clean. Precise. Like you were carving meat for supper."
Joel didn't respond right away. He stared at the spear tip—still slick in places, red-black with drying blood—and remembered the feel of it going through flesh. The first neck he'd pierced had sprayed hot across his face before he could blink. The second bandit's scream had been cut short when the spear twisted up under the jaw and out the top of the skull. After that, it became mechanical: dodge, vault, spin, sever. Six heads in one arc. Four more mid-leap. Joints popping like dry twigs. Eyes bursting under precise thrusts. Groins crushed with a boot heel before the spear finished the job. He'd lost count somewhere around fifteen—bodies piling, limbs twitching, guts spilling in wet ropes onto the dirt. The air had smelled of copper and voided bowels.
He wiped a streak of dried blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "I left one alive," he said quietly. "For questions."
The driver nodded jerkily, still staring. "You did. And thank every god that listens for it."
The surviving bandit sat bound in the corner of the carriage, knees drawn up, eyes darting between them like a trapped animal. He was smaller than the others—scaled skin, clawed fingers, a long tail curled tight around his legs. He hadn't stopped shaking.
The driver leaned forward, voice low. "Who sent you?"
The bandit's tongue flicked nervously. "The assistant commander… of the marketing unit. He—he said the cargo was too important. Said it couldn't reach Altier. Said his brother had no right to the contract."
The driver's ears flattened. His tail went rigid. "His brother…" He rubbed a hand over his face, claws scraping fur. "Of course it was him. The elder brother. Always hated that his younger sibling got the nod from the higher-ups. The commander—my boss—he earned the contract fair. Built the routes, paid the bribes, proved he could move goods without losing half to raiders. But the elder… he's never forgiven it. Never forgiven being passed over."
He let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a growl.
"He's been waiting for a chance to sabotage this run. Prove to the council that his brother can't be trusted. Prove the cargo's too valuable for 'inexperienced' hands. If we'd lost it today—if the bandits had taken everything—he'd have marched right into the chamber and said, 'See? Told you he couldn't handle it.'"
The driver's voice cracked on the last word. He looked down at his own trembling hands, then back at Joel and the stranger.
"You two… you saved more than this carriage. You saved his reputation. Maybe his life. If word got back that the shipment was lost…"
He trailed off, tail giving one last slow wag of gratitude before stilling completely.
The stranger leaned forward, mask impassive. "Then we keep moving. And we keep our eyes open. If the elder brother sent one group, he'll send more."
Joel nodded once. He tucked the pouch of coins into one of the coat's endless pockets—next to the preserved meat, the knives, the navigation device. Stealing from the dead still sat wrong in his stomach, but the weight of the coins felt right. Survival had its price.
He looked out through the flap at the passing trees, the red sun filtering through leaves in bloody shafts.
Altier was still days away.
But the road had just gotten a lot more complicated.
The carriage rolled on.
And Joel sharpened his spear in silence, the whetstone singing softly against steel.