The creak of wagon wheels and the rhythmic clatter of snowelk hoofbeats filled the forest road as the caravan pressed onward. The day’s light was nearly gone, the sun replaced by the dim blue hues of twilight that filtered through the branches above. The caravan rolled forward at a steady pace—six wagons laden with crates and barrels, rare hides from unique monsters, jars of rare alchemical compounds, and crates of gemstones lashed securely beneath heavy tarps. At the center of the caravan, a sleek black carriage rolled with an air of quiet authority. Its lacquered sides bore faint velvet-red inlays in swirling, hooked patterns, a unique mark of the merchant lord combined with that of the Syndicate base design.

  A few guards walked alongside the carriage in a loose formation, their armor clinking softly with every step. Though they bore no Thorned Rose insignias, their professionalism was unmistakable. Their gear, though not uniform, spoke of hardened warriors—chainmail polished to a muted sheen, leather vambraces scuffed from use, and swords that showed the care of men who understood their worth.

  Inside the carriage, Lord Reynard lounged against plush cushions that barely masked his tension. A half-fox of average height but with a considerably long tail, he wore an embroidered waistcoat that fit his form surprisingly well, his hands adorned with soft red gloves with holes for the finger tops and nails to go through. He held an elegant ledger in his hands, the pages filled with figures and names scrawled in precise ink. Despite his outward display of wealth and status, his eyes betrayed his unease—sharp, darting glances toward the curtained windows as though expecting danger to spring from the shadows at any moment. There were also bags under his eyes—he had not been sleeping well these last days.

  Seated across from him was a dark-elf archer named Fardun. She leaned casually against the carriage wall, her black hair falling in a loose braid over her shoulder. Her long fingers toyed with the feathered end of an arrow as she observed Reynard with a faint, amused smile. Her voice was smooth and low when she finally broke the silence.

  “You’re fidgeting, Lord Reynard. The Syndicate's best ought to have better control over their nerves.”

  Reynard looked up sharply, his expression souring. “I’m paying you to guard my caravan, not to analyze my demeanor.” He closed the ledger with a snap and set it aside. “This cargo is vital. Do you understand what that means? Vital.”

  Fardun raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh, I understand perfectly. It's vital to you. To the Syndicate. To your creditors even, perhaps. But to me, it’s just another simple job.”

  Reynard's snout turned pink-reddish with irritation, but before he could respond, the carriage jolted over a rock, sending him lurching forward. He steadied himself with a grunt, muttering curses under his breath.

  Outside the carriage, Gerharr, a veteran of the Thorned Rose, marched alongside the lead wagon. He was a hulking troll, his body covered with ritualistic scars, his face stumpish but rigid. His armor was a patchwork of salvaged plates strapped across his large body and reinforced leather and hides to fill in the gaps—every piece fitted for function over form. An immense one-edged hunting sword hung at his hip, and three javelins were strapped to his back. His keen eyes scanned the trees as he walked.

  “Stay sharp,” Gerharr called to his men, his voice rough but steady. “Eyes on the treeline. I don’t want any surprises.”

  A lower-ranked soldier nearby shifted nervously, his spear wobbling slightly in his grip. “Sir, do you really think—”

  “Yes, I do,” Gerharr interrupted sharply. “This road’s too quiet. I hear no birds cawing; means trouble usually.” He glanced back at the carriage, where Lord Reynard's muffled but worried voice carried faintly through the thick wood. “This yapping fox is a target, not just the goods. Even he can't hide it anymore. Tch, what dredge of a job.”

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  Walking further back, near the last wagon, was Norik, a vampire cutthroat mercenary from the east, hiding under the shadows of the trees—partly for his own comfort but also as tactic. His pale skin seemed to shun every ray that pierced through the canopy, and his crimson eyes glowed beneath the brim of his hat. His clothing was elegant but practical—a blend of dark silks and sturdy leather. A swordbreaker dagger and a triangular, non-bladed panzerstecher hung from his belt. Anyone could tell he was more of a duelist than a soldier.

  Norik tilted his head slightly, listening intently to the cadence of the forest. The faint creak of the wagons, the steady clatter of the snowelk's hooves, and the faint sounds of the wind and shrubbery were the only sounds.

  Norik noticed a nearby guard's hands gripping his short sword tightly, the tension wafting off him like the sweet perfume of prey.

  “Relax, comrade,” Norik said, a crooked smile spreading across his pale lips. “Your fear's scent will get you killed faster than a loose grip.” He tapped his hat down over his glowing eyes. “Besides, if you think a strong grip saves you, you don't know anything about swordsmanship.”

  The guard swallowed audibly but loosened his grip on the hilt. The fear was still there, but at least the guard had regained his composure.

  Ahead, Gerharr paused mid-stride, his large ears twitching. The troll raised a hand, signaling for the caravan to halt. The procession creaked to a gradual stop, guards immediately stiffening and scanning their surroundings.

  “What’s going on?” Reynard’s sharp voice rang out from the carriage.

  Gerharr ignored the merchant, his eyes narrowing as he stepped off the road and knelt by the treeline. The underbrush was unnaturally disturbed—the earth churned. He traced the patterns with a thick finger.

  Fardun hopped lightly from the carriage, her bow in hand and a razor-tipped arrow nocked in the same fluid motion. She crouched beside Gerharr, her sharp, dark eyes taking in the signs.

  “One target,” she said, her voice hushed. “Human-sized, though I don't know this print. It’s recently made.” She glanced at the trees but couldn't find anything else.

  Gerharr straightened, his heavy blade scraping faintly against its sheath. “We’re being watched as we speak,” he said, his gravelly voice matter-of-fact. “The print is from a phantom cat—a feline race. We have no choice but to move forward.”

  Reynard’s pale face appeared at the carriage window, his fur bristling. “Watched? What do you mean, we're being watched? You’re paid to keep this road safe!”

  Gerharr shot the fox a glare over his shoulder. “And you’re paid to keep your mouth shut, Reynard! Sit tight, and maybe we’ll keep your hide intact instead of selling it ourselves,” he bellowed in the way only a troll could.

  Fardun chuckled softly, drawing another arrow and tucking it into her quiver. “Careful, Reynard,” she teased. “You might 'frighten' away your hired help.”

  Reynard sputtered but retreated back into the carriage, his muttering barely audible.

  Gerharr held up his hand to signal forward. "In any case, we are already encircled, if I had to bet. Retreat isn't an option. Let's just get this over with. Keep your shields and swords raised."

  As the caravan pressed forward, the air grew heavier. Every sound was amplified in the silence. The forest seemed to close in, the trees leaning over the road like conspirators. The shadows deepened, the dying light barely penetrating the thick canopy. At the rear, Norik stood, his hat tipped back slightly as he gazed into the darkening woods. His keen eyes caught a flicker of movement—a blurred shadow. He grinned slightly. “They’re here,” he whispered to himself, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his panzerstecher.

  Gerharr’s guttural voice broke the tension. “Eyes sharp. They’ll strike when we’re pinned.”

  Norik clicked his tongue in mild amusement. “And here I thought trolls weren’t tacticians. You might actually make it out of this alive—with a new scar, though I’m sure.”

  Gerharr didn’t dignify the vampire with a response. His attention was locked on the narrowing road ahead, where the trees closed in tightly, their trunks twisted unnaturally as if forced together.

  “Choke point,” Fardun said softly. “Classic."

  Gerharr nodded in agreement. “We’re not just gonna walk into it though. We’re gonna storm it.”

  He turned to his guards as he unsheathed his blade, his voice carrying over the caravan. “Keep formation! Shieldbearers forward! Spears and archers, watch the flanks!”