The Bolos estate's southern ridge was a jagged line of trees and rocky outcrops—perfect for an ambush. Baron Bolos crouched behind a half-dead boulder cedar, breath fogging, hands trembling around the hilt of his sword. His men—rough, unwashed soldiers in worn red berets—were scattered through the foliage like starving wolves waiting for a kill.
"Positions!" he hissed, pushing greasy hair out of his eyes.
His men nodded, gripping rusty blades, crossbows, and makeshift spears. Their boots crunched in the dry leaves, breaths tense, eager, hateful.
Down the narrow dirt road, the luxurious white carriage came into view—polished wood, golden trims, and behind it the slow, cold march of the Grand Duke's soulbeast cavalry. But Bolos's eyes never left the figure sitting inside that carriage.
If not, he would have seen it.
"Baron Eros Tate…" Bolos whispered like a curse.
He raised his arm. His soldiers tensed like coiled springs.
