The steady clatter of hooves and the rhythmic creaking of wood filled the air as the caravan rolled onward. The path was uneven, littered with dips and jagged stones, making the carriages jolt and sway with each passing moment.

  Twilight stretched across the sky, casting long shadows through the sparse pines that lined the road. A crisp breeze filtered through the gaps in the carriage, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and distant smoke.

  Beyond the wooden walls, the knights rode in formation, their voices drifting through the carriage slats. Their conversation carried a certain ease—one of men accustomed to war.

  “Word is, the eastern front’s finally settled,” one knight muttered. “Victory at a cost, but at least the fighting’s over.”

  “About time,” another grunted. “That mess dragged on too long. The emperor won’t tolerate another rebellion stirring.”

  Inside the carriage, the prisoners had their discussions. Two humans—young, rough around the edges—leaned in toward one another, speaking in hushed but excited tones.

  “First thing I do when we get to the capital?”

  one of them said with a grin.

  “I’m heading straight to the Moonlit Barrel. I need a real drink in me after all this.”

  His companion scoffed.

  “Forget the Barrel. Do you want to waste your coin on swill and cheap company? The Red Lantern, now that’s where you go if you want a real welcome.”

  Their laughter was cut short as the carriage lurched over a ditch, jostling everyone inside. A few curses were muttered, but it wasn’t enough to dampen their enthusiasm.

  A third voice chimed in—another prisoner, sitting across from them. He was younger than the other two but carried himself with self-importance.

  “You lot can waste your time drinking yourselves into a stupor. Me? The first thing I’m doing is making my way to Avarice.” He smirked, leaning back against the wooden wall. “That city’s the key to real wealth. I’m registering as a Sinner.”

  That got their attention.

  The first man raised an eyebrow. “A Sinner? You serious?”

  “Dead serious,” the young man said, puffing out his chest. “You lot don’t get it. The crystals sell for a fortune. Nobles pay absurd coins for them. If you know what you’re doing, you can be rich beyond your wildest dreams.” He grinned. “I already fought a couple of Makreesh before. Surely, the dungeon won’t be that hard.”

  A deep, rumbling chuckle filled the carriage. The orc, who had remained silent until now, uncrossed his massive arms. His sceptical laughter carried an almost amused condescension. “Hah. You think a few Makreesh make you ready for a dungeon?” He shook his head, tusked mouth curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “You wouldn’t last a week.”

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  The young man scowled but said nothing.

  The last passenger in the carriage let out a quiet breath. Until now, he had remained motionless, wrapped in a tattered cloak. With the shifting light, his features came into view—an old man, thin but wiry, his arms and legs riddled with scars that spoke of a life long spent on the edge of survival. He shifted slightly, the dim shine of twilight casting shadows over his worn face.

  “Ain’t worth it,” he murmured, voice hoarse with age. “No crystal’s worth givin’ your life for.”

  His words hung in the air, unchallenged. The carriage hit another bump, rocking them all in silence.

  The chatter inside the carriage lulled as the conversation about dungeons and riches lost momentum. The rhythmic creaking of wood and the uneven rocking of the carriage filled the silence, punctuated by the occasional jolt whenever the wheels dipped into a rut in the road.

  Nox let his gaze drift over his companions, taking them in with fresh scrutiny. The two younger men, still caught up in their ambitions, had settled into a quiet exchange, their expressions shifting between excitement and doubt.

  The older man remained as he was, arms folded beneath his tattered cloak, his face partially obscured by its hood. His posture was one of experience—weathered, indifferent, as though he had long outgrown the foolishness of youth.

  But it was the orc who drew Nox’s attention the most.

  Broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, the orc sat with his arms crossed, his tusked mouth set in an expression of quiet thoughtfulness. His dark, weathered skin bore the marks of old wounds, a testament to a life lived in battle. Unlike the others, he had not spoken much. Even when he had laughed at the human’s ambitions, it had been a single, guttural sound—amused, but distant.

  Nox tilted his head slightly before speaking, his voice low but firm.

  "What is an orc of the Vertu Clan doing here?"

  The question, spoken in the orc tongue, made the orc’s eyes snap toward him. For a moment, there was only silence, the weight of Nox’s words lingering between them. Then, the orc’s brow lifted ever so slightly.

  "You speak our language," he rumbled, his voice carrying a note of surprise beneath its deep timbre.

  The orc studied Nox as if weighing the worth of a response. When it became clear Nox would not elaborate, only waiting in silence, the orc exhaled through his nose.

  "I lost an important battle," he finally said, his deep voice steady, though there was no shame in it—only fact. "The victor could have taken my head. Instead, they wished for my banishment. I honoured it."

  He leaned back against the carriage wall, the wood creaking under his weight. His gaze drifted past Nox, out through the gaps in the carriage, watching the passing trees with a quiet solemnity.

  Nox did not pry further. The orc had spoken his truth, and that was enough.

  The journey stretched beneath the fading twilight, the road winding through dense woodland before finally opening into a vast, well-worn path. The uneven ride smoothed slightly as the signs of civilization grew more apparent—fewer roots to jolt the wheels, stone markers lining the roadside, and the occasional lantern casting a faint glow in the encroaching dark.

  Then, at last, they arrived.

  The capital’s gates loomed before them, an imposing structure of dark iron and stone, towering over the approaching caravan. Torchlight flickered along the walls, illuminating the figures of armoured guards standing watch.

  Even from within the carriage, Nox could feel the shift in the air—the subtle tension of a city on guard, the quiet hum of countless lives beyond those towering walls.

  A horn blew once, deep and resonant, announcing their arrival.