Swinging into the saddle, Simon headed out from the east gate. The sun was high in the noon sky, warming the ground and casting long wavering shadows across the fields. Wide plains of golden wheat swayed in the wind, rustling, as the farmers bent and scooped, scythes flashing, preparing for the harvest. The faint scent of earth and ripening grain hung in the air.
Hooves clatter turned to thuds against packed dirt as he left the main road. Picking up the pace, he steered toward the forest. A village by evening was out of reach, so he wanted to find some place to camp for the night.
Deeper into the forest, the oaks grew taller, their thick branches intertwining above him like the ribs of a vaulted hall. Shadows pooled beneath the trunks, and the wind whistled through the leaves, carrying the faint, musky scent of damp earth and moss. After a while, he could no longer ride his steed. Eventually, the trees grew so dense that he had to dismount. Dropping down into the tall grass, he pushed through the greenery, spotting a cluster of rough stones ahead.
The dense forest thinned, revealing a small plaza of upright stones, weathered and streaked with lichen, standing like sentinels in the clearing. There was no cave or roof, only jagged slabs that might shield him from the worst of the night. A chill wrapped around him, seeping through his cloak, and he knew it was too late to seek any other refuge.
He gathered firewood from nearby branches, the damp wood heavy and reluctant in his hands. Kneeling beside the stones, he scraped the steel rod over the flint repeatedly, sparks leaping into the gloom, but only a thin curl of smoke rose. Frustration prickled at his patience. Morning dew had soaked the wood, and the thick shade of the forest had kept it damp all day. The smell of wet pine and earth clung to him as he worked, and the shadows seemed to lengthen, pressing closer with every passing minute. The chill gnawed at his fingers, and even the warmth of his cloak did little to comfort him.
Finally, he gave up. Spreading a layer of grass to soften the ground, he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay back. The forest's birdsong faded with the light, replaced by the low whispers of night. Exhaustion pulled him under almost instantly.
Pale morning light speared through the canopy, turning the dew-beads on leaves and stones into scattered shards of glass. Simon pushed himself upright, stretching until his joints popped, the stiffness of the night lingering in his limbs. From his bag, he drew a strip of jerky—one of the last. He didn't bother rationing; if all went well, he'd reach a town by evening and rest properly.
His horse stood silently, exactly where he left him last night. There was no need to leash a trained steed, as it wouldn't go anywhere without its master. Preparing to set out again, he caught a glimpse of a dash of red in the bush across from him. Crouching to inspect it, he let out a small chuckle.
Always some silver lining, huh?
In his hand lay a rare medicinal herb—its crimson petals curled like tiny flames, glistening with dew. Hardly anyone ever found these in forests this deep. Apothecaries prized them for antidotes to a hundred poisons, and even a single sprig could fetch a good price.
Wrapping it carefully, he placed it into his saddlebag and set out. By the time he crossed through the forest onto another cobble road, it was already past midday. The clatter of wagon wheels behind him caught his attention, and he slowed down to meet them.
"Good day, merchants. Where are you heading?"
"Good day to you too, sir," one replied, a round man with a weathered hat. "We're bound for the port city of Raln. And yourself?"
"The same way. Mind if I travel with you?"
The merchant excused himself for a moment, consulting with a guard next to him. It was not common to get robbed on some of these roads, so the suspicion was reasonable.
"You may join us," the merchant said at last, "but we ask that you hand over your blade until we reach Raln. We'll return it to you once we arrive—our word on it."
Simon nodded. Fair enough. He unbuckled his longsword and passed it down. The young guard staggered under its weight, nearly dropping the scabbard before regaining his balance.
The caravan stretched out ahead—half a dozen carriages loaded with crates and barrels, banners fluttering weakly in the breeze. About two dozen people traveled with them, guards riding on the flanks with spears and shortbows. The scent of spices drifted faintly from one of the wagons, mingling with the smell of oil-soaked cloth and fresh timber.
Must be goods for export, Simon thought as he fell into pace beside them. Traveling without his longsword felt wrong, but he couldn't sense any mana from anybody there.
As they reached the crossroads, they came across a wounded man dressed in merchants clothing. He was laying on the ground, head propped up against a tree, blood covering his sleeves and chest. A guard quickly dismounted and walked up to him, shaking him by his shoulder.
"Hey, are you okay?! What happened?
Suddenly, the man drew a hidden knife and slashed the guard's throat. The forest around them erupted with shouting as bandits ran at caravans, swords drawn.
Simon drew his dagger and jumped off his horse. He had no reach without his longsword, so charging them on horseback would be useless. A bandit, holding a short sword, swung at his head. Simon leaned back, the blade going just in front of his eyes, cutting some strands of his hair.
The bandit seemed to stumble on some stones underneath his feet, the momentum of the wide swing carrying him forward. Taking advantage of his poor balance, Simon lunged forward, plunging his dagger deep in between his ribs.
Screams sounded all around him, swords clashing as merchants tried to hide in the caravans, the guards attempting to hold the onslaught of men back.
As soon as Simon felt that pulse of mana, the hairs on his arms lifted. It wasn't an attack—yet—but a gathering, a coiling, like someone drawing breath before a shout.
Through the chaos, he spotted movement deeper among the trees: not another charging bandit, but a shape barely visible between the trunks, one hand raised, fingers curled as if gripping something invisible.
Caster.
A warning cry got stuck in his throat as another bandit broke through the side of a wagon, swinging an axe down at him. Simon sidestepped, the blade biting into the dirt. He drove his dagger across the man's knuckles; the bandit howled and dropped the axe, clutching his ruined hand.
More guards were falling. Two were already down near the lead wagon, arrows jutting from their backs. The merchants who hadn't managed to hide were being dragged from under the carriages.
The mana presence surged—sharp and sudden, as if someone snapped a cord.
Simon flipped the dagger in his grip, steel glinting.
No time to think.
He hurled it toward the figure in the trees.
END OF CHAPTER 2