The night air wrapped around him like damp cloth, cool and prickling against the sweat still clinging to his skin. D'rail stumbled down the rutted road, muttering to himself as he tugged his patched coat tighter.
"Stocks, he says. A bailiff with half a brain thinks he can humiliate me? Pah." He snapped his fingers sharply, as though dismissing the man's memory. "They'll choke on their laughter when I return with a retinue of knights at my back. A hundred silver-plated stallions. Trumpets. Banners!"
He paused, realized he was alone, then carried on louder, as if to an imaginary audience. "Yes, yes, I travel light now, but only because my men are spread across the kingdom. Secret missions, you understand. All very important."
His words drifted into the trees, swallowed by the rustle of branches. The road narrowed, hemmed by oaks and briars. His boots crunched gravel, loud in the hush. For a moment, his bravado faltered. He hated silence; silence never believed his lies.
Then came the sound — faint, sharp, metallic. The ring of steel on steel.
D'rail froze, eyes darting. "What was that?"
The answer came quick: a shout, guttural and desperate. Then another, overlapping, rising in pitch. He caught the glow of fire through the trees — not the warm yellow of hearths, but the erratic flicker of torches.
He swallowed hard. "Bandits," he whispered. "Or soldiers. Or… or both." His feet shuffled backward, heel catching a root. He nearly toppled.
Yet he didn't turn back.
Instead, he crept forward, crouching low, tugging his ragged coat around him like camouflage. Curiosity, that ancient enemy of common sense, gnawed at him. A man like D'rail never ignored opportunity — even opportunity with sharp teeth.
He crept closer, every step punctuated by his own whispering. "If it's a caravan, they'll need rescuing. And who better than a noble heir? They'll beg me to lead them. Gold, gratitude, loyal guards. Yes. Yes, this is it. My grand re-entry. My—"
A sudden scream cut through the night.
D'rail's breath caught. He pressed himself flat against a tree trunk, peering around.
There, in the clearing just ahead, chaos unfolded. A merchant's wagon tilted sideways in the mud, torchlight spilling across its cargo. Men in mismatched armor clashed with leather-clad bandits. Blades flashed. Arrows hissed. Horses screamed, rearing against their harnesses.
One guard fell, a bandit's axe biting into his shoulder. Another staggered, clutching a bloody arm. The merchants cowered behind the wagon wheels, shrieking as flames licked higher.
D'rail's jaw went slack. His knees quivered. "Oh. That's… that's rather a lot of blood."
He took a step back. A twig snapped under his heel.
"Oi! Who's that?" a bandit barked, voice sharp as a whip.
D'rail froze. The torchlight shifted; a rough-bearded man squinted into the trees, blade raised.
"Another one!" the bandit shouted. "Lookout in the bushes!"
Every head turned toward the woods.
D'rail's mouth opened before his brain could intervene. "H-halt, fools!" he bellowed, arms spread wide in theatrical fury. "You've blundered straight into my trap!"
The clearing went still for half a heartbeat.
"My men," D'rail went on, voice cracking but loud, "a hundred strong, surround you this instant! Archers in the trees, blades at your throats! Surrender now, or you'll be corpses before dawn!"
As if on cue, somewhere deeper in the forest, a branch snapped loud as thunder. Then came a low, guttural growl — a boar or wolf, perhaps — reverberating through the night.
The bandits stiffened, eyes darting to the dark woods.
D'rail blinked, as surprised as they were.
"…Oh," he murmured under his breath. "That… worked?"
The clearing held its breath.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Bandits shifted uneasily, eyes flicking to the dark tangle of trees. The growl echoed again, low and hungry. A torch wavered in someone's hand.
D'rail seized the silence like a drowning man snatching driftwood. He thrust an arm toward the nearest bandit who came searching, his voice rising to a roar he didn't know he had.
"Loose!" he cried. "Archers, loose the first volley!"
Nothing happened.
The bandit sneered, recovering his nerve. "You're bluffing."
Then the forest itself answered — a sudden crack of wood, sharp as snapping bone, rang out behind them. A startled horse screamed, rearing, hooves lashing. One torch flew from a bandit's grip and tumbled into the mud, sparks scattering and dimming.
"Volley!" D'rail bellowed again, praying to every god he didn't believe in.
At that exact moment, a guard near the wagon, seeing the bandits distracted, lunged forward. His blade cut clean through the exposed back. The dying man's scream split the air, hot blood spraying across his comrades.
Panic rippled like lightning.
"They're in the trees!" a bandit shouted, eyes wide. He flung himself flat in the mud.
Another cursed and swung wildly toward the woods. A third turned to run, colliding with his fellow. The line collapsed in a tangle of limbs and curses.
The caravan guards, sensing the shift, rallied with desperate fury. Steel rang, feet pounded. One guard slammed a shield into a bandit's chest, another buried a blade in his thigh. The merchants, emboldened, hurled rocks from behind the wagon.
D'rail stood frozen, arm still raised as if commanding invisible troops. Inside, his stomach twisted in terror, but his face—by some miracle of instinct—contorted into a mask of icy command.
"Second volley!" he cried.
Another coincidence: the growl came again, closer this time, followed by crashing undergrowth as some unseen beast tore through the bush. To the bandits, already frayed by blood and chaos, it was the final straw.
"They've loosed the hounds!" one shrieked.
"The trees are alive!" another wailed, flinging down his sword and bolting into the shadows.
The rout was sudden and total. Half the bandits scattered into the woods, stumbling over roots. The rest were cut down by the surging guards, their blades now singing with adrenaline.
Within moments, the clearing belonged not to the bandits but to the survivors of the caravan.
And to D'rail.
Every eye turned toward him. Guards, panting and bloodied, stared at the thin, ragged man on the treeline. Merchants peeked from behind the wagon, trembling.
D'rail blinked, lowering his arm. His knees wobbled. He forced a thin smile, then spread both hands as though surveying the battlefield.
"Well," he said hoarsely, "that… concludes the demonstration."
Not a soul laughed.
A guard, face smeared with grime, stumbled forward and dropped to one knee. His voice cracked with reverence. "My lord… we thought ourselves dead men. You—" He bowed his head. "You saved us."
D'rail's throat worked. He almost confessed, almost blurted the truth.
Instead, he smiled wider, letting the lie bloom. "Of course I did."
Inside, his heart screamed: What in the gods' names just happened?