⚠️Warning :

This chapter depicts a planned accident with themes of violence and injury. Please read with discretion.

Scene 10 :

It was afternoon. The sun was scorching hot, and the breeze carried no relief, only more heat. The forest was as green as ever, the leaves swaying lazily under the weight of summer. Through that green expanse, a carriage rolled along the dirt road, its wheels crunching over dry twigs. Inside, Tharald sat, his gaze fixed on the passing trees, lost in thought.

He was thinking of Franklin and his struggles. Franklin was the son of a baron, once a resilient yet low-profile child. After his mother burned his father for his affairs and her mind grew unstable, he fought to survive. Through years of hard work, he rose to the rank of marquis. His sister was no less than him—determined and bold, she had eventually become a knight instructor.

It would be better if she became Serelith’s mentor.

The thought lingered in Tharald’s mind as the carriage wheels creaked steadily over the uneven forest path. The afternoon sun blazed high above, and even through the thick canopy, its heat pressed down like a suffocating blanket. The forest around him was green and alive, but the breeze carried no relief—only the warm breath of summer.

His mind wandered back to Franklin. The boy had been the son of a Baron, a child who never sought the spotlight. Resilient, quiet, low-laying—until fate carved a harsher path for him. Tharald remembered the scandal, the whispers that tore through noble halls. Franklin’s mother had burned his father alive for his affairs, the flames consuming both man and title. Left with an unstable mother and the heavy burden of shame, Franklin fought for survival.

It had been years of relentless effort, a climb steep and merciless. Yet Franklin had endured. He had risen—step by painful step—until the title of Marquis was his. His sister was no less remarkable. Determined, bold, and unyielding, she had cut her own path through a world that had no patience for women of her ambition. Now, she stood as a knight instructor, her skill and authority unquestioned. Tharald could see her taking Serelith under her wing, shaping her into someone who could stand unshaken before the world.

The thought almost made him smile. Almost.

But far ahead, in the shadows of the forest, others had no patience for his dreams.

The Khilvish mercenaries had been waiting for this moment. Hidden between the rocks and thick undergrowth, they moved like the predators they were, every muscle tensed, every breath measured. They had studied the path, memorized the carriage’s pace, and chosen the perfect bend in the road. The plan was simple—make it look like an accident. No witnesses would question it.

They crouched beside a boulder that had been dislodged from the cliffside days before. It took the strength of three men to shift it, their calloused hands straining against the coarse surface. The sound of hooves grew louder. The rhythmic clatter of wheels on dirt was almost within reach.

“Now,” one of them hissed.

The rock tumbled forward, gathering speed, tearing through the loose gravel. But fate misaligned their aim—it didn’t strike the carriage directly. Instead, it smashed into the horseman riding at the front. The man’s body crumpled instantly, thrown aside like a rag doll.

The horses reared in panic, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. The reins snapped taut before breaking entirely. The carriage swayed violently. Wood splintered, wheels cracked under the strain, and the structure collapsed in a deafening crash.

Inside, Tharald felt the world spin. Pain exploded across his body as he was hurled against the interior wall. Something sharp dug into his side. He could hear the ringing in his ears, the chaotic screech of frightened horses, and the distant shouts of men moving closer.

The Khilvish mercenaries had failed to make it clean, but they hadn’t failed to make it bloody.

Tharald was heavily injured. Blood trickled down from the deep gash on his forehead, warm and sticky, blurring his vision as it ran into his eyes. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, the sharp pain in his ribs making each inhale feel like a knife twisting inside him. The wooden frame of the carriage lay splintered around him, its wheels still spinning faintly before creaking to a halt. The horse, startled and neighing in panic, had broken free of the reins, limping away with blood on its flank.

The mercenaries did not stay to finish the job. They exchanged brief, sharp words in their guttural tongue, eyes darting around for witnesses. One of them spat on the ground, his lip curling in satisfaction before they disappeared into the thick green of the forest, their mission accomplished—or so they thought. Their leader would want to know. Elric would want to hear the report.

Dust from the collapse still hung in the air, mixing with the heavy afternoon heat. The forest, moments ago alive with birdsong, had fallen silent except for the faint groaning of the injured man. It was then that the pounding of hooves came from behind. The knights who had been trailing the carriage—two men and a woman in shining breastplates dulled by travel—rode into view, their eyes widening at the scene.

“Lord Tharald!” one of them cried, dismounting before his horse had even stopped. Another knight leapt down and rushed forward, kneeling beside him.

“Stay with us, my lord,” the woman urged, her voice firm but trembling at the edges. She pressed a folded strip of linen against the wound on his forehead, wincing as the cloth quickly soaked red.

They worked quickly, one checking for broken bones, another scanning the tree line for any signs of the attackers. There was no one. Whoever had done this had vanished like shadows at dusk.

Within minutes, they lifted Tharald with careful precision, placing him onto a horse in a way that would not worsen his injuries. The knight who held the reins muttered urgent prayers under his breath as they rode, their pace brisk but measured. The sun beat down mercilessly, making the sweat on their faces sting the cuts they had sustained during the rescue.

The nearest settlement was still a mile away, a modest village with little more than a marketplace and a healer’s hut. The villagers stared as the knights thundered in, the sight of their battered lord drawing gasps and hurried whispers. Children were pulled out of the way; women set down baskets to watch.

The knights carried him inside the healer’s dwelling, a low-roofed building that smelled faintly of herbs and ash. The old man inside wasted no time, directing them to lay Tharald on a straw-filled cot. His hands moved with practiced speed, tearing away the remnants of the noble’s tunic to examine the wounds.

“This was no accident,” the healer muttered darkly, glancing at the deep, jagged bruise on Tharald’s side. The knights exchanged grim looks. They knew it too.

Outside, the hot wind blew against the walls, rattling the shutters. Somewhere far in the forest, the mercenaries were already on their way to Elric, carrying news they believed would change the tide of power. But in the dim light of the healer’s hut, Tharald’s shallow breaths told a different story—he was still alive, and the game was far from over.