The journey from the rolling foothills into the domain of the White Peaks was a gradual immersion into a different world. The well-trodden dirt road had long since given way to a steep, winding path of packed earth and stone, forcing the four travelers and their horses into a single-file line. Ancient pines, thick as watchtowers, crowded the trail, their boughs so dense they swallowed the sun, casting the way ahead in a perpetual twilight. The air grew thin and sharp, carrying the clean scent of rock and cold sap. It was here, midway up the ascent, that the world began to change further. A few errant flakes of snow, white motes in the gloom, drifted down from the unseen canopy. Then a few more. It was not yet a storm, merely a quiet announcement from the mountain itself that they were leaving the green world behind and entering a realm of stone and frost.
Ben Richards led the way on foot, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword, the large shield on his back a familiar, comforting weight. The memory of the roadblock they had cleared a half-hour prior gnawed at him. It had been a pathetic display—a clumsy tangle of felled trees and poorly disguised snares that screamed of desperation, not strategy. He could almost hear his father's scornful laughter across the miles, the voice of a man who lived and breathed the mercenary's code of ruthless efficiency. Such crude work was an insult, a sign of an enemy who lacked discipline. And undisciplined foes, for all their lack of skill, were often the most dangerously unpredictable.
Immediately behind Ben, Celeste rode with a stiff-backed posture, her expression a mask of bored indignation. This entire excursion was an exercise in tedious discomfort. The path was uneven, the air was cold, and the company, save for her academy peers, was rustic to the point of being primitive. She glanced at Ben's broad, steady back, conceding a grudging respect for his unwavering professionalism. At least he was competent. Her hand rested near her wand, a silent promise that if trouble did arise, it would be dealt with swiftly and with overwhelming force, allowing them to conclude this tiresome business and return to civilization all the sooner.
Tucked between the mage and the rear guard, Torsten felt a cold that had nothing to do with the falling snow. His hands, calloused from years of handling goods and guiding pack animals, now gripped his horse's reins with a damp, fearful tightness. He was a trader, a man of numbers and negotiations, not of ambushes and drawn steel. The presence of the academy squad was a double-edged sword; their quiet competence was a comfort, but it was also a constant, terrifying reminder of the kind of danger that required such professionals. The roadblock had shattered his hopes of a simple journey. It had transformed the unseen enemy from a distant problem into a psychological shadow that now clung to every rock and tree along the path, a lurking menace that threatened not his profits, but his life, and the life of his daughter waiting for him at home.
Taking up the rear, Mark Turner let his horse follow the others on instinct, his own senses cast wide like a net. He was the group's anchor, tasked with watching their backs, and the forest was telling him all he needed to know. The natural chatter of squirrels and birds had fallen silent. The wind that whispered through the pines carried a discordant note, a feeling of malice that prickled his skin. He knew, with the quiet certainty of a druid, that they were being followed. They were being herded. He kept this knowledge to himself, a grim weight in his chest. A panicked party was a vulnerable one, and for now, all he could do was listen to the mountain's warning and be ready.
High above them, hidden in the perpetual gloom of the canopy, the true predator moved in parallel. Koros flowed through the high branches, a shadow among shadows. His feet, clad in soft leather, made no sound on the-dusted bark. He moved with the innate, weightless agility of a Hunter, a Tier 2 Beast Master utterly at home in this vertical world. Below, the fifteen bandits he commanded crept through the undergrowth, their clumsy movements an offense to his professional senses. They were a net, and a crude one at that. Five of them lagged far behind the travelers, a clumsy barrier to seal off any chance of retreat. The other ten were split into two groups, flanking the path, slowly and silently closing the distance. They were the jaws of the trap, and he, the patient hunter, was its mind.
The discordant hum in Mark's senses sharpened into a piercing shriek of focused ill-intent. The enemy was no longer stalking; they were poised to strike. "Halt!" he roared, his voice cracking with urgency. "Ambush!"
High above, Koros cursed silently. The druid had sensed them. The element of surprise was gone. He pursed his lips and let out a sharp, trilling whistle that perfectly mimicked the cry of a hunting kestrel—the pre-arranged signal.
The sound sliced through the tense air, and in response, the forest erupted in a cacophony of guttural yells as bandits burst from the trees. Ben reacted instantly to Mark's warning, pivoting to plant his tower shield before Celeste and the terrified Torsten.
Mark slid from his horse, his own movements a fluid response to his warning. He slammed both palms onto the frozen earth.
A wave of emerald light pulsed from his hands, washing over the path in a silent circle around the party. For a moment, intricate glyphs woven from glowing green moss blazed on the stones before fading into the ground.
"Verdant Ward!" Mark's voice was strained with effort.
For the bandits, the kestrel's cry was a release. Weeks of gnawing boredom, of cold rations and colder nights under their new chief's unnerving gaze, finally found an outlet. They charged with the crude joy of unleashed dogs. The target was just a handful of travelers. An easy score. Their minds were a simple cacophony of greed and violence: coin, food, and the thrill of the fight. The one with the big shield would be a problem, but ten of them would overwhelm him. The fancy woman in the robes would fetch a fine price. The old trader was soft. They saw victory, swift and brutal.
The sudden flare of emerald light and the impossible appearance of glowing moss-glyphs on the path brought the front line of bandits to a skidding halt. A collective gasp rippled through their ranks. This was not the flash of a blade or the twang of a bowstring. This was magic. A primal fear, cold and sharp, pierced their bloodlust. Mages were for storybooks and Baron's courts, not roadside ambushes. But the hesitation lasted only a breath. The image of the richly dressed woman and the trader's bulging saddlebags flooded their minds, a potent antidote to their fear. A fresh roar went up from the men, their greed now laced with a desperate fury, and they renewed their charge toward the shimmering, unnatural circle.
A sigh of profound irritation escaped Celeste's lips. "Persistent vermin." Her wand sliced through the air, the runes along its length flaring with silver light.
A single, sharp syllable left her lips, a word of power that coalesced the air before her. The wind obeyed. Invisible forces compressed and sharpened into a volley of shimmering, crescent-shaped blades that screamed forward with the sound of tearing silk.
"Howling Blades!"
The front rank of the renewed charge dissolved into a storm of chaos as sharp winds tore through flesh and bone. The blades of pure force struck with lethal precision, carving through cheap leather armor and unprepared bodies alike. Men screamed, their charge obliterated, its momentum replaced by a spray of crimson on the snow and the sickening wet sound of severed limbs.
Yet, through the swirling snow and cries of pain, two figures emerged. They had used their comrades as human shields. Now, with wild, greedy eyes fixed on the woman who had unleashed the storm, they charged.
Before the two could take more than three strides, Mark, still kneeling within his ward, lifted a hand. He didn't shout. He simply clenched his fist. The earth obeyed.
From the ground at the bandits' feet, thick, thorny vines erupted with the sound of tearing canvas. They coiled around the men's legs and torsos with crushing speed, pulling them off balance.
The bandits crashed to the ground, hopelessly entangled in the living snare. Their charge ended in a trussed, helpless tangle.
"Grasping Vines," Mark murmured, the spell's name an afterthought to the deed itself.
Far down the path, the five men tasked with blocking the escape route saw it all. They witnessed the impossible bloom of emerald light. They saw the silver flash of Celeste's wand and heard the wet, tearing sounds of her spell ripping through their comrades. They saw the very earth rise up to ensnare the last of the chargers. This was not a fight. It was a slaughter.
A shared, unspoken understanding passed between them. The promise of coin was a distant, foolish dream against the immediate, terrifying reality of high-tier magic. One man looked at the others, his face a pale mask of horror, and turned. He did not run; he fled, crashing back through the undergrowth. The others followed a second later, their orders forgotten, their only thought to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the monstrously powerful travelers. They scattered into the forest like startled quail, leaving the path completely unguarded.
From his high perch, Koros watched the rout with a venomous curse. "Cowards," he hissed, the word a plume of frosted air. The sight of his fleeing men, the utter collapse of his pincer trap, stirred something cold in his gut. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in years: a sliver of fear. These were not common mercenaries. They were Lumina elites. His mission to capture them was now a laughable impossibility. His gaze narrowed, professional instinct overriding his anger. He could not win, but he could still wound. He could still complete a part of his mission. He drew his bow, the dark wood groaning as he pulled the string taut. His eyes scanned the circle of relative calm below, bypassing the warrior and the magic-users, and settled on the easiest, most vulnerable target. The trader.
The bowstring sang. A black-fletched arrow blurred from the canopy, a silent, lethal line drawn directly toward Torsten's chest.
But even as the arrow left the string, a faint silver glyph on the back of Ben's gauntlet pulsed with light. He had enacted the Vanguard's Pact the moment the ambush began, a silent bond linking his life force to the one he was tasked to protect.
The arrow had not even crossed half the distance to its target when Ben vanished. He did not run or leap. He simply ceased to be at the front of the formation and reappeared in a flash of silver light directly before Torsten, his tower shield already raised.
THWACK!
The arrow slammed into the shield's steel boss with a force that shuddered up Ben's arm, but his stance was immovable. The attack was stopped cold.
Celeste, her wand already tracking the arrow's trajectory back to its source, reacted with the seamless coordination of a true professional. "Got you," she whispered, a new spell already forming on her lips. A spear of concentrated, violent wind materialized at the tip of her wand.
But Koros was already gone. The instant he saw the shield warrior displace, he knew the game was lost. He released his hold on the branch and dropped into the concealing gloom of the lower forest, melting away into the shadows. Celeste's spell, Gale Spear, lanced through the empty branches where he had been a second before, its power spent on nothing but air.
The forest fell silent once more. The only sounds were the groans of the wounded, the rustle of the wind, and the hammering of four hearts. Ben remained planted before Torsten, his shield held high, his eyes scanning the dense canopy. The archer was gone, but that meant little. A professional hunter did not simply flee; they repositioned. A tense minute passed. The snow fell. Nothing moved.
Mark, still kneeling, closed his eyes. His senses, which had been focused on the circle of their Verdant Ward, now spread outward, flowing through the roots and the shivering leaves of the forest. He felt the panicked flight of the rear guard bandits, their fear a discordant splash in the woods. He felt the fading echo of the archer's presence, a cold spot already distant and moving fast. He felt nothing else. No hidden threats. No circling predators. He opened his eyes and looked at Ben. "He's gone. They're all gone."
Torsten let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The air sawed in and out of his lungs. His knees felt weak. Throughout the fight, his mind had been a silent scream. The roar of the bandits, the impossible flash of magic, the world-ending whistle of the arrow coming straight for his heart—it was a sensory overload that had frozen him in place. He had been useless, a tethered goat waiting for the butcher. Then Ben had appeared, a wall of steel and resolve between him and death. The relief that washed through him now was so profound it was painful, a physical ache in his chest. He looked at the three young adults—so serious, so powerful—and felt a wave of dizzying gratitude.
Celeste lowered her wand, her knuckles white. A hiss of frustration escaped her teeth. "He fled. A professional hunter, and he fled like a common poacher."
"He was smart," Ben grunted, finally lowering his shield but not relaxing his stance. His eyes still scanned the trees. "He saw the displacement, knew he'd lost his advantage and that you had a lock on him. Staying would have been suicide." He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Good targeting. You were half a second from hitting him."
Mark rose to his feet, the emerald glow of the Verdant Ward fading around them. He brushed the snow from his knees and gestured with his chin toward the two men still tangled in his vines. They were conscious, their eyes wide with terror. "He may be gone," Mark said, his voice calm and steady, cutting through the post-battle tension. "But he left us with these. We should see what they know."