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A tempest of sparks danced in the air as twin sickles clashed against the sweeping arc of a dark, double-bladed glaive. Two elven warriors dueled with relentless agility, their battle a blur of motion, steel, and intent. One, wielding the glaive with practiced precision, executed a handless cartwheel flip that seemed to mock gravity. As she spun midair, her weapon carved a deadly arc toward her opponent.415Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkC1e7f7ytb
Adorning the glaive-wielder’s head were two small, devilish horns that pierced through locks of tousled purple hair—hair that, on calmer days, might have barely brushed her shoulders. From beneath the hem of her short, belted tunic—a garment of vibrant green and soft black—a slender, succubus-like tail was wrapped around her waist, tucked discreetly beneath her belt for safety. Her adversary evaded with grace, sliding low beneath the strike, and as she did, a flash of undergarments flickered in the fading light—caused by the skirt of the glaive-wielder’s tunic brushing against one of the antlers crowning her rival’s brow. Seizing the opening, the wood elf struck upward with a sickle, eyes alight with focus and the thrill of the duel.
This was no mere sparring match. Their duel was a breathtaking dance—a contest shaped by a rivalry as fierce as a dragon’s wrath, tempered by a bond forged in fire. Each strike sang of shared battles, unspoken trust, and honed instinct.
Their blades clashed again with a resonant cry of metal. The horned elf twisted her weapon to deflect the blow and regain her footing, her body moving with a predatory elegance. Even before she turned to face her foe, she swept the bottom blade of her glaive behind her, catching another blow by instinct alone. She spun in one fluid motion, countering with a sweeping arc.
But then—an abrupt shift.
A sliver of antler fell, spinning slowly as it tumbled to the grass below. The glaive-wielder froze, momentarily stunned. Her blade had become entangled in her opponent’s antlers.
A mischievous grin curved the wood elf’s lips. Instead of withdrawing, she twisted and pressed into the entrapment, tangling the glaive even further. With her foe’s weapon ensnared, she unleashed a furious flurry of sickle strikes, their razor-sharp edges grazing fabric, slicing through air, biting close to skin.
The sickles—shorter than most and only slightly curved—were crafted from rare dragonsteel obsidian alloy, their gleaming black blades lined with golden elvish inscriptions etched along their spines. They hummed with latent magic as they carved through the space between them.
Then, with a sudden snap of her neck, the antlered elf jerked upward, wrenching her opponent’s glaive into the sky. In the same breath, she drove a firm kick into the devilish elf’s midsection, sending her tumbling backward. The glaive clattered to the ground nearby.
Though the horned elf was taller, it was the wood elf who now stood dominant. Her chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, her frame battered but unbowed. One of her antlers had been shortened—blunted in the clash—but she paid it no mind.
Her hair, streaked with hues of burnished brown and glinting amber, caught the dying sun's rays as it filtered through the trees. Her long bangs framed her sharp, angular face, while shorter layers danced around the nape of her neck. From beneath her windswept mane, her antlers curved skyward with youthful majesty, like the proud rise of a stag in its prime.
While clad in a dark green tunic cinched at the waist with a rugged leather belt, and a cloak of earthen brown that danced like a restless spirit in the swirling wind, the wood elf teased with a smile, “It looks as though you have been defeated—”
Before she could finish her sentence, her opponent—swift as a storm-born arrow—transitioned from a rolling recovery to an explosive charge. The devilish elf girl, already gripping her glaive once more, launched herself forward with such velocity it seemed the very air bent around her. Her movements blurred into a backward corkscrew flip, her glaive spinning in tandem, each motion imbued with a grace so fluid it bordered on supernatural. It was as if she traversed space not through sprinting, but by slipping momentarily between realms.
Though the glaive swung with lethal precision and speed, the wood elf responded with the instinct of a true forest-born warrior. She leapt high, stepping lightly off the flat of the incoming blade as if it were a platform carved from moonlight, and vaulted over her adversary’s head with the effortless agility of a wind sprite.
But the wood elf’s defiance was short-lived.
As she landed, the devilish elf’s tail whipped around her ankle like a striking vine, yanking her back down to the earth with brutal force. She hit the ground face-first with a muffled grunt, her body skidding slightly in the dirt as the wind was knocked from her lungs.
With a fluid twist and the blade of her glaive poised just beneath Gwen’s neck, the devilish elf declared coolly, “No. It appears you’ve been defeated this time, Gwen.” With a smirk, she withdrew the weapon and slung it back into a custom hook holster on her back, the leather creaking softly as it accepted the weight. “I’ve long since lost count of our sparring matches, victories and defeats alike… but I dare say, I’m in the lead.”
She turned away, her paludamentum billowing behind her like the trailing plume of a bird of prey, each stride echoing a slight pout disguised beneath the mask of confidence as she strode toward the large bonfire flickering in the center of the caravan circle.
With a groan of exaggerated suffering, Gwen rolled onto her hands and knees and spat a mouthful of grass and dirt. “Gods, Ifera, you didn’t have to slam me like that!” she coughed, brushing dirt and tangled grass from her hair and the grooves of her antlers.
“You kicked me in the stomach,” Ifera shot back over her shoulder, plopping down onto a weathered stump beside the fire. “So, you absolutely deserved it.”
The camp was encircled by massive double-decker caravan wagons, strategically arranged in a protective ring. These imposing vehicles were more fortress than transport, each composed of two rectangular wagons hitched end-to-end like rolling citadels. Drawn by teams of horses and armored dragon-rhinoceros hybrids, the caravans bore the weight and purpose of a mobile stronghold.
The wagons' exteriors were reinforced with dragonsteel-framed wooden panels, and each level bore small, rectangular windows fitted with retractable shutters. Mounted iron torch brackets flanked each windowsill, casting flickering light that warded off both shadow and beast.
Though each pair of conjoined wagons made up one caravan unit, only the lead wagon had a ground-level entrance into the living quarters. This primary door offered access to both interconnected wagons within. At the rear of the trailing wagon was a larger bay door—used sparingly—meant for loading supplies, setting up or breaking camp, and accommodating the entry of large beasts such as Nox and the other bonded animals of the crew.
The overall layout of the camp exuded efficiency and readiness: a battlefield's edge cloaked in the appearance of a nomadic community. And at its center, the flickering bonfire crackled like the heart of a great beast, its flames dancing to the rhythm of the evening wind.
The front of each wagon, leading the three caravan cars, featured an elevated coach driver’s quarters—commonly referred to as the cockpit. Designed to seat up to six people comfortably, it was sheltered beneath a soft canvas top that rose into a triangular peak at the front, mimicking the prow of a wooden ship. Beneath this canvas was a reinforced wooden structure, angled and raised high off the ground to deter intruders from scaling the wagon walls with ease.
Above the ceiling of the second story in all wagons ran a continuous canvas canopy. Beneath it lay the upper level—a storage deck packed with crates, spare parts, and vital tools used for maintaining the caravan and its equipment. This area served as the logistical heart of the convoy, housing anything from wagon wheel fittings to collapsible armor racks and replacement crossbow limbs.
Strapped securely across the tops of the wagons was a sophisticated network of large barrels, linked by an intricate piping system. These containers distributed various essential fluids throughout the caravan: fresh water to showers, sinks, and latrines; ale to the kitchens and mess areas; and enchanted concoctions such as potions, draughts, and elixirs directly to the armories. This self-sustaining system allowed the caravan to remain in the field for extended missions, whether fulfilling mercenary contracts, hunting monsters, or embarking on quests.
Each wagon was also fortified with a basic defense grid. Small catapults and light cannons were cleverly concealed within the floors and walls of the second story, hidden beneath retractable segments of the canvas roof. These weapons were positioned strategically along both the port and starboard sides between rows of storage crates.
Two of the six wagons, however, sacrificed much of their cargo space to accommodate a more formidable and complex weapons platform. These specialized wagons housed modular siege systems—larger cannons, rapid-deploy ballistae mounted on rotating platforms, and heavy-duty catapults. With a pull of a lever, the canvas overhead could retract, and the halfwalls above the second story and beneath the canopy would fold outward at a ninety-degree angle, transforming the upper level into a fully operational open-air deck.
Each ballista could be controlled from a dedicated operator’s seat lined with levers, cranks, and firing triggers, allowing for fine-tuned aiming and rapid reloading. Twin magazine hoppers flanked the ballista’s base, automatically fed from hidden spring-loaded storage chambers in the lower deck ceiling—designed for speed and efficiency in chaotic combat situations.
The front wagon of each caravan car included a mid-level split staircase just behind the cockpit. This central stairwell connected the upper and lower levels and served as a main thoroughfare through the vehicle’s interior. Internally, each wagon was uniquely outfitted based on its role.
In most cases, the lead wagon of each caravan included the cockpit, a dining hall, multiple bunk bed cabins, a latrine, and basic storage lockers. The rear wagon, by contrast, featured a different configuration tailored to its function.
Wagons equipped with lighter weapon systems generally offered more creature comforts: extra sleeping quarters, full kitchens, additional bathing facilities, and extra lavatories. Those with heavier armaments, however, replaced comfort with combat readiness. These wagons featured reinforced armories, war gear staging areas, and specialized equipment for deploying traps, explosives, and magical barriers. They were purpose-built for confronting large-scale threats—massive ground beasts, swarms, or flying monsters—encounters that would overwhelm a typical party on foot.
Together, these six conjoined wagons formed not merely a caravan, but a roving bastion of steel, magic, and ingenuity—equal parts fortress and home for its war-tested crew.
At the helm of the lead wagon, under the drooping shadow of a wide-brimmed hat sagging backward toward the staircase entrance, sat a man of unassuming stature. His attire—an aged, dark brown cloak and shaggy, medium-length hair of a matching hue—blended seamlessly with the rustic charm of the caravan. Atop his hat, a small cat lay curled in tranquil slumber, undisturbed by the gentle rocking of the wagon.
He lounged with a practiced ease, feet propped upon the wooden rail before him, hands clasped leisurely behind his head. From between his lips, a thin stream of smoke lazily curled skyward, spiraling into the dusky air as he puffed on a long-stemmed cob pipe—exuding the air of a man who had long since mastered his domain.
His gaze followed Gwen as she trudged toward the bonfire, her steps exaggerated, her gait a pantomime of exhaustion and defeat after her sparring loss to Ifera. Her cape fluttered gently in the evening breeze, trailing behind her like a wounded banner. With every lumbering step, she released drawn-out groans, muttering playful curses under her breath as she fastened her sickles into sheathes strapped to the sides of her boots.
The heart of the caravan glowed with the warmth of a lively fire. Around the blaze, several iron tripods supported bubbling cauldrons, their contents rich with the scents of broth and spice. Makeshift tables, crafted from old shipping crates and reinforced planks, bore an assortment of cutlery, mugs, and leftover provisions. Ifera sat cross-legged on one of the crates, a heaping slab of meat clutched in both hands. She tore into it with sharp, shark-like teeth—each bite savage and primal. Blood and juices ran freely down her chin, dripping in rivulets onto the wooden plate balanced on her lap.
Unlike Gwen, who bore the elegant and refined features of a full-blooded wood elf, Ifera was of mixed descent—half lunar elf, half Àspro devil. Her lineage, though demonized by the Valmosian Empire, did nothing to dim her striking beauty or her ferocity. The Àspro devils, a succubus-like people with long, ancient ties to both infernal and celestial magicks, had been ostracized by the Empire for the past decade. Along with other so-called “dark” races, as well as beastmen and demi-humans, they were hunted, enslaved, or driven into hiding across much of the continent.
Gwen approached, standing beside her with a smirk. “Have you even given that meat a chance to cook, or are you just gnawing on it raw like some half-feral beast?”
Ifera responded with a wicked grin, tearing off another bloody hunk. “I favor it rare and bloody,” she said between chews. Her expression softened, and she offered a solemn glance up at Gwen. “Also... sorry about the antler.”
Gwen, now crouching beside a nearby cauldron, dipped a ladle into its simmering contents and poured a hearty portion of stew into a wooden bowl resting on a crate. “Think nothing of it,” she said with a lighthearted shrug. “They were growing too long anyway. I needed to trim them before we reach the capital.” She raised the bowl to her lips and slurped noisily, steam curling around her face. “I loathe crowded cities—always having to duck and weave through alleyways and people gawking or brushing up against them.”
Her words were cut short by a sudden thump as a six-inch-tall fairy crashed headfirst onto Gwen’s skull, clutching one of her antlers like the handle of a galloping horse. The soup bowl tumbled from Gwen’s hands and splashed across the dirt, sending chunks of meat and potatoes flying.
Clinging to the antler, the fairy declared, “Your antlers are a mark of dignity and heritage—not shame! We needn’t bow to the tastes of those bootlicking imperial peacocks just because they find your traits offensive.”
Gwen scowled, reaching down to retrieve her fallen bowl. “Damn it, Esmerelda!” she snapped. “Could you not divebomb my head while I’m eating?” She dusted herself off, refilled her bowl, and slumped down next to the fire. “And it’s not about pleasing those pompous sycophants,” she muttered between mouthfuls.
As she took a deep draught from the refilled bowl, something Esmerelda had said struck her as particularly ridiculous—and that was enough. Mid-slurp, Gwen erupted into a choking laugh, sending a steaming geyser of stew spraying from her nostrils. Bits of shredded meat, slivers of boiled potato, and strands of noodles shot from her face in all directions as she doubled over, coughing and laughing in equal measure.
Ifera paused mid-bite, grinned wide, and wiped her chin. “Now that’s the spirit.”
Esmerelda, the tiny fairy, clung tightly to Gwen’s antlers as Gwen’s head rocked back and forth uncontrollably, her laughter erupting in spasms while wet noodles dangled wildly from her nostrils. “Have you gone mad?!” Esmerelda shrieked, her voice barely audible above Gwen’s hysterics.
Oblivious to the fairy’s outburst, Gwen continued to cackle. Ifera, still perched beside the fire, commented dryly, “After the way you caught my glaive with your antlers, I half expect you to charge down the capital’s main road, headbutting unsuspecting townsfolk like some antlered menace.”
She raised the last bite of her steak to her lips, but before she could enjoy it, a massive dire wolf—its fur a sprawling canvas of shadowed grey and snowy white—slipped up beside her and licked her face with wild enthusiasm, slathering away the remaining juices of her meal.
Caught off guard, Ifera yelped and scooted back, only to tumble off the crate and land flat on her back. As she groaned, another equally massive white dire wolf pounced into the fray, eager to assist the first in scrubbing her face clean of every savory trace.
The two wolves, towering over her like gentle, slobbering mountains, pressed in close. Their tongues lapped at her cheeks, their cold noses rooting into her tunic, sniffing for overlooked scraps hidden in her pockets or scattered across her clothes.
Gwen’s howling laughter gradually faded into soft, wheezing giggles. Still wiping tears from her eyes, she finally managed to speak. “Forgive my mirth… I was picturing the faces of everyone—Isaac most of all—if he’d seen me get yanked face-first into the earth by your tail.”
Esmerelda wrinkled her nose. “That’s what amused you? That’s not even funny. And Isaac? Please. He never says anything remotely intelligent, let alone humorous.”
Ifera, still pinned beneath the affectionate wolves, managed to say between licks, “That’s not true. He’s always cracking jokes with that gruff voice of his.”
Esmerelda scoffed. “Maybe to you. To me, he sounds like a pair of pigs being strangled while a banshee wails over their corpses.”
As Gwen fished one final noodle from her nostril, she chuckled and said, “I actually like his voice. It reminds me of a brook—soft, steady… water murmuring over mossy stones beneath the drowsy moons.”
After gathering two generous portions of stew, meat, and potatoes into wooden bowls, Ifera set them down before the dire wolves. She scratched behind their ears as they eagerly began to devour the offerings. “His voice?” she mused aloud, “I always thought it was more like a breeze—cool and slow—rustling through the leaves of a sassafras tree at dusk.”
Perched atop Gwen’s head, Esmerelda looked down at the two of them with no small amount of disdain, her face scrunched in disbelief as they continued to compare Isaac’s voice to the sounds of nature.
Despite her tiny stature—no taller than six inches—Esmerelda was anything but fragile. A woodland fairy by birth, she wore a worn green tunic that mirrored Gwen’s in both hue and cut. Around her waist, she sported a thick golden ring—a piece of enchanted jewelry that once belonged on the hand of an ogre, now repurposed as a belt.
This was no ordinary ornament. The ring was enchanted with magical strength, and when worn around Esmerelda’s waist, its effects remained fully active. A single punch from her tiny fist now struck with the force of a full-grown man’s, if not more.
Thanks to the artifact, she could haul, throw, or swing items many times her own weight with little effort. While she still struggled with fine dexterity tasks due to her size, brute strength was no longer one of her limitations.
Like Gwen, she bore a pair of small antlers, each jutting subtly from her short, tousled brown hair. Her wings shimmered a vivid pink, fluttering with a soft hum, and her sapphire-blue eyes glowed faintly in the firelight. She wore tiny cloth wrappings on her feet like socks, her arms folded sternly across her chest as she observed the girls with a perpetual scowl and a sass-laced smirk.
Ifera seized two more steaks from a tray resting on a crate beside the fire, gripping one in each hand. Tearing a chunk from one with her teeth, she chewed loudly and called out, “Theo! They’ve been gone for ages. Maybe try reaching out with your telepathic thingy?”
Theo, seated comfortably in the coachman’s quarters at the front of the nearest wagon, puffed thoughtfully on his long-stemmed pipe. The wide brim of his hat sagged over his brow, casting shadows across his face. A sleepy cat snoozed undisturbed atop the hat’s crown. “I was pondering that very thought, Ify-kins,” he replied.
Ifera, her mouth still full, stood abruptly and declared, “That is not my name! You’ll call me Ifera, like everyone else!” She swallowed, took another bite, and muttered through a mouthful of meat, “Nor am I to be called Ferri-doodle, Ify-pie, or Ify-licious.”
Theo chuckled, the smoke from his pipe curling lazily through the air. “You don’t seem to mind when Kjell calls you that every time we stop through Blue Wyvern.”
Ifera’s face, once again glazed with meat juices, twisted in indignation. “That’s because he’s a tavern master who tips us generously for our services. I assure you, if I’d ever seen him squatting in the privy with the door wide open like you, I wouldn’t let him call me those names either.”
Theo’s face flushed. He stiffened slightly and said with sudden authority, “The door was broken. How many times must I explain that?”
Ifera shot back, “And you couldn’t find one with a door that works? There are four other privies!”
Gwen, still seated nearby and sipping from her bowl, chimed in with a grin. “I think he likes pooping with the door open. He’s like one of those voyeurs who charge people to peep through holes and watch them do weird stuff.”
Ifera blinked, feigning innocence. “Oh? That explains where you sneak off to when you’re off duty.”
Gwen nearly dropped her bowl again. “NO! I was just making a point! He’s been doing this for years!”
With her arms crossed and a smirk playing on her lips, Ifera said, “Uh-huh. At this rate, he might as well just squat out in the woods with Ragnar and Ragnus.”
At the mention of their names, the two dire wolves lifted their heads briefly from their bowls, tails wagging. Still smudged with grease, Ifera reached over and affectionately scratched behind Ragnar’s ears.
Meanwhile, Theo exhaled a long sigh and declared, “The other privies lack the comfort and security that one offers.”
Gwen raised an eyebrow. “How in the hells does a toilet offer security? Especially one with a broken door?”
Theo straightened, tapping the bowl of his pipe against the railing. “That particular throne—crafted of porcelain and dragon glass—sits directly across from a large hallway window. From there, I can keep watch for incoming threats. And behind it, mounted into the hull, is a thick plate of black dragonsteel—so if anyone tries to strike from behind, they get a surprise instead of me.”
Ifera, glaring over her shoulder with a mouthful of meat, scoffed, “You’re a grandmaster spell sword and you can’t fix a door?”
She added, “Can’t you, like… sense people’s life essence or whatever? I thought you could detect monsters and everything long before they got close.”
Theo replied smugly, “Firstly, not everyone trained in magic gallivants around with their robes flapping and their cocks swinging like some self-important battle bard. And secondly, I have tried to repair it—but the frame’s warped and the screw holes are stripped. Hinges won’t bite into the wood no matter what I use.”
He muttered, “I’ve brought it up to Morak three times, but he just waves me off with that godsdamned ‘I’ll get to it later’ tone.”
Gwen chuckled and remarked, “See? I told you he just wants to poop with the door open.”
With a sudden yelp, Esmerelda exclaimed, “Enough! I can’t bear to hear any more of your excuses and crude talk about bodily functions—or how Isaac’s voice, soft as the verdant moss on an enchanting tree stump glistening in morning dew and could soothe even the most restless infant trolls to sleep!”
She soared into the air, her tiny yet powerful voice booming for all to hear. “Now cease your chatter and contact Osira or Osirus like Ifera suggested!”
Theo scoffed, puffing on his pipe. “Hey, I was just defending my honor while these tiny prepubescent gremlins were attacking me.”
Gwen shot back sourly, “I am neither tiny, nor prepubescent, nor a gremlin. I'm almost forty-two, thank you very much.”
Theo countered, matter-of-factly, “Both of you barely reach five feet in height, I’ve never seen either of you with a partner, and you both cackle like lunatics into the wee hours of the night from your room—keeping the entire caravan awake, mind you—leaving everyone to ponder what in the hells you two could possibly be doing in there. So yes, I’d say my statement was accurate. And even if you are in your forties, that still makes you babies by most elven standards.”
Ifera, polishing off the last bites of her two steaks, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and added, “Actually, Coach Driver, I can’t say for certain how old I am. My father never bothered to celebrate birthdays—he sold me off to slavers not long after my mother passed. So until you guys rescued me, I’ve just been telling people I’m the nice, youthful age of one hundred.”
With a casual elegance, she rose from her crate, her paludamentum fluttering behind her like a noble's cloak. Arching her back, she stretched her arms high above her head, joints popping softly in the evening air.
Before the group could dwell too long on her grim past, Ifera’s tone shifted to a mischievous boast. “Can you believe those cultist bastards tried to sell me off for only one hundred gold coins?”
Finishing her stretch, she declared with conviction, “I am worth no less than a thousand gold—maybe even twenty Dragonstone coins!” She began counting her fingers as if the numbers danced tangibly before her eyes.
Gwen sprang to her feet, nearly upending her bowl in the process. Bits of soup splattered to the ground as she threw her arms dramatically into the air and cried, “I would have gladly parted with a million Dragonstone coins for my dear Ify-poo!”
Floating high above them, Esmerelda screamed in exasperation, “Is anyone paying attention to me?!”
Sensing the shift in energy and the need to get back on track, Theo finally sat upright in the driver’s seat and reached for the sword sheathed beside him. Holding it before him, he whispered a brief incantation. The gem embedded in the sword’s hilt began to glow faintly, a gentle, pulsing light that shimmered in tune with his voice.
“Osirus, are you present? What’s causing the delay?”
Osirus’s voice crackled to life from the gem, coated in frustration. “Finally! Took you long enough to check in! We wrapped up the job hours ago—but these delinquents decided to take a nap just as we finished. We need a pickup, pronto.”
Theo chuckled lightly, taking another puff from his pipe. “Sounds like you got put through the wringer.”
Osirus snapped back, “Watch your tongue, Coach Driver! We executed the mission flawlessly. We just ran into a few… minor hiccups.”
“Alright, alright,” Theo said, nodding to himself. “We’ll wait for Lizyra and Isaac to return, then we’ll come get you. Hang tight.”
Without waiting for another snide remark, he closed the channel. The gem dimmed, and Theo stood, stretching his arms above his head. His cloak fluttered in the rising night breeze as he called out, “Everyone, pack up! We’re leaving as soon as Lizyra and Isaac get back. Osirus and crew need a pickup.”
With gentle care, Theo lifted the slumbering cat from the top of his hat and set it onto the seat behind him. Grasping the side wall of the cockpit, he vaulted over the edge of the wagon, his coat billowing like the wings of a hawk in descent. Landing in a graceful somersault, he rolled to a stop beside the encampment.
Nearby, a collapsible stable stood at the edge of the camp, where dragon rhinos and horses were nestled peacefully, gnawing on their feed. The low creak of leather harnesses and the occasional snort of the beasts blended with the fading crackle of the fire.
Theo moved toward the supply compartments built into the side of the wagon, pulling open a panel and beginning to pack essential provisions for the journey. His face, though calm, bore a tightness around the eyes—a look of a man who’d lived through enough battles to know when quiet moments were only the eye of a coming storm.
A man nearly as tall as Theo, his long spiked brownish-red hair bursting out from behind the headband that hugged his forehead, emerged from one of the adjacent caravan cars. Lightly clad in plated leather armor, he wore the air of a seasoned warrior, though the worry etched into his face betrayed his concern.
“Are they truly in danger,” he asked, voice low and firm, “or are you merely dancing with your words again, Theo?”
Theo’s reply was immediate, his tone edged with gravity. “Not at this moment. Osirus said the others were napping, which likely means they’re recovering from injuries and Kitsune overexerted herself healing them. But if we delay much longer, the creatures of the night will begin to stir—and that’s when things could turn grim.”
From above, Esmerelda descended in a delicate spiral of shimmering wings, settling beside the spiky-haired man. “Vyncent,” she huffed, hands on her hips, “you’ll need to assert your authority. They’ve ignored my commands entirely.”
Vyncent gave a solemn nod. “Very well.” He turned toward the others, his voice rising over the crackling fire and murmurs of the camp. “Let’s all prepare to depart the moment Isaac and Lizyra return. We’ll move swiftly to retrieve Osirus’ party and venture forth to rejoin with Vlad’s.”
He turned back toward the steel-plated wagon door, but paused as if remembering something. Reaching into one of his side pouches, he pulled free a silver ring and looked back toward Esmerelda. “Hey, Mer! I nearly forgot to give you this.”
He extended the enchanted item in his open palm. “It’s the fire ring we found in the Temple of Emberix. Isaac modified it—it should now fit around your waist. He said it might amplify your wind magic, maybe even let you harness lightning or plasma.”
Esmerelda floated down gracefully into his hand and plucked the ring with dainty fingers. “Thank you, Vyncent. I’ll pretend it was a gift from you, rather than from Isaac.”
Vyncent smirked. “You really ought to be nicer to him. In the last five years, he's done more for you than anyone else here. He even tailors all your clothes. Most fairies I’ve met just fly around stark naked.”
Esmerelda sniffed indignantly; her nose turned upward in aristocratic disdain. “I am not one of those miscreant Fae who flaunt their bodies for whimsical amusement. It’s been nearly two centuries since I arrived on this continent. I’ve long suspected the Fae here suffer from some kind of madness or spiritual affliction. They seem content with nothing more than nude sky dancing and juvenile pranks.”
Vyncent chuckled. “Well, we’ve traveled across more continents than I can count, and you’re still the odd one out. The only other fairies like you are the ones running merchant guilds, court libraries, or counting their gold in noble towers.”
Esmerelda launched back into the air with a dramatic flourish of her wings. As Vyncent disappeared into the wagon behind her, his voice called back, echoing from the darkened interior, “For all we know, you've got us all under some long-term enchantment and this whole caravan’s just a prank you’ve been cooking for a hundred years.”
Across the camp, Gwen and Ifera were finishing their preparations. They hoisted heavy crates into the rear of one of the double-decker wagons, where the ramp had been lowered. Nearby, Ragnar and Ragnus ascended the ramp of a separate wagon—this one fashioned internally like a mobile barn—and collapsed lazily into a massive mound of hay. Their thick coats of grey and white shimmered with residual moonlight filtering through the canvas ceiling above.
Unnoticed in the rafters above them, a small black crow perched silently, its obsidian eyes gleaming as it watched the dire wolves with sharp, deliberate focus.
From the main living cabin of the barn wagon, two female caravan members emerged, stepping carefully down the ramp and out into the open campsite. One of them was Riley—a demi-human of the Felidae race. She wore her usual brown tunic belted snugly at the waist, and her short locks of sky-blue hair bounced slightly with each step. Though her feline heritage was subtle, it was evident in the light whiskers upon her cheeks, the soft ears atop her head, and the sleek tail wrapped discreetly around her waist like a sash.
Unlike Kitsune, whose fox features gave her a more fantastical appearance, Riley could pass for human at a distance—until she moved with the lithe grace of her beastkin bloodline.
Letting out a loud yawn and stretching her arms behind her head, Riley called out, “Good morning, everyone.”
Esmerelda snapped without missing a beat, “Good morning? The moons have nearly risen!”
The second girl to emerge was nearly as tall as Riley. Her long, vibrant crimson-red hair spilled freely over her shoulders, and though human, she bore the quiet confidence of someone raised among shadows. Unlike Riley—who wore loose, sleep-soft clothes like someone moments from crawling back into bed—this woman was dressed in sleek, form-fitting armor with a headband tied tightly across her forehead. Her garb resembled that of a shinobi, though it revealed just a little more skin than likely intended.
In response to Esmerelda’s sharp comment, she rolled her eyes and replied dryly, “Well, you’re not the one pulling watch tonight, are you, buttercup?”
As both girls joined in packing up the remnants of camp, Gwen called over, her voice cheerful, “Good evening, Riley! Sakura! Did the two of you sleep well?”
Sakura groaned. “Not really. I kept having weird dreams. This evil kitty here, though,” she said, nodding toward Riley, “slept like a pampered princess. She kept mumbling in her sleep, and I had to keep kicking the top bunk to shut her up.”
Riley, unfazed, beamed brightly. “Yes, I did! And I can’t wait for my next catnap.” She grinned, clearly proud of herself.
As they worked, the melody of distant wings stirred the air—a sound like harp strings plucked by the wind. Heads turned skyward. From the dusky heavens above, Nox descended in a graceful arc, his enormous wings beating in silence. Atop his back sat Lizyra, her hair tousled by the wind. They touched down beside the crackling bonfire with a soft thud that rustled the grass beneath their feet.
Sliding down from Nox’s back, Lizyra waved and called out, “I’m back, everyone! Sorry it took so long!”
“Welcome back, Lizyra!” Gwen called joyfully, already making her way over.
The others gathered around Nox like children reuniting with a beloved pet. Hands reached out with affection—rubbing his snout, scratching behind his wings, giving him gentle pats on his gleaming black scales. The dragon rumbled in contentment, his tail curling lazily around the fire pit.
From her pouches on her belt, Ifera pulled a few thick steaks—clearly stolen away earlier before Ragnar and Ragnus could sniff them out—and tossed them to Nox with a mischievous smirk. “There you go, big guy,” she said, rubbing his neck.
Lizyra folded her arms, her lips curling into a mock pout as she turned up her nose. “Well. It’s good to see all of you too,” she said pointedly. But before she could continue the performance, her brow furrowed slightly. She glanced around the campsite. “Wait… has Isaac already made it back?”
Ifera shook her head without looking up from Nox. “Nope! You beat everyone else here,” she said, cheerfully watching the dragon rip into his steak like a seasoned predator.
Behind Lizyra, a gentle hand came to rest on her head, ruffling her hair and knocking her hat askew. “There’s no need to fret,” said Theo, his voice calm and assuring. “Isaac can take care of himself. I checked in with him earlier. Said you were on your way back, and he just had something to handle.”
Lizyra spun to face him, her face instantly lighting up. “Master Theo!” she cried, throwing her arms up with excitement. “I got to use the new spells you taught me! And it was incredible!”
She launched into a theatrical retelling of her adventure, swinging her staff dramatically to mimic battle stances. She imitated the bandits’ voices, threw in her own exaggerated sound effects, and even mimicked Nox’s mighty roar—though it sounded more like a groggy yawn.
“…and then,” she said, mimicking a gasp, “Isaac turned into a TREE. Right in front of everyone!”
Her story was still unfolding when the sound of hooves drew their attention. From the edge of the nearby trees, Isaac appeared, astride his mount. Draped over the back of the horse was a massive, tusked beast—its red-striped hide and long bristles confirming what Isaac proudly declared a moment later.
“Look what I found on the way back!” he shouted with a grin. “A red-tail hog! Couldn’t resist taking it down.”
He dismounted with a soft grunt and tossed his reins loosely over a hitching post.
Vyncent stepped forward, drawn by the commotion. As he neared the boar-like beast, he nodded slowly in approval. “That is indeed rare,” he said, examining the creature from snout to tail. “A clean kill, too. It'll fetch a fine price at the next merchant camp.”
Lizyra, still holding her staff like a war trophy, piped up proudly, “That makes two victories tonight then!”
Nox let out a low, pleased rumble, chomping into the final steak Ifera had given him—then nosed his snout affectionately against Lizyra’s side as if to second her claim.
Isaac glanced at the hog and then back at Vyncent. “Actually, I was thinking we cook it up for supper tomorrow. There’s more than enough to feed everyone, and after weeks of dragon raptor steaks, I figured we could use a change before we forget what actual meat tastes like.”
With a grunt, he hoisted the massive boar over his shoulder and ascended one of the caravan ramps, vanishing into the carriage that housed most of their preserved food supplies.
Vyncent nodded, folding his arms. “Ah, well thought out. I’m sure the others will appreciate something different on their plates for once.”
He turned to the rest of the camp, his voice rising above the crackle of the fire and chatter of voices. “Alright, everyone! We depart in five minutes. Make sure you’ve packed everything you need. Once we rendezvous with Osirus’s team, we’re heading west—next stop, Vlad’s party.”
He added with finality, “No stops until then. Let’s move.”
From across the clearing, Gwen raised her fist enthusiastically. “Huzzah! It’s been ages since our fellowship rode together without being scattered across three quests.”
Ifera, lounging with one leg propped on a crate, rolled her eyes and muttered with biting sarcasm, “Yey. Vlad. The horniest man alive. I’m simply brimming with excitement to hear his latest gems about… magic wands and unsheathed daggers.”
Isaac emerged from the wagon ramp, dusting his hands off after securing the boar, his face lit with a mischievous grin. “Come now, he’s not that bad. Vlad's got his quirks, sure, but he’s loyal. And useful in a fight.”
“I seem to recall,” Ifera replied coolly, “a time not too long ago where he ogled me through the crack of my cabin door while I was changing.”
Riley chimed in as she adjusted the strap on her satchel. “Yeah, well, you still leave your door cracked every single time you change. Maybe his wandering eyes are the price you pay for that desperate hope that someone’s watching.”
Eyes narrowing, Ifera fired back without hesitation. “Hey?! At least I don’t leave the toilet stall door wide open like Theo, treating the rest of us to the symphony of his digestive sorrows every morning after a night of smoke and ale!”
From behind, Theo approached, reins in hand and brow furrowed. “Alright, alright, rumpus time is over. Let’s keep focused. We move now and stay sharp for predators—be they beast, man, or worse.”
Isaac secured the last of the crates in the wagon’s lower compartment, then waved Theo over to introduce him to the new horse they’d acquired from the thieves.
Theo raised a brow. “You stole a horse? That’s a bit low for a so-called noble knight of Enos, isn’t it?”
Isaac clutched his chest theatrically, eyes wide. “Stole? Perish the thought! Lizyra merely obliterated their transport—very politely, I might add. With their wagons reduced to rubble and no need for extra mounts, we simply… liberated a steed. In fact, I’d say it was gifted to us in an unspoken treaty of mutual understanding.”
Theo chuckled, mounting the front of the lead carriage. “Well, we’ll just make sure it doesn’t talk to any patrols.”
Isaac sighed as he fastened the last strap. “As for knighthood,” he muttered, more solemnly, “the kingdom fell before I ever could bask in the honor. All that remains of Enos now… are its ghosts.”
For a moment, silence fell across the camp. The flickering bonfire reflected off armor and antler, metal and fur, as the group quietly finished their preparations. Then came the sound of boots on wood, reins being pulled taut, wheels creaking into motion.
One by one, the caravan members climbed aboard their wagons. Ragnar and Ragnus leapt gracefully into their hay-laden quarters. The dragon—Nox slowly made his way, joining the dire wolves. The torchlights were dimmed. The bonfire was extinguished.
Under the cloak of star-pricked night, the caravan began its journey once more.
Their wheels carved soft grooves into the damp soil, the rhythm of hooves and quiet chatter slowly giving way to silence.415Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAdzIJJZLph
