The road stretched before us, winding and uncertain. At times, it curved like a serpent; at others, it lay straight and unyielding. The evening sun cast long, skeletal shadows through the thinning foliage, its dying light staining the land in hues of ember and ash. In the distance, the hollow dirt hills of Hollowed Valley loomed—silent and waiting. A day’s ride to Old Milltown at our current pace.

  We had left White Creak at midnight two days prior, the dense, verdant forests slowly giving way to barren, wind-swept hills. Now, the land stretched open and vast, offering no shelter, no refuge—just the endless press of the horizon. The grasslands swallowed us whole, the only sounds the steady clatter of hooves and the occasional howl of the wind. Our pace was relentless, with only brief stops to rest the horses and snatch moments of restless sleep.

  The monotony was broken only by the occasional clash—goblins and kobolds lurking in the tall grass, their eyes gleaming like embers in the twilight. They were no more than a nuisance, dispatched without ceremony. Yet, as their bodies fell, they left behind the scent of blood in the air, mingling with the dry, sunbaked soil—a reminder of what lay ahead.

  Before we departed, Aleric and Rylas had secured eight fine horses, sturdy and swift enough for the journey ahead. Selene and Mira gathered what provisions they could—water, dried meat, and herbs for the wounds we were certain to earn. Yet, no amount of preparation could lighten the weight pressing upon us.

  Ewin and Lyrik, however, had enjoyed themselves the most. They spent their time drinking and mingling with the crowds, fishing for information between rounds of ale. But all they managed to gather were exaggerated drunken tales, local myths, and the endless woes of weary villagers—nothing of true value.

  Vyk, on the other hand, returned to us mere minutes before our departure, bringing something far more intriguing. After splitting from the group to scout the village, he had uncovered troubling signs—merchants conducting quiet dealings in the shadows, selling only to dark-cloaked figures in secluded corners at odd hours.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to dig deeper before it was time to leave, leaving us with nothing but questions—and a lingering sense of unease.

  The further we rode, the quieter we became. Conversations died in our throats, swallowed by the growing unease that coiled around us like the cooling dusk. In White Creak, we had allowed ourselves a moment of respite, a fleeting illusion of normalcy. But now, beneath the vast, indifferent sky, reality pressed down upon us once more.

  As evening stretched into dusk, the world dimmed to shades of deep amber and violet. The air carried the scent of dry soil and distant rain, whispering through the tall grass that lined the weary road.

  That was when I saw them first—a cart, precariously tilted on the roadside, one wheel half-buried in the softened ground. Two figures stood beside it, their voices sharp and restless, cutting through the hush of twilight. Their arms flailed as they argued, the tension between them palpable even from a distance.

  Vyk, ever vigilant, was the next to notice.

  “We’ve got company,” he said, his tone measured. “One and a quarter mile ahead.”

  At once, the group stirred. Tired eyes sharpened. Fingers curled tighter around reins, brushing instinctively against the hilts of swords, daggers, or, in Mira’s case, the polished wood of her arcane staff. No weapons were drawn, but readiness settled over us like a coiled spring—tense, waiting.

  As we rode closer, the scene became clearer. Splintered wood lay scattered across the road. A broken wheel leaned awkwardly against the dirt, its jagged edge catching the fading light. The cart, laden with sacks—grain, most likely—looked as though it had been abandoned mid-struggle.

  The sight only deepened our unease. This was a well-worn trick among bandits: a wreck, a plea for help, and an ambush waiting in the shadows.

  “I told you the load was too heavy!” the younger man snapped, throwing his arms in the air.

  “For all the hells, just listen for once! How many times must I tell you? It was the road!” the older one shot back, his voice thick with exasperation. “The rain’s been worse than I expected—it washed out the ground beneath us!”

  “You’re a fool, old man! That’s why I told you to remove some of the sacks.” The younger one’s voice rose again, frustration sharp as a blade. “But no, you wanted more coin! Now look at us—stranded in the middle of nowhere!”

  As we closed the distance, I studied them more closely. Beneath their frustration, there was an undeniable resemblance—the same sharp nose, the same furrowed brows when they scowled. Brothers, perhaps. Or cousins.

  Their shouting faded as they noticed us. Lyrik, the people’s man, urged his horse forward, breaking from the group. With his usual easy-going charm, he called out, “You boys seem to have a bit of a problem.” He swung off his horse, offering a friendly smile. “Need a hand?”

  The two men exchanged glances before the older one turned to Lyrik. His voice was weary, his posture tense but not hostile. “Nothing to worry about, my lords and ladies,” he said. “We can handle it ourselves.”

  Lyrik's smile didn't waver, but I saw it in his eyes. He was measuring their response—just as I was.

  Aleric dismounted, giving the broken wheel a once-over now that an ambush seemed unlikely. “It’s not just stuck—it’s splintered. That’s not something four hands can fix alone.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Selene and Mira followed suit, stepping off their horses. The rest of us—Vyk, Rylas, Ewin, and I—remained mounted. Vyk’s eyes were cold, weighing possibilities. I knew what he was thinking. Coincidence was a rare thing in our world. And a broken cart, just as night fell? That was no coincidence at all.

  Ewin, on the other hand, barely hid his boredom, letting out a slow yawn. Rylas waited for my word, his stance patient.

  As for me? I simply watched, mildly amused, curious to see where this would lead us.

  Mira took the lead, her voice measured, diplomatic. “Where are you headed? These roads aren’t safe.”

  “We’re on our way to sell our harvest in the markets at Ol’ Milltown,” the younger one answered. Then, with a touch of curiosity, he added, “Where are you folks coming from?”

  “White Creak,” Rylas grunted.

  At that, the older man’s expression shifted, a flicker of recognition lighting his weary eyes. “White Creak? We’re from Rose Hills, just a ways from there.”

  Selene seized the moment. “We’re headed to Old Milltown ourselves. Perhaps we could travel together.”

  The wariness in their posture eased, though hesitation remained. The older man glanced at our horses—ragged, exhausted from hard riding. “You seem to be in a hurry. We’d only slow you down.”

  Before he could say more, the younger one cut in, eager and hopeful. “Though, a helping hand would be much appreciated.”

  The sun hung low, staining the sky in bands of rust and violet. The wind, once a gentle whisper, had grown restless, rustling through the dry grass. It carried a certain unease—the kind that settled into the bones, making the hairs on the back of the neck prickle.

  We were out in the open.

  Lyrik exhaled through his nose, cracking his knuckles. “Alright, let’s get this over with before something finds us.” He shot a glance at Aleric. “Priest, tell me it’s fixable.”

  Aleric, crouched beside the broken wheel, running his fingers along the jagged splinters. His brows knitted together in quiet contemplation. “The axle’s taken a hit, but the real issue is the wheel itself.” He let out a breath. “It needs reinforcement, or it’ll crack again the moment it takes weight.”

  The older man shifted uneasily. “We don’t have the coin for a new wheel.”

  “No need,” Mira murmured from leaning on her staff, her voice laced with a measured calm. She extended a hand toward the ground. A faint, green glow shimmered at her fingertips, and from the ground, wood began to rise—smooth, strong, and unnaturally perfect. The scent of fresh bark filled the air, an unnatural contrast to the dry, dying grasslands.

  The younger man swallowed hard. “By the gods…”

  Aleric, however, merely nodded. “A fine gift. Though next time, Mira, try not to make it look so…” He gestured vaguely. “Boisterous.”

  Mira smirked. “But that’s half the fun.”

  Lyrik had already grabbed the conjured wood, testing its weight before handing it off. “Enough chatter. Let’s fix this thing.”

  As they worked, I kept my eyes on the road. Vyk did the same, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his blade. “Something’s watching,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

  I didn’t ask how he knew. Vyk’s instincts were rarely wrong. But even more so, because I knew it as well. High above in the sky, unnoticed by anyone, someone—or something—was watching.

  Behind us, Selene was speaking in hushed tones with the older man. “You said you’re from Rose Hills?”

  He nodded, distracted as he stole a glance at our horses. “Aye. Just north of White Creak.” His eyes lingered on our mounts, their sweat-matted coats, the dust clinging to their legs. “You’ve been riding hard.”

  Selene’s smile was measured. “The road hasn’t been kind.”

  The younger man, oblivious to the undercurrents, spoke up. “Must be nice, traveling like you do. Seeing the world.”

  Ewin, who had barely lifted a finger to help, scoffed. “Seeing the world? You mean barely sleeping, constantly fighting for our lives, and running from things most sane people wouldn’t even believe in?” He yawned. “Yeah, it’s real magical.”

  The young man hesitated. “Oh.”

  Meanwhile, Lyrik and Aleric worked with efficient familiarity, though their voices were laced with a subtle edge.

  “Hold it steady,” Aleric murmured, hammering the wood into place.

  “I am holding it steady,” Lyrik shot back, gritting his teeth.

  “You’re moving it.”

  “No, you’re moving it.”

  Aleric stopped, exhaling sharply. “Lyrik, for the love of the stars—”

  Mira sighed, watching from the sidelines. “If I have to conjure another piece of wood because you two can’t work together, I’m charging you both in blood.”

  Lyrik grinned despite himself. “Charming.”

  Aleric wasn’t amused. He pressed a palm against the newly placed wood, closing his eyes. A faint, golden glow spread from his fingertips, the divine energy seeping into the structure, reinforcing it with quiet strength. “That should hold,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  The older man watched, his voice measured. “You’re a priest?”

  Aleric met his gaze. “Of sorts.”

  The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t see many priests carrying daggers.”

  Aleric only smiled. “Times are changing.”

  With the cart repaired, we stepped back. The silence stretched, lingering longer than it should. The younger man looked relieved. The older man remained wary.

  “By the way,” Ewin drawled, his voice carrying that ever-present laziness. “How did you two manage to stay out of trouble?” He ran a hand through his hair, shifting in the saddle. “By the dead, I’ve lost count of how many vermin I’ve put down. But you…” His gaze flicked to their empty belts. “You don’t even have weapons—except for that rusted bit of iron. What’s stopping the beasts from tearing you apart?”

  Young man shifted uncomfortably. The older man’s fingers curled around a small pouch hanging from his neck. His voice came out measured, careful. “It’s… somethin’ Granny made. Brings luck. Keeps the beasts off us. And blesses us with good trade—good coin.”

  Silence.

  A silence that stretched just long enough to make the duo even more uneasy.

  Selene cleared her throat—gentle, measured, as if trying not to spook them further. “That’s wonderful.” She turned her gaze to Mira, a silent cue. “As you can see, we also work in the craft. Maybe we could improve it? Strengthen the blessings.”

  The duo shifted their gazes between us. Then the older one took the pouch off his neck and presented to Selene slowly. “It’s very important to us, to me.”

  As Selene took the pouch to her hands, I was able to get a better look, from my vantage point atop my mount. A simple pouch—weathered, unremarkable. But there was something there. A faint pull. Mana, but weak. Druidic, if I had to guess.

  And a tinge of Old magic, which was fading.

  Selene then handed it to Mira, who also looked at it closely, turning the pouch this way and that. “When was this made?” she asked, flicking her gaze to me. Then, ever so slightly, she shook her head. I gave her a small nod.

  “’Bout two months back, when the horrors came,” the younger one muttered.

  “Horrors?” Rylas grunted, his expression sharpening.

  Young man nodded. “Aye. Before that, just the usual—wolves, the odd bandit, nothin’ we couldn’t handle. Then, all of a sudden—monsters. Things we ain’t never seen, not even in old tales.”

  The air seemed colder.

  Older one exhaled sharply, rubbing his arms like shakin’ off a bad memory. “One day, things were normal. The next—” He shook his head. “Like the land turned sour overnight.”

  Vyk, ever watchful, edged his horse forward. His voice was quiet, yet it held a weight to it. “Who’s this Granny you spoke of?”

  Older man glanced at the other before answering. “She’s just… always been there. Since before any of us can remember. Even our granddad calls her Granny.”

  The younger man nodded. “Says she ain’t changed a day since he was a wee lad. She’s been in the village longer’n anyone.”

  Lyrik, wiping his hands on a cloth, arched a brow. “You two are brothers?”

  At that, the tension cracked just slightly. The duo smiled bashfully.

  “Sorry,” The older man said, rubbing the back of his neck. “With all this goin’ on, forgot our manners. Name’s Robert.”

  “I’m Henry,” the younger one chimed in, giving a small nod.

  The air, once taut with caution, loosened just enough for the conversation to shift.

  Lyrik took that moment to step in, his grin widening as if the unease in the air didn’t exist. “Well then, Henry, Robert, let me tell you—you’re lucky we came along. The gods must favor you, because I have been known to work miracles.” He placed a hand over his heart, voice dripping with exaggerated charm.

  The shift was subtle, but effective. Attention pulled away from caution and toward Lyrik’s presence. The brothers, whether out of amusement or mere instinct, glanced his way instead of us.

  Selene joined in just enough, offering a playful scoff. “And here I thought you only worked miracles at the tavern.”

  “That too,” Lyrik quipped without missing a beat.

  The tension ebbed just slightly, enough for Aleric to chime in with casual remarks—sometimes countering Lyrik’s boasts, sometimes adding to them. The conversation was light-hearted, but never aimless.

  Who Should Take the Spotlight Next?