Two days later, on the road to Greyvale
The road was wide and empty.
Too empty.
Lumberling's eyes flicked to the sky. High above, one of the golden eagles let out a short cry and circled.
"Trouble ahead," Skitz murmured beside him. "Just over the rise. Fifty, maybe more."
"Bandits?" Aren asked.
"No formation. No campfires. No banners." Skitz shrugged. "It's bandits, or the world's sloppiest mercs."
"They're waiting to ambush," Lumberling said. "Let them."
His voice was steady.
They marched forward until the trees thickened and the dirt path narrowed into a small pass, flanked by slopes and boulders.
The perfect place for a trap.
And just as predicted, shapes emerged from the cliffs and brush. Dozens of them.
Fifty at least.
Grimy men in patchwork armor, grinning with crooked teeth and blood-rusted weapons.
And at their head, four figures cloaked in mismatched steel. A different aura clung to them. Heavier. Tighter.
