South of Rhode City, a carriage caravan had been traveling along the main road for most of the morning. The towering watchtower of the south gate was now barely visible as a tiny point on the horizon, and the scenery outside the windows had gradually shifted from farmland to rolling hills.
Three carriages lined up in a row on the gravel road, moving at a steady, moderate pace.
The lead carriage bore no prominent coat of arms, but it was drawn by four purebred trotters with long legs and lean, powerful builds. The copper buckles on their harnesses were made of solid brass.
The carriage itself was made of iron-oak, its seams inlaid with extremely fine silver threads that were virtually invisible unless one looked closely.
The middle carriage was the most spacious, featuring double-layered curtains weighted with lead at the corners and windows fitted with circular crystal panes.
Six mounted guards rode on either side, clad in dark gray light armor. Their mounts were all heavily built warhorses, their horseshoes clattering in a crisp, rhythmic beat against the gravel road.
The last carriage carried luggage and supplies; though slightly smaller, it looked sturdy enough.
Dalian rode at the very front, with Rayne, the captain of the six-man squad, at his side.
The former had been Elliot's childhood swordsmanship instructor and had become the head of the guards after retiring. This time, he had brought a dozen of his most capable soldiers along.
At this moment, his hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his old gray cloak fluttering loudly in the wind.
“Young Master,” he said, turning his head toward the carriage behind him. “There's a narrow stretch of road just past the upcoming bend with steep slopes on both sides. Please be careful, you and your companions.”
“Alright,” Elliot's voice drifted out from the middle carriage.
They had departed from Rhode City before dawn today, all to avoid wasting any of the precious time needed for her treatment.
Inside the carriage, Liz was wrapped in a thick cloak, leaning against Misha's shoulder. Her face was still pale, but her breathing was relatively stable.
Misha held her with one arm, her staff resting against her knees, its tip glowing with a faint, warm light.
Balen sat dozing near the door with his shield in his arms. Gerak sat opposite him, two short axes resting across his knees, his ears twitching occasionally as he peered out through the gap in the curtains.
Elliot had a book spread open in his lap, but he hadn't turned a single page in quite some time.
“This road used to be quite dangerous; bandits would often waylay travelers here,” Gerak grunted in a muffled voice. “But they were just common mountain bandits and highwaymen. Nothing to worry about.”
“It's different this time.” Elliot closed the book and looked out the window, feeling somewhat uneasy.
“If someone is waiting on this road today, the person they're waiting for can only be...”
Before he could finish his sentence, the carriage lurched to a sudden halt.
Dozing by the curtain, Balen's head slipped off his shield, his chin slamming against his shoulder guard. Before he was even fully awake, his hand had already gripped the handle of his axe. “Are we there?!”
“Not yet.”
The two scouts sent ahead to reconnoiter had failed to return on time, putting Dalian on high alert.
He pulled back on his reins to slow his mount, raising his right hand to signal everyone to halt and stay alert.
He didn't call out, merely making a silent hand gesture. Behind him, several veteran soldiers immediately began shifting their formation, preparing for combat.
Before the carriages had even ground to a complete halt, a figure emerged from the bend ahead.
He was a middle-aged man wearing a dark red coat with a rapier at his waist. He walked at a measured pace and came to a stop right in the middle of the road in front of the caravan.
Outside, the middle-aged man spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried clearly over the entire caravan and into the carriage: “Young Master Elliot, it has been a long time.”
Dalian stared at the figure standing in the middle of the road, his hand never leaving his sword hilt.
“Aubrey,” he said in a deep voice, lacking even a hint of warmth toward an acquaintance. “Since you know who is sitting inside that carriage, step aside immediately!”
The middle-aged man known as Aubrey smiled faintly.
“Of course I know. If I didn't, I wouldn't have waited here specifically for you—wouldn't you agree, Young Master Elliot? Or perhaps I should address you as Lord Count?”
“What exactly do you think you are doing?” Sensing something amiss in Aubrey's demeanor, Dalian narrowed his eyes and drew his longsword, pointing it directly at him.
Aubrey completely ignored the longsword pointed at him. He began pacing in place, talking as if to himself:
“The Lord Duke once held Count Augustus in such high regard, yet the Count neglected the political affairs of his domain entirely, devoting his heart and soul to necromancy.
“During his ten-year rule, you and I both know how many land deeds he sold just to gather those necromantic scrolls, Dalian.
“And what was the result? The kingdom's infamous necromancer blood sacrifice ritual! Which generation of our Morehurst family has ever brought such shame upon the family name!”
Aubrey lowered his head, gently rubbing the hilt of the sword at his waist with his thumb.
Then he looked up, the smile on his face completely vanished.
“And now, Elliot—the eldest son of Augustus—has gone and sold off another batch of Morehurst land deeds to...”
Aubrey gritted his teeth in fury, his expression twisting with rage. “...to cure some random wench who crawled out of who-knows-where.”
“Enough!” Dalian tried to bark him down, but it clearly had no effect.
“It is nowhere near enough!
“The Duke is already old! If he lives to see two generations of the Morehurst family dragged down by the exact same folly before he dies—do you think the old man could ever rest in peace?”
With that, Aubrey unhurriedly drew his sword, meeting Dalian's gaze with sharp, confrontational intensity.
The curtain of the middle carriage was pulled back.
“Did my second uncle send you?” Elliot stepped out of the carriage, his face betraying neither joy nor sorrow.
“Or does he think disposing of me on the road is more decent than doing it back at the manor?”
Aubrey did not answer.
He stared at Elliot for a few seconds. The last remnants of his smile vanished completely, replaced by a raw, undisguised disgust.
“Young Master, you've misunderstood one thing.”
He raised his left hand and made a brief gesture.
Instantly, the rustling of armor plates rubbing against each other echoed from the woods on both sides.
At least thirty fully armored, elite soldiers in uniform gear emerged from behind the tree trunks and bushes. The front row raised their shields, the back row readied their spears, and a small squad of crossbowmen on each flank knelt to aim, the bolts in their grooves gleaming coldly in the morning light.
“No one sent me.”
Aubrey raised his sword level, pointing the tip directly at Elliot's chest. “Every single member of the Morehurst family... wants you dead.”
“And so—”
Aubrey lunged forward, his rapier tracing an incredibly fine, cold glint in the morning light.
Dalian's longsword and Rayne's blade met his almost simultaneously, the three metallic clashes merging into a single sharp ring.
Aubrey forcefully tore a gap between the two. The soles of his boots plowed half a foot deep into the gravel road as he spun, using the momentum to realign the tip of his sword toward the front of the carriage.
“For the honor of the Morehurst family, please die with grace, Young Master!”
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