Their journey stretched endlessly, like an ode whispered through the wind. Helga’s anguish deepened with every village they passed. The sight of suffering, of homes that once thrived now reduced to quiet misery, fueled the storm within her. Each starving child, each weary face, strengthened her resolve. And with it, her hatred for Logan burned brighter.

By nightfall, they arrived at their next destination—Aroo. The air was colder, heavier, as they neared the Egur border. As before, Ceasar escorted her from the carriage to the tent, his presence steady, unwavering.

“The night grows harsher the closer we get to the border. Please stay warm, my lady,” he murmured, draping his heavy leather jacket over her shoulders. It dwarfed her small frame, like armor against the chill.

“Thank you for your concern, my lord,” Helga replied with a faint smile, though her gaze remained locked on the sky above, captivated by the millions of stars burning through the dark expanse.

Ceasar stood beside her, silent, waiting. Then, her voice broke the hush between them.

“My mother believes my brother will be like my father. Do you think he will accept our proposal? Will he join us? What if that boy lied?” Her voice trembled, betraying her hidden anxiety.

Ceasar turned to her, his expression unreadable, though his voice held its usual calm. “My lady, it has been ten years, yet your faith has never wavered. You trained relentlessly, grew stronger, and proved your resolve over and over. La will not let your efforts be in vain. We will find your brother. He may have suffered, but he has survived. Life must have been cruel to him, but I believe, in his heart, he still longs to drive a blade through Logan’s throat. We will succeed.”

Helga exhaled, comforted by his words. She turned to him with a small, genuine smile. “Even as you rise to the rank of Grand Cross Knight of Utshani, you remain the same boy who worried for me all those years ago. Your kindness astounds me. I am grateful for you, Ceasar.”

Ceasar stood frozen, heat rushing to his face, struggling to form words as she disappeared into the tent.

A few hours later...

“So she remembers your youth, acknowledges your kindness, and thanks you? That’s it, Ceasar, she likes you. Just confess already.” Jugo smirked between bites of food.

Ceasar groaned, rubbing his face. “Shut up, Jugo. Eat your meal.”

Jugo flopped onto the sand, sighing dramatically. “Ah, young love. I envy you. I need a fiancée.”

Ceasar ignored him, instead letting his thoughts drift back to Helga—the way her eyes softened under the stars, the warmth in her voice. He smiled to himself. But the moment shattered as a sharp blast of the bugle ripped through the night.

Ceasar and Jugo shot to their feet, hands on their weapons.

“What is it?” Ceasar demanded.

“Sire,” a soldier called out. “A group of horsemen is approaching from the east!”

Jugo raised a telescope to his eye, scanning the moonlit horizon. His face darkened. “More than ten riders. They bear the vulture insignia—outlaws of Nek-asrof. Their leader is Mazzi. You remember him, don’t you?”

Ceasar’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. The wretched fool who challenged me after I took down Master.”

Jugo nodded grimly. “He’s dangerous. What’s the plan?”

Ceasar stepped forward, armor gleaming under the moonlight. “Defensive formation. Five guard the cargo, five protect the tent. The rest, with me.”

Mazzi’s riders didn’t slow, splitting into three groups to surround them. The bandit leader himself rode ahead, dismounting with a predator’s grace.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the heroic knight, Ceasar Arkellis of Utshani,” Mazzi drawled, his voice laced with amusement.

Ceasar met his gaze, unwavering. “You must be Mazzi. What do you want?”

Mazzi chuckled, twirling the daggers at his belt. “You’re a smart man. What do you think?”

Ceasar’s lip curled. “Surrender now or die where you stand.”

Mazzi grinned, a wild glint in his eyes. “Now that’s more like it.” Without another word, he lunged

The moment steel clashed against steel, the night turned into a battlefield of metal and blood. Sparks flew as Mazzi’s twin daggers scraped against Ceasar’s blade, the shrill cry of metal splitting the silence. Ceasar’s eyes, once calm, burned with a soldier’s fury, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. Mazzi moved like a shadow, quick and ruthless, each dagger strike aimed with lethal precision.

Ceasar parried, barely dodging a sharp swing toward his ribs. He countered with a vicious thrust, forcing Mazzi back. “You’re fast,” Ceasar admitted, his voice steady despite the growing tension.

Mazzi grinned, a feral expression, his dark eyes glinting under the moonlight. “And you’re strong. But strength alone doesn’t win fights, knight.”

He feinted left before spinning, the dagger in his right hand slashing towards Ceasar’s exposed side. Ceasar twisted at the last moment, Mazzi’s blade scraping against his armor instead of sinking into flesh. A swift kick to the bandit's stomach sent Mazzi staggering back, but he recovered quickly, spitting blood onto the ground.

Around them, the battlefield roared. Soldiers fought fiercely, swords clanging, bodies colliding in a storm of combat. The bandits showed no fear, their desperation driving them to attack with reckless abandon. Blood sprayed across the dirt, groans of pain lost in the chaos.

Meanwhile, at the tent, Helga gripped her blade, her breath steady as she listened. Heavy footsteps approached, and before the flap could be thrown aside, she lunged forward. The moment the intruder stepped inside, he was met with a blade slicing toward his throat.

The man barely dodged, stumbling back as Helga pressed forward. He sneered, raising his axe, but Helga was faster. With precise movements, she parried his swing, her eyes sharp and unwavering. “You picked the wrong tent,” she hissed.

The bandit snarled, swinging his weapon again, but Helga ducked, spinning behind him before ramming the hilt of her sword into his back. He let out a grunt, falling to his knees. Without hesitation, Helga drove her sword through his chest, yanking it free as he collapsed.

Outside, Ceasar and Mazzi circled each other once more, their breathing heavy. Mazzi wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, then suddenly grinned. “Let’s see how well you fight when distracted.”

With a sharp whistle, a second wave of bandits stormed toward the tent. Ceasar’s eyes darted to the entrance where Helga stood, sword stained with blood.

Mazzi used the distraction, lunging forward with a brutal slash—

Ceasar barely raised his blade in time. The force sent him sliding back, boots digging into the dirt. Mazzi chuckled darkly. “You can’t protect everyone, knight.”

Ceasar’s jaw clenched. The battle was far from over.

Gasps echoed from the soldiers as they watched. Ceasar was a knight of renown, yet Mazzi’s relentless strikes kept him at bay. The outlaw’s smirk widened, sensing his opponent’s restraint.

“Come on, knight! Show me that fire they speak of!” Mazzi taunted, twisting his daggers dangerously close to Ceasar’s throat.

Ceasar’s eyes darkened. Then, with a swift maneuver, he drove Mazzi back, striking his dagger-hand with the flat of his blade. The bandit stumbled but grinned, blood trickling down his wrist. 

“That? I don't need that for defeating a lowly life like you, " Ceasar stood griping his sword, gleaming.

Inside the tent, Laisa trembled. “Where did these thieves come from?”

“Stay behind me, my lady,” Kaisy urged, shielding her. Catherine.

However, Catherine rose.

“Mother, where are you going?” Helga tried to stop her, but Catherine ignored her, stepping out into the chaos.

The moment she emerged, the battle seemed to pause. The wind carried the scent of blood, but all eyes turned to her.

Majestic. Commanding. Regal.

She seized the bugle from a nearby soldier and blew it, the sound slicing through the night like a blade.

Mazzi turned, eyes narrowing.

“You’re displaying savagery once more, Nek-asrof,” Catherine’s voice rang, unyielding. “If it is wealth you seek, take it.”

Mazzi sneered. “Wealth? We are outlaws because of nobles like you.”

Catherine’s gaze was like ice. “Blaming me for your choices, are you?” She stepped forward. “Take what you will from the cargo. Take my jewelry. But do not stand in my way to Frook.”

Mazzi stiffened. “Frook?” His expression readable, shocked, curious and grim.

His reaction was sharp—too sharp. Catherine’s smirk deepened. She could tell, Frook was something for him.

“What business do you have in Frook?” Mazzi demanded, his fingers tightening around his blade.

Catherine tilted her head. “We are searching for a woodcutter's son".

Mazzi froze. His breath hitched. His mind raced.

They’re searching for Vera and Father. Why?

The tension snapped taut like a bowstring. He was an open book to her. 

Catherine’s smirk widened.

She had seen it—that flicker of recognition in Mazzi’s eyes.

He knew them.

And now, she knew he did. 

"Retreat" Mazzi screamed.

To be continued…