With loud thuds of heavy boxes and the creaking of wood and hinges, men loaded the wagon with practiced efficiency. Six large crates, each the size of a dresser, were packed tightly, filling the wagon past the brim of its sides. Thick ropes were thrown across the load and pulled tight, securing the crates firmly in place. A small space remained at the back—just enough room for rations and supplies.
The group stood nearby, feeling the weight of sharp glances from the busy workers. Clayton circled the wagon, tugging at the ropes and checking the wheels for sturdiness. Diomede stood beside the horses meant to pull the wagon. They were older—weathered in both color and gaze—but their muscles remained firm and strong.
Diomede led the horses forward and began attaching the reins with practiced hands. Clayton approached quietly.
"So," Diomede said, "do you think everything they told us is true?"
Clayton glanced around at the men and women loading crates, their faces hardened by years of labor. "Yeah, I don't see why they'd lie. But I wonder why they'd mention that we're hauling illegal contraband to another town."
Diomede frowned, confused.
"What do you mean—illegal?"
Clayton finished fastening the reins to one of the horses and met Diomede's eyes. "Slumbergus is used in medicines for surgeries or to put people to sleep. But shipping it anywhere else other than Umar's capital? That's punishable by death…or dismemberment."
Clayton's heart dropped, a heavy wave crashing over him as the words sank in. Dismemberment. Death. The weight of those punishments struck him fully for the first time. He couldn't believe how casually he had once accepted such merciless sentences for mere smuggling.
Diomede snapped his fingers, breaking Clayton's daze. "What just happened, Cub? You were talking and then your mind just went blank."
Clayton's head felt light, unsteady. "I don't know," he admitted, gripping the side of the packed wagon to keep from falling. "After hearing what the punishment is for the Slumbergus… I felt this strange feeling wash over me."
Without warning, Diomede caught the young knight before he collapsed completely. "Damn kid, what's wrong with you?" he asked, concern thick in his voice.
But before Clayton could answer, his body went limp, and he lost consciousness in Diomede's arms. The full weight of the young knight pressed heavy against him as Diomede called out for Kira.
From around the corner, Kira hurried over, worry etched on her face. "What happened?" she asked breathlessly.
Diomede shook his head. "No idea. We were talking, then suddenly he just… fell."
Kira pressed her hands to Clayton's forehead and chest, her expression tightening. She sensed no illness, no curse, no outward attack. Only exhaustion—deep, bone-weariness from overexertion.
"I don't understand," she murmured. "Nothing's wrong with him—he's just completely drained."
Diomede blinked, opening Clayton's eyes to search for any hidden signs. There was nothing strange or foreign there.
Lily and Francisco came forward, their faces pale with worry and confusion.
"He'll be alright," came a calm voice from nearby.
The group turned to see a bald, medium-sized man with a jagged scar crossing his forehead.
"He must've inhaled some of the mushroom pollen," the man explained. "Happens to folks who aren't used to being around the little buggers."
Kira studied the man and found truth in his tone. She looked to Diomede, who gave a subtle nod of agreement.
Lily and Diomede carefully lifted Clayton's limp form and laid him on a worn couch tucked in a corner—one the workers used during their breaks. Kira pulled a nearby chair close, her gaze never leaving Clayton's pale face.
"I'll sit with him while the preparations finish," she said softly, settling down beside the couch.
Francisco, sensing the heavy air, pulled up another chair. From his bag, he retrieved his lute and began to strum a gentle, uplifting melody. The soft notes floated through the space, weaving a subtle energy that eased some of the tension in the air.
Diomede's eyes darted back toward the wagon, scanning the crates once more. He searched for any sign—a crack, a hole, even a faint dusting of pollen—that could explain Clayton's sudden collapse. But the wagon was spotless. Not a trace of powder or disturbance marked its surface.
Turning to the horses and their reins, Diomede inspected them carefully, but still found nothing unusual. His gaze swept the busy loading area: crates stacked neatly, barrels sealed tight, wagons being prepared with practiced efficiency. Workers moved about their tasks as if nothing had happened.
He closed his eyes and took a slow, deliberate breath, reaching out with senses honed over years. The air was plain—normal. No hint of poison, no unnatural disturbance.
Opening his eyes, Diomede forced himself to accept the facts: nothing foreign or harmful caused Clayton's collapse. Yet, the unease lingered in his gut—a silent alarm whispering warnings he couldn't ignore.
Could it be warranted? Or was he letting himself worry over a boy barely known?
He shook the thought away. No attachments. He couldn't afford them—not after just days together.
Then, a dark swirl rippled through the shadows surrounding him, coiling like a living thing. A voice clawed its way from the abyss, echoing deep within his mind.
"Oh please, don't tell me you've already begun to care for this little group?"
Omikuna's voice slithered, sharp and mocking, reverberating through Diomede's thoughts.
A cold shiver ran down his spine, as if a mountain's shadow pressed against his back.
"You know when they bleed out, or die from something you caused, don't worry—I'll end their suffering quickly for you."
Diomede's mind snapped shut on the voice like a steel trap. "Hold your tongue, demon. I will not let you out again."
The shadows recoiled, pressed back by sheer will.
"I'd sooner cast myself into the depths of the hells than let that happen again."
The dark whisper spat one last venomous comment before fading, "You speak as if you have any control."
Then the pressure lifted, and the shadows around him returned to normal, harmless shapes in the twilight.
Diomede turned away from the shadows and rejoined the group. Clayton had yet to regain consciousness.
"We put him in the wagon. We need to move before we lose too much daylight," Diomede ordered, lifting Clayton carefully onto his back.
Kira's eyes caught the restless tension woven through his stance.
"What's on your mind, Diomede?" she asked quietly.
He grunted, offering no words.
The group gathered their things and climbed into the wagon. Clayton lay stretched atop the crates while Kira sat beside him, gently running a cool, damp rag across his forehead.
The gentle clatter of the wagon wheels blended with Francisco's soft lute playing, casting a calm rhythm over the quiet journey. Francisco's voice broke the silence, warm and lighthearted, "Well, my friends, we may not be traveling in style, but at least we aren't walking." His fingers danced across the strings, weaving a tune that seemed to lift the weight from the air.
Lily sat perched at the back, eyes sharp and watchful even as the town faded behind them. Diomede's gaze drifted skyward, taking in the deep blue above—a color so vivid it seemed plucked straight from an old storyteller's dream. The sun, a glowing ember on the horizon, edged slowly toward night's embrace.
"Lily!" Diomede called, voice steady but tinged with urgency. "Is the town still within sight?"
"No," came the answer from the back, calm but alert. "We just left its outlines behind."
A sharp flick of the reins sent the horses into quicker motion, the wagon rolling forward as the group settled once more into the quiet hum of travel.
Francisco's voice rose again, light and hopeful. "With this wagon, we should make good time, no?"
Diomede nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. "As long as we don't get attacked by the Snakes."
Lily's voice cut through the air, steady and sure. "My tribe has dealt with them before. They live up to their name well."
Kira turned toward her, curious. "How do they fight? From what Mr. Walters said, they're deadly."
"They fight like snakes," Lily said simply. "Sneak and strike when they can."
"Have you fought them before?" Kira asked.
Lily shook her head. "No, but my father has taught us much about their strategies. If they strike at night, we'll need two lookouts while we sleep."
Diomede's voice was firm from the front. "Agreed. But first, we need to wake that lazy cub. He shouldn't be out this long."
His eyes flicked toward Kira, who was gently brushing Clayton's blonde hair back from his face. "Is there anything your magic can do?"
Kira shook her head slowly. "From what I can tell, he's fine. Just pushed past his limits."
Her gaze lingered a moment longer on Clayton, catching subtle changes—the tips of his ears seemed to sharpen, a delicate point like the Galilean lineage. "Has Clayton's ear shape always been like that?" she asked softly.
The others shook their heads, silent. Kira continued her quiet examination, noting how youthful his face looked—too young, perhaps, for the weight he carried. "I don't know what it is, but Clayton doesn't look the same," she murmured, the unspoken bond of concern threading quietly through the group.
Francisco turned with a warm smile, "Let me take a closer look—maybe my old Nesfundur eyes will catch something others can't." He leaned in carefully, inspecting Clayton's features—the tousled hair, the pale skin, the shape of his nose and mouth. Slowly, Francisco hovered just above Clayton's face, his gaze intense and focused.
Suddenly, Clayton's clear blue eyes locked onto Francisco's, and he asked with a raised brow, "Francisco, why are you so close to my face right now?"
The question startled Francisco so much he nearly toppled from his seat. "My boy, don't scare me like that!" he chuckled nervously, patting his chest as if to steady his racing heart.
Clayton shifted slowly, sitting up and glancing around. He found himself lying atop the crates. "How long have we been traveling?" he asked.
"Not too long," Kira answered softly. "We started just a few hours ago."
"How do you feel? You've been out for a while," she asked, concern lacing her voice.
Clayton gave a small smile, "Strangely lighter. As if all the weight I carried has just... lifted."
Diomede reached back and gave a gentle nudge to Clayton's back. "We were worried you'd inhaled some of the Slumbergus," he said.
Clayton rubbed his eyes, still feeling as if he'd slept for days. "Did you dream of anything?" Kira pressed.
"No, just this—one moment I was standing and talking, and the next, I'm met with a Nesfundur staring deeply into my eyes."
Francisco let out a joyful laugh, "My young friend, you may have eyes like an ocean, but you're unfortunately not my type."
They shared a quiet chuckle, the tension easing just a bit.
Lily flicked a small piece of wood at Clayton, catching his attention. She gave a small nod to check if he was truly alright. Clayton returned the nod, reassuring her with a faint smile.
"Well, we've got about a day's travel ahead of us—with the stops and all," Diomede said from the front of the wagon.
The group settled back into the steady rhythm of their journey, the path stretching ahead under the soft glow of the fading sun.