John crept up the final steps of the thieves’ den and pushed open the rooftop hatch. Cool night air greeted him as he stepped out onto the tiles. Below, Bjornfell stretched quiet and still beneath a silver sky. The town looked smaller now, simpler. His path forward wasn’t.

  He scanned the horizon and sighed. “Great. Drevan’s probably days ahead by now. Maybe weeks. And I’m on foot.” He dropped into a crouch, muttering. “By the time I find him, he’ll have built a castle out of stolen furniture.”

  Behind him, the rooftop hatch creaked again.

  The master emerged, carrying a rolled-up bundle of dark fabric. “Complaining already?”

  “I’m just saying,” John stood up, “saving the girl’s kind of time-sensitive. Would’ve been nice if the rogue school included a teleport badge or… I don’t know, a horse.”

  The master tossed the bundle to him. “How about a flying carpet?”

  John’s eyes lit up. “Wait, seriously?”

  “Seriously,” the old man smirked. “Shadow-stitched. Lightweave core. Not fast enough for a chase—but it’ll get you where you need to go.”

  John unrolled it, black and dark gray, patterned with curling silver thread. Sleek. Deadly.

  He grinned. “This… this is why I took up tailoring.”

  The master chuckled. “Me too.”

  John laughed. “Of course you did.”

  He tossed the carpet into the air. It hovered, humming quietly.

  John looked down at the city one last time, then stepped onto the edge. “Alright. Time to fly.”

  The carpet angled upward and carried him into the night, toward whatever waited in the dark.

  John adjusted his grip on the carpet’s edge, knuckles white. The thing jittered and bobbed beneath him like a drunk lawnmower with a vendetta against altitude control.

  He hated heights. Always had. Roller coasters, Ferris wheels, glass elevators—nope. But this felt different. No rails. No harness. Just speed and open air and the illusion of control.

  Still, every gust of wind made his stomach lurch. The rogue master had said it was “stable.” Stable like a swordfish on ice.

  He banked hard over a ridge and dipped low, the wind howling in his ears. Down below, the forest looked peaceful, like something from a children’s book. But John wasn’t fooled. Somewhere in there, Drevan was dragging Kaia toward whatever nightmare came next.

  “Hang on, Kaia,” he muttered, pushing the carpet into a shallow dive. “I’m coming.”

  The flying carpet slowed to a drift as John descended toward the clearing where everything had gone wrong.

  He stood, silhouetted against the early light, as the carpet floated to a gentle stop just above the forest floor. The grass here was burned to ash. Trees slumped in blackened husks, their trunks twisted from the force of spellfire and shattered by violence. A few still smoldered quietly, like the earth hadn’t figured out how to breathe again.

  John stepped off the carpet and let his boots crunch into the scorched dirt.

  This was the spot.

  Where Thorin had gone down. Where Kaia had screamed his name as she was dragged away. Where John had tasted the edge of death and been forced to choke on it.

  He knelt, fingers brushing along a melted rune-stone. Half the glyphs were burned off. Around it, the soil was scorched in a wide circle—blast radius from Drevan’s final attack.

  John exhaled slowly.

  “Could’ve died here,” he murmured. “Should’ve, probably.”

  He turned, scanning the area. There—scuff marks in the ash. Deep footprints heading north, heavy and deliberate. Horse tracks alongside them, hooves dragging. And a lighter set—Kaia’s. Not running. She’d been bound or unconscious.

  John’s jaw tightened.

  He crouched lower, fingers lightly trailing through the disturbed dirt. A faint magical trace still clung to the ground—Drevan hadn’t cared about hiding his path. Arrogance, plain and simple.

  "You're not subtle," John muttered, rising to his feet. "That's gonna get you hurt."

  He turned toward the carpet, which hovered patiently a few feet off the ground like a particularly smug dog.

  “You ready?” he asked it.

  The carpet twitched once—either agreement or mild boredom.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  John climbed aboard, pulling his hood tight against the wind. “Let’s go. Tracks head north. And don’t complain about altitude—I hate heights too.”

  As the carpet rose, wind whipping around him, he allowed himself a small grin. “Still better than roller coasters. At least I’m driving this time.”

  The wind roared louder as the trees fell away beneath them. Below, the trail of Drevan’s passage cut through the ruined forest like a scar.

  “Next upgrade, we get a monkey,” John said, leaning forward. “With goggles. I’ve always wanted a sidekick that throws knives.”

  The carpet didn’t respond, but it banked slightly left, following the trail.

  “Atta boy.”

  And with that, they soared into the dawn.

  The wind howled low as John coasted above the broken ruins on the rogue master’s flying carpet, his legs tucked tight beneath him, knuckles white on the edge of the woven fabric. The carpet didn’t hum or glide with grace—it jittered like an old go-kart on gravel, vibrating under him with every shift in weight.

  “Definitely not FAA certified,” John muttered.

  The ruins stretched out like shattered bones of some ancient beast, all cracked columns and forgotten courtyards, choked with creeping vines. He circled once, scanning from above, eyes darting for any clue. Nothing moved—no horses, no fires, no Drevan. He dropped altitude and brought the carpet down near a moss-covered archway.

  His boots hit the ground with a soft crunch of ash and loam. A moment passed—then he reached out with his tracking skill. A faint pulse in his mind’s eye. Like sonar, but for footprints and desperation.

  There.

  A heel print, deep and deliberate, leading west. Not hurried. Not hidden. Drevan didn’t care who followed.

  “Arrogant bastard,” John said, brushing a finger along the edge of the print. The soil here was soft. Burnt scrub lined the edges of the path. Nearby, a snapped branch. Further on, the glint of scorched bark. Someone had passed through recently and left the forest bruised.

  He stood slowly, breathing in the earthy, scorched scent. “Not even trying to hide it. It’s like he wants me to follow.”

  The carpet wouldn’t help here. He needed eyes on the ground. So he walked.

  The trail wove through half-collapsed stone walls and brambles that scratched at his legs. Ghosts of old battles hung in the air. John’s thoughts wandered to Kaia, to her smile, her stubbornness, the way she always seemed to worry about everyone else first.

  He clenched his fists.

  “You picked the wrong party to mess with, Drevan.”

  The tracking skill pinged again, this time stronger, deeper footprints, darker scorch marks. Drevan had passed through here not long ago. The trail led toward the jagged hills ahead, where the sky grew darker and the trees thinned into brittle silhouettes.

  John stopped for a moment and looked up at the cloud-scarred sky.

  “This has serious Return of the King vibes,” he muttered. “Or maybe a low-budget Tomb Raider reboot.”

  He cracked his neck and kept moving.

  The ground began to rise, terrain sloping toward rocky outcrops that jutted like broken teeth. Somewhere in there, Drevan was resting—or maybe laying an ambush. Either way, John had to be the first to act.

  “Almost showtime,” he whispered, disappearing into the shadow of the rocks.

  John dropped from the rooftops with barely a whisper, landing behind the crooked remains of a half-collapsed stone wall. The edge of the slums gave way to scrubland here—patchy grass, shattered fences, and the faint scent of burned wood on the wind. He kept low, moving through the remains of an old livestock paddock until he saw what he was looking for: a mercenary camp, or what was left of one.

  The firepits were still warm. Crushed tankards, scattered rations, and the broken haft of a spear littered the ground. Tracks led away toward the hills, deeper into the wilds. Goblin tracks, mixed with heavier boot prints. And blood.

  John crouched beside the trail, brushing two fingers across a dried smear of crimson. It wasn’t more than a few hours old.

  “They’re not far,” he murmured.

  A noise—a cough.

  He froze.

  It came from behind a tent flap barely still standing. John slid toward it silently, pressing himself against the canvas before flipping it aside.

  A man sat inside, slumped against a crate, his leg bound hastily with a strip of torn cloak. His face was pale, sweaty. One of Drevan’s hired hands.

  John stepped in, quick and quiet. The man tried to reach for the dagger on his belt.

  “Don’t,” John said flatly. “You won’t like how that ends.”

  The merc froze, eyes wide. “W-what do you want?”

  John crouched beside him, one hand already uncorking a small vial of something green. The scent of crushed herbs and venom wafted out.

  “Just information.” He smiled without warmth. “Tell me where Drevan’s heading, and maybe I leave you with both kidneys.”

  The merc gulped. “Some—some ruin in the woods. Old stone place. I didn’t catch the name. North by northeast. Drevan said there’s power buried there. Something his master wants.”

  “Is Kaia with him?”

  He nodded, slowly. “The girl? Yeah. Chained. Still alive, last I saw.”

  John capped the vial and stood. “Good man. You get to live today.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” the merc croaked. “Aren’t you gonna kill me?”

  John gave him a long look. “You want to die?”

  The man shook his head rapidly.

  “Then maybe crawl your way to a new career.” He vanished into the shadow of the trees without another word.

  Leaves rustled as he moved. His footsteps made no sound. His hoodie drank the moonlight. Ahead, the trail of blood and ash led onward, toward something ancient, something waiting.

  He was closing in.

  The sun dipped lower on the horizon as John guided the flying carpet down near a weathered trail that cut through twisted trees and tangled underbrush. The old forest beneath him looked like something pulled from a gothic painting—limbs like skeletal arms reaching out, shadows thick enough to choke on. Drevan had passed through here. John could feel it.

  He dismounted carefully, boots crunching into the undergrowth. The carpet fluttered in the air above him like an obedient shadow, then vanished into his inventory with a thought. No more fast travel—this was rogue work now. Footprints marred the path ahead: deep, deliberate, recent. Drevan wasn’t even trying to hide his trail.

  “Cocky bastard,” John muttered, crouching low to examine a crushed patch of moss. “I hate that he can afford to be.”

  He moved on foot, slipping from tree to tree. His tracking skill had never been this sharp before—he could spot broken branches, subtle footprints, the faint scent of ozone and dark magic lingering in the air like a perfume for psychopaths. The trail led deeper into the woods, toward rising stone and ancient ruin.

  At one point, John paused by a creek, kneeling to refill his flask and clean his daggers. He caught his reflection in the water and barely recognized the man staring back—dark eyes sharp, jaw set, a streak of dried blood still under one cheekbone.

  “You look like the kind of guy who’d make a speech in the rain before stabbing the villain in the back,” he muttered to himself. “Solid character arc.”

  He pushed on. The terrain got rockier, more treacherous. Brambles clutched at his legs like desperate fingers. The forest whispered in a language older than men. And still he followed the trail.

  Sometimes he muttered lines from movies to himself—anything to keep his focus sharp. “If it bleeds, we can kill it,” he whispered, eyes narrowing as he ducked under a fallen log.

  Hours passed. Once, he heard Kaia’s laughter in the wind—or maybe just imagined it. He clung to that sound.

  Finally, he crested a hill and saw it in the distance: ruins of an old stone tower, collapsed into itself. Drevan’s trail led there.

  John crouched low, eyes scanning. Smoke curled faintly from the far side—signs of a camp.

  He smiled, humorless. “Got you.”

  But he didn’t rush in. Not yet.

  Not until the traps were ready.

  John stood on a rocky overlook, wind tugging at his hoodie as he scanned the distant trail below. A crooked line of scorched grass and crushed leaves still marked Drevan’s passage—straight toward the narrow ravine ahead.

  Perfect.

  He banked the carpet low and landed behind a jagged outcropping. The sun was beginning to dip behind the peaks, and shadows were creeping fast. He had time—barely.

  “Alright,” John muttered, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s get creative.”

  He pulled supplies from his inventory: wire-thin trip ropes, alchemist’s fire, spike traps, a pouch of caltrops, and a few bottles of thick, oily poison he’d brewed just two days earlier. Each had a name scribbled on the label—jokes, mostly. “Doom Juice.” “Not For Oral Use.” “Thanos Snap.”

  One by one, he set to work.

  He strung the trip lines low across the path—one at ankle height, one at waist. He buried the spike traps in patches of brush, camouflaged with fallen leaves. He rigged a small hill with a precariously balanced boulder, using a sharpened stick to hold it in place.

  The alchemist’s fire he saved for last, pouring the flammable sludge into narrow grooves in the rock. He dragged a length of rope soaked in the same fluid and coiled it across the edge, ready to ignite at a moment’s notice.

  As he worked, John’s thoughts drifted.

  Kaia’s scream. The weight of Thorin’s body. The sight of Drevan walking away, arrogant and untouchable.

  Not this time.

  He planted the last caltrops behind a rise in the path, then stepped back to admire his work. A labyrinth of pain. Anyone walking through would have a hell of a time.

  “Come on, you smug bastard,” John whispered. “Let’s dance.”

  He climbed to a nearby ledge and crouched in the shadows, dagger in hand. The wind shifted, bringing the faintest trace of movement down the trail.

  He smiled.

  “If it bleeds,” John murmured to himself, “we can kill it.”

  He drew the hood over his head, sinking into the dark.

  And waited.