Baron Albert's carriage creaked along the narrow dirt path, the wheels sluggish in the damp soil as the scent of moss and wet earth filled the air. They were nearing the brook, the infamous stretch that bordered Hivites.
He peeked out through the velvet curtains, eyeing the twisted trees and mist curling low over the ground.
"How far?" he asked one of the guards riding alongside.
"Another half-day, milord. Once we cross the brook, we'll be in Hivite land."
Albert grunted and leaned back lazily, swirling his goblet of watered wine.
"About time."
As Albert's carriage nears the brook unknowingly crossing into contested land, a group of cloaked figures emerges from the mist, stopping the guards. They bear no crest, but their strange eyes, flowing robes, and the unnatural silence around them make one thing clear:
They where mages!!
The horses reared violently, whinnying in alarm as the carriage jolted to a sudden halt. Albert nearly spilled his goblet of wine, grabbing the velvet lining for balance.
Outside, his guards cursed under their breath.
"What in damnation is happening?" Albert barked.
One of the riders called out quickly, "Just a minor problem, milord. Stay inside!"
But it wasn't just a minor problem.
Albert scowled. "Minor, my foot." He tossed aside his goblet, the wine staining the plush velvet seat as he lurched toward the carriage door.
"Milord, wait!" another guard shouted, but Albert had already flung the door open.
The cold wind slapped his face, as the forest around them unsettlingly quiet.
Albert stepped out halfway gripping the door frame as the guards unsheathed their swords instinctively, but something in the air made their hands freeze, unable to move.
Then, one of the figures spoke.
"Baron Albert of Creedom. Quite the lavish gift train you bring. Tell us... heading to Hivites?"
Albert stiffened. "Who are you?"
"We ask the questions." The voice was low, smooth, dangerous.
"You're a clever man. Perhaps you'd like to do us a favor. Deliver your message to the Hivite king... but report back to us everything you learn."
Albert scowled. "I serve Creedom. Not spies."
The mage's voice turned dark. "Do you? Then why is your king courting both Hivites and Hittites like a whore juggling two lovers?"
Albert's eyes widened, they knew.
He reached for the hidden dagger beneath his coat, but before he could blink, a surge of wind slammed him backward. He crashed into the doorframe with a grunt before sprawling face-first onto the cold, unforgiving ground.
For a moment, he saw stars. Then pain. Then blood, warm and sticky, trickling down his forehead.
He groaned. "By the gods… was that really necessary?"
A shadow loomed above him.
"I have money!" he blurted, still face-down.
A snort. "You're slower than I expected," the voice drawled. "Maybe we should end you here and save ourselves the disappointment."
Albert's eyes snapped open, and he tried to sit up, only for his head to be yanked back by the hair.
"Pardon me, sirs!" he winced, trying for a smile. "I… I would do it. Gladly. Spy. Anything. Just, please, no more."
The lead mage raised an unimpressed brow. "Hmph. You bleed easily. That's not reassuring."
Albert dabbed the blood trailing down his brow, glaring at the mage through narrowed eyes.
"On your return," the second mage intoned, "our Queen shall be awaiting your report. Do not disappoint her."
Albert scoffed, then gestured lazily to his trembling guards.
"And these two?" he drawled. "They've seen too much. But I do need someone to steer the damn carriage."
The lead mage smirked, fingers twitching with contained power.
"We're not unreasonable."
He turned to the guards. "Drive him to Hivites. Say a word about this to anyone and I would kill you ."
The guards nodded frantically, paling like sour milk.
Albert climbed back into the carriage, muttering, "About time someone did something useful around here."
As the horses stirred, the carriage creaked into motion once more, this time, under terrified hands.
Behind them, the mage vanished into the trees, leaving only the faint scent of scorched earth.
***
Third person POV:
The morning sun streamed through the high glass windows of House Hugh's estate, casting long streaks of light across the stone dining hall. Lady Ixora sat at the far end of the carved oak table, her golden hair cascading over one shoulder as she stabbed her fork into a bed of greens soaked faintly with blood.
She wrinkled her nose. "Cook overdid the sage again. It tastes like I'm chewing a hedge."
Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall.
"Then don't chew it," came the amused voice of Lord Hugh.
Ixora's face brightened immediately. "Father!"
The towering man strode in dressed in a translucent shirt that clung to his broad, muscular chest. His skin glowed faintly against the fabric and the cold breeze that followed him did nothing to raise a single goosebumps on his flesh.
A maid rushed forward, bowing low before pouring steaming blood tea into a sliver goblet. Lord Hugh took it without a word, nodding slightly as he dropped heavily into the seat beside his daughter
"Still refusing to wear proper clothing like a decent Lord ," she said automatically, eyeing his thin clothing.
"And you'll nag me into an early grave," he replied with a grin, ruffling her hair like she was still ten.
"Ugh, stop," she whined, swatting his hand playfully.
He laughed, low and proud. "Still dramatic, I see."
Taking a long sip he asked
"How was shopping?"
She twirled a piece of beet on her fork
"Dull. Predictable!"
He chuckled, sipping his tea. "Spoiled as ever."
"Indulged, not spoiled," she corrected primly. "A distinction you taught me."
Lord Hugh raised a brow, the ghost of a grin on his lips. "I should have raised you a diplomat."
"Too boring," she yawned. "Besides, I'd rather slit throats with ribbons."
He laughed, a deep, warm sound that filled the hall. "You'll give some poor prince nightmares one day."
"I hope so," she replied sweetly, dabbing the corner of her mouth.
"There'll be a gathering soon," he continued, casually sawing through the meat with practiced ease. "Quiet affair. I've already arranged your dress."
Ixora glanced up, one brow arching. "A secret ball, and I'm invited? So much for subtlety, father."
Hugh chuckled, popping a piece of meat into his mouth.
"It's not a ball, darling. It's bait. To draw lines, see who still stands with us, and who only pretends."
She tilted her head, lips pursed in mild amusement. "I doubt we've got many left standing."
He grinned without looking up. "All the more reason to dress well. If they're going to stab us, let them do it while admiring our style."