The Northern Highway – The Black Forest. Two Days from Iron Hearth.
Creeeak... thud!
The ancient carriage lurched violently as its wheels slammed into a mud-filled pothole, the timber groaning in protest. Inside the cramped cabin, which reeked of stale dust, Roland hugged the wooden crate containing "The Goddess's Tears" as if it were his own beating heart. His face was a sickly shade of green, a victim of relentless motion sickness.
"For God's sake," Roland muttered, fighting the bile rising in his throat. Gulp. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "If we ever make it back... I swear I'll kiss the scorching asphalt of the toll road. Even the worst suspension in Brother Riven's off-road truck felt like a luxury cloud compared to this wooden coffin."
Opposite him, Rhea sat with an unnervingly rigid posture. The light leather armor encasing her athletic frame creaked with every slight adjustment. At her hip hung a rapier—the same slender blade she had wielded on the national fencing circuit. But this time, the tip wasn't capped with a rubber protector; the steel gleamed with a cold, predatory intent, hungry for something more than mere points.
"Focus, Lan," Rhea hissed, her eyes never leaving the window. She watched the rows of towering black pines that rose like ghost fingers reaching for the sky. "We've entered the red zone. Lady Rhea's memories say these woods are a hive for bandits."
Outside, perched on the driver's bench, Riven gripped the reins of two massive black horses. Captain Thorne sat beside him, eyes narrowed as he scanned the encroaching darkness of the forest, while two mounted guards followed closely behind.
The forest was silent. Too silent. There was no birdsong, only the rhythmic creak of the wheels and the horses' breath puffing white in the frigid air.
Suddenly, Riven's ears twitched. His knightly muscle memory picked up a vibration that didn't belong. It wasn't the wind rustling the leaves.
"GET DOWN!" Riven roared.
THWACK!
An arrow whistled from the undergrowth, thudding into the carriage's wooden wall—barely inches from Riven's temple.
"Ambush! Protect the carriage!" Captain Thorne shouted, drawing his blade with a sharp shring!
From the shadows of the trees, six figures lunged outward. These weren't starving, desperate scavengers; they were muscular men in mismatched scavenged armor, their faces obscured by grime-streaked scarves. Their eyes were wild, fueled by the lust for plunder.
"Kill the guards! Take the cargo!" the leader bellowed, a mountain of a man swinging a rusted greataxe.
Chaos erupted in an instant. The two Sudrath guards were immediately locked in a fierce exchange of steel. Clang! Trang! Sparks flew as blades clashed.
Riven vaulted down from the driver's seat. His heart—the heart of Rifki the manager—was hammering against his ribs so hard it hurt. This wasn't a martial arts drill in Bandung. This wasn't a street brawl. This was a slaughterhouse.
A bandit charged him, a shortsword raised high. "Die, you pampered noble brat!"
In Riven's eyes, the swing felt agonizingly slow. Rifki's brain screamed: Run! But Sir Riven's instincts overrode the fear. He stepped into the attack, not away from it. His armored left shoulder drove into the bandit's chest with the force of a battering ram.
THUMP!
The bandit recoiled, the air driven from his lungs. Without a second's hesitation, Riven's right hand, gripping his claymore, swung in a horizontal arc. A strike backed by raw, unadulterated power.
SPLAT!
There was no artistry to it. Only brutal efficiency. The bandit's head was severed from his neck in one clean motion. Hot blood sprayed through the air, drenching half of Riven's face and armor.
Riven froze. He could feel the warmth of the blood seeping into his skin. The pungent, metallic stench of iron assaulted his senses. I… I just…
"BROTHER! BEHIND YOU!"
Rhea's scream snapped him out of the trance.
The carriage door burst open. Rhea vaulted out with a precise somersault that only a high-level athlete could execute. Another bandit was trying to force his way into the cabin, his hand already on the latch where Roland was hiding.
"Don't you touch my brother!" Rhea shrieked, her voice high and sharp with rage.
The bandit turned, a dismissive sneer forming as he saw a girl with a toothpick-thin blade. "Well now, what a pretty little toy—"
Before he could finish, Rhea executed a perfect lunge. Her lead foot slid across the muddy ground, her body dropping low until she nearly touched the earth.
Zwing!
The tip of her rapier found the gap in the bandit's armor at the armpit, plunging straight through his lung. Rhea retracted the blade with a violent, practiced snap.
The bandit dropped his mace. He clutched his leaking chest, coughing up thick, crimson fluid before collapsing into the mud, his eyes wide in shock. His life ebbed away into the cold Northreach soil.
Rhea scrambled back a few steps, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hand gripped the rapier so hard it shook. She stared at the tip of her blade, now dyed a deep, visceral red as blood dripped onto the ground.
The skirmish ended as quickly as it had begun. Six bandits lay dead in the mud.
The forest returned to silence, but this time, it was a heavy, suffocating quiet.
Roland crawled out of the carriage, still clutching the wooden box with white-knuckled fingers. His eyes widened at the scene. Riven stood like a statue next to a headless corpse, half his body bathed in blood.
On the other side, Rhea was on her knees, clutching the wet grass.
"Huargh... cough!" Rhea retched, her stomach turning. Tears blurred her vision, mixing with the sweat on her face. "I killed him... I actually killed him..."
Roland felt his legs turn to jelly. The metallic tang of blood and the stench of viscera made the world spin.
Clang. Riven dropped his greatsword. He stared at his own trembling palms.
"Lan..." Roland called out weakly. "Riven... you guys okay?"
Riven turned slowly. His face was ghostly pale beneath the dark red stains. "It was... so easy," Riven whispered, his voice trembling with horror. "I cut through his neck like it was nothing. My muscles felt no guilt... but my mind is screaming."
Captain Thorne approached, wiping his blade with a rag as if this were a mundane chore. "Well done, Sir Riven! You inherit Duke Lucian's strength from his youth. And Lady Rhea... a truly lethal strike."
Thorne kicked the bandit leader's corpse with his boot. "Hmm. These weren't mere scavengers. Look at the forge mark on this armor. This is the work of a Southern smith."
Thorne looked at Riven with a grim expression. "They were mercenaries, milord. Likely sent to ensure 'The Goddess's Tears' never reach the auction block."
Riven took a deep breath, then exhaled sharply. He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, leaving a gruesome red smear. He walked toward Rhea, helping his sister up despite her lingering sobs.
"Listen," Riven said. His voice had changed. It was harder. Colder. He looked at Rhea and Roland in turn. "We aren't in Bandung anymore. There are no police. No laws. If Rhea or I had hesitated for even a second... your head would be rolling in the mud, Lan. Or Rhea would be treated worse than an animal by these scum."
Thorne, who was adjusting the horses' harness, turned slowly. His brow furrowed. "Bandung? What is this you speak of, milord?"
Riven looked at Thorne—a gaze that was vacant, yet filled with a lethal resolve. "An old Northern metaphor, Captain," he replied flatly. "It means... a future that is already dead."
Thorne fell silent. He knew there were secrets here, but he was wise enough not to pry. "Understood, milord."
Riven retrieved his greatsword and sheathed it on his back. "From this moment on, bury your pity. Save your morality for when we are safe and rich. Right now? We are just predators trying not to be eaten by other predators."
Rhea wiped her tears aggressively, leaving streaks of dirt on her cheeks. She gave a weak nod, though her hands still trembled as she sheathed her rapier. "Okay. I get it, Brother."
Roland swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the wooden box. The crate felt significantly heavier now; lives had been ended to protect it.
"Move out," Riven commanded, climbing back onto the driver's seat. "Don't stop until we see the gates of the Black City."
The carriage wheels began to turn again, rolling over mud that was now stained a dark, ominous crimson. Inside the cabin, Roland stared at his reflection in the window. The image of the innocent college student was fading, replaced by the eyes of a man prepared to walk through hell for his family.
House Sudrath had spilled its first blood. And the most terrifying realization was how gifted they were at it.