The sun had risen, casting long golden rays across the dirt path as the small wagon of adventurers began their journey.
They were a modest group, weary from a successful dungeon raid, now making their way back to Xyrus City. The exhaustion hung thick in the air, making the group both tired and impatient—each of them ready to return to the comforts of home.
Inside the creaking, open wagon sat four figures.
A woman with flowing crimson-red hair reclined against a stack of worn supplies. She wore a maroon dress that shimmered slightly in the sunlight, the fabric fluttering gently with each bump in the road. Resting in her lap was a small, ornate wand made from entwined gold and other rare metals, tipped with a polished red jewel that glinted with every turn of the cart.
Seated beside her was a man with long blond hair, tied back in a loose, flowing tail. He wore a suit of black leather armor, sleek and well-fitted, clearly built for agility over brute strength. Two blades hung from his hips—crossed at the waist like a duelist's pride.
Across from them sat a man clad in a full suit of old yet sturdy armor, its metal etched and worn by age but clearly still dependable. And next to him, huddled with a quiet demeanor, was a small boy. His wheat-colored hair was messy, falling over much of his face. He wore simple yellowish robes, loose and travel-stained, and clutched a staff with a much smaller jewel—its modest size perhaps a reflection of his still-growing magical capabilities.
"Oi, Menos, go grab me a bottle," a gruff voice grumbled from within the cart.
The meek-looking boy jumped slightly, scrambling to the nearby crate of supplies—just a few feet away—and retrieved a bottle of alcohol with trembling hands.
"Here, Mr. George," Menos said softly, handing it to the armored man.
George uncorked the bottle without a word and took a long drink. The smell of fermented spirits filled the cart. The two others across from him glanced over, then shared a smirk and a quiet chuckle.
"Hey, Menos," the blond-haired man said, stretching lazily, "you should really learn to relax. You're not gonna get far if you're always this on edge."
"Jiro, don't go filling the kid's head with your lazy delusions," the red-haired woman—Miro—snapped without even looking up. "He's barely useful in a fight as it is. The brat needs to learn discipline, not how to be a lazy bastard like you. Take it from a fellow conjurer."
"Ah… thank you, Miss Miro," Menos replied, lowering his head, clearly unsure whether that counted as encouragement or insult.
Suddenly, the cart lurched to a stop.
Jiro peered out, brushing his hair back. "Oi, Stefilen! What's going on?"
The driver turned slightly, his weathered face framed by short brown hair and a single scar that ran diagonally across his cheek. He wore light armor, well-worn from travel and skirmish.
"There's a kid," Stefilen called back, frowning. "Unconscious. Right in the middle of the road."
That got everyone's attention.
One by one, the group climbed out of the wagon, curiosity—and caution—pulling them forward. Only George and Stefilen remained behind.
The others walked a few steps ahead down the road and stopped as the figure came into view.
It was a young boy, no older than twelve. Roughly the same age as Menos.
He was dressed in ragged furs and torn hides, the kind bandits sometimes wore in the lowlands. Dirt and dried blood caked his limbs. His body was covered in scrapes and bruises—most of them fresh.
He looked like he'd been running. Running hard.
"Ermm… what should we do?" Miro asked quietly, hesitating as she stared down at the unconscious boy. "I mean, leaving him here would be a bit… inhuman, don't you think?"
Jiro crossed his arms. "We could drop him off at the nearest town. We've got to use a gate anyway."