The cold wind tugged gently at the banners affixed to the royal chariot, their gold-and-black fabric stained faintly with dust from the long road. They were three, maybe four days from the capital now. Close enough that the soldiers began speaking of home again. Close enough that the princess had finally allowed herself to gaze forward, past the canopy-lined roads, toward destiny.
The forest deepened here. The trees grew thick and old, their limbs stretching overhead to knit a canopy of green and gold. Shafts of light pierced through in places, illuminating specks of drifting pollen. The air smelled of loam, moss, and the memory of rain. Insects buzzed low to the ground, and birds called out warnings from hidden nests. Everything about this stretch of road felt hushed, watching.
Reivo could hear it, the whispers that never left his ears where more restless, (add some exemples of what they're saying, remember they are nightmares) like a sort of warning.
The princess's convoy had taken to tighter formation. Riders flanked the royal chariot more closely, lances angled outward like thorns. The noble guard moved with trained wariness, their expressions taut behind helms and coifs. Even the horses seemed quieter than usual, their hooves muffled on the moss-covered trail.
Two days prior, they'd fought off a pack of bone-hounds at dusk—monstrous, malformed beasts, their ribs protruding like cage bars and jaws warped with crystal growth. The memory of their screeches still lingered in the soldiers' ears.
Still, they pressed on.
Reivo rode at the center, close to the royal carriage. He kept his eyes ahead, his newly sharpened senses catching every crunch of underbrush, every flutter of movement beyond the path.
Alarik rode further ahead, near the front of the column. His heavy armor creaked softly with each shift of the reins. His mace hung at his side, polished but pitted with use, his shield resting against the saddle. He seemed calm—but his eyes never stopped scanning.
Around midday, the path narrowed further, hemmed in by natural rock formations and thick undergrowth. The shadows grew longer, the trees closer together. The air here was cooler, wetter, and utterly still.
Alarik raised a hand.
The column slowed. A ripple passed through the formation—silent, professional. Reivo's hand drifted near the hilt of his blade.
From ahead, movement.
A man stepped onto the path from behind a tree. He wore patchwork leathers, stained and scorched, and a red cloth was tied around the lower half of his face. He held no weapon in hand, but several throwing knives were visible at his belt and across his chest.
He was not alone.
Shapes emerged from the forest on either side of the trail—men and women similarly dressed, similarly still. Twenty, perhaps more.
"Easy now," the leader said, voice muffled but clear. "You've entered a toll zone."
Alarik remained still in his saddle. His expression unreadable.
"A toll zone?" he echoed.
"Coin for safe passage," the man said. "We're not greedy. Just... opportunistic."
Alarik's eyes narrowed. "Strange. I don't recall this road being part of any kingdom-sanctioned toll system."
The man chuckled. "Some roads aren't built by kings. Some tolls aren't paid in gold."
Behind Reivo, the guards began tightening their grips. Horses shifted. One man muttered a quiet prayer.
Alarik's voice dropped, low and firm. "If this is a robbery, turn back while your limbs still answer you."
The bandit leader didn't flinch. "Oh, it's not a robbery. It's an opportunity. For you to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. I'd hate to see that fancy carriage burned in the crossfire."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the royal chariot.
Reivo felt it—a small shift in his spine. A tension. These weren't common thieves. They were speaking too easily. Standing too still.
The man in red gestured once.
From the trees, bows were raised.
No arrows loosed. Not yet.
Alarik didn't move. But Reivo noticed his gauntlet tighten around the reins. A pulse of mana stirred faintly in the air—a heartbeat of elemental resonance.
"This is your final warning," Alarik said, voice cold. "Lower your weapons. Turn around. And pray whatever gods you serve that I let you walk away."
The bandit leader looked amused. "I thought paladins didn't make threats."
"I don't," Alarik replied. "Only promises."
The forest held its breath.
Then all hell broke loose.