The night sky over the Blood Fang Mountains was filled with countless stars. The moon hung above like a pale lantern, shedding dim light over the rocky slopes and valleys below. In the distance, the mountain ridges glowed faintly red, living up to their infamous name.
Through one of the wide valleys stretched a long line of travelers. The caravan.
There were dozens of carriages pulled by sturdy beasts, horses carrying merchants and mercenaries, slaves forced to walk in chains, and ordinary travelers scattered throughout the group. Their footsteps blended into a steady rhythm on the dirt road, while the wheels of the carriages creaked against the uneven terrain.
Every person moved cautiously. The Blood Fang Mountain region was dangerous, and though they had already spent weeks inside it, the threat of wild beasts and wandering arcanists had never truly gone away.
Inside one of the larger carriages sat a man with a sharp and disciplined look. His short black hair was neatly cut, and a thin scar crossed the corner of his left eye. He wore black armor that was well-kept despite clear signs of long use, and at his waist rested a sheathed sword. His name was Cedric.
Cedric was an adept arcanist, and he was the one in charge of safeguarding this caravan. The merchants and passengers relied on his strength and leadership to see them safely through the mountains. To him, the job was not one of prestige or adventure. It was responsibility. A burden.
He had a wife and a daughter waiting for him at home. His daughter had been born weak and sickly, and the cost of medicine weighed heavily on his household. In his youth, Cedric had been far more ambitious—dreaming of rising through the ranks, of testing his sword against the strongest, of traveling beyond kingdoms. But life had a way of reshaping dreams. Now, he lived not for glory but for his family. He endured this difficult job because it paid enough to keep them safe.
At this moment, Cedric stood by the small window of his carriage. In his hand was a small sparrow, its feathers glossy under the moonlight. Unlike a common bird, this was a messenger sparrow, trained to carry letters across long distances where artifacts for communication were rare and expensive.
He held a letter carefully tied to its leg. In that letter, he told his wife and daughter that he was safe, that the caravan had nearly crossed the Blood Fang Mountains, and that he would be home soon.
"Go," Cedric said softly.
He raised his hand, and the bird took flight, wings beating against the night air. Cedric watched as the sparrow grew smaller and smaller, vanishing into the starry sky until it was gone.
A long silence followed.
The carriage came to a slow stop. Cedric frowned slightly but said nothing, waiting. Moments later, a knock echoed on the door.
"Enter," Cedric said.
The door opened, and a tall, burly man stepped inside. His armor was plain but sturdy, and his face carried the kind of hardened expression that came from years of battle. He bowed slightly before speaking.
"Master Cedric," the man said. "The scouts have returned. A small-scale group of Blood Fang Tigers has been spotted about three kilometers from our current position. They number at least fifty, and all appear to be fully matured."
Cedric's eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression did not change much. He gave a short nod.
"I see," he replied simply.
The burly man didn't linger. He turned on his heel and left the carriage, closing the door behind him.
For a brief moment, Cedric remained seated in silence. Then he stood up. He inhaled deeply, the air heavy with the faint smell of smoke from the caravan's torches.
On the table in front of him lay a black helmet, its surface polished but marked by faint scratches from battles past. Cedric reached forward and picked it up. Slowly, deliberately, he set the helmet on his head, adjusting the straps until it fit firmly.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing the weight of his armor. It had become a familiar feeling after years of use, though it reminded him of the heaviness of his responsibilities.
Step by step, Cedric walked toward the door of the carriage. His gloved hand rested on the doorknob. For a moment, he paused, his mind briefly drifting. He thought of his wife's quiet smile, of his daughter's weak laugh when she managed to eat without coughing.
This was why he fought. Not for himself. Not for honor or ambition. But for them.
His grip tightened on the doorknob.
A second later, Cedric opened the door and stepped outside.
The night air was cool against his armor. Around him, the caravan was alive with movement. Guards were gathering, torches flickering, and the restless murmur of travelers spread through the camp as word of the threat passed from mouth to mouth. Somewhere in the distance, the faint growl of a beast echoed.
Cedric adjusted his sword at his waist, his sharp gaze sweeping over the people under his protection. The burden on his shoulders felt heavier than ever, but his steps were steady.