The road ahead stank of blood and burnt canvas. Splintered wood, overturned carriages, and bodies—human, Drakken, Snatcher—littered the path.
Soldiers moved through the wreckage, collecting scraps, muttering over blood trails, pointing out claw marks in the dirt.
Arthur reined his spectral drake to a crawl alongside Tenha, eyes fixed on the wreckage. Without a word, his second-in-command dismounted, tied off his horse, and crouched beside a Drakken’s corpse.
The skull was split wide. The muzzle hung open. He ran a thumb along the curve of a bone horn jutting from its cheek.
Arthur dismounted as well. The moment his boots hit the ground, the drake shimmered and vanished.
“What do you think?” Tenha asked, still focused on the body.
Arthur didn’t answer. He walked past, boots avoiding the drying blood of a nearby snatcher's corpse, and stepped into the wreck of the main carriage. One door hung by a hinge. Inside: barrels. Crates. Food. Cloth. Sealed. Untouched.
“You want the easy answer?” Arthur’s voice came from inside. “Drakken hit a merchant train. Got interrupted, lost too many men, and fled.”
He stepped back out, wiping his gloves on his coat. Tenha examined another corpse.
“But these people...” Tenha gestured to the nearest human body. “They don’t look like they owned this.”
Arthur came over. The corpse wore a fine coat—velvet, once. Gold embroidery traced the cuffs. But the skin beneath the collar was sunburnt. The face was unshaven. Nails chipped and blackened.
One of the soldiers knelt, stripped back the coat. Underneath: a linen shirt, torn at the armpit, patched twice at the belly. The trousers were worse—threadbare, stiff with dirt, crusted at the hem. A rusted blade lay in the grass nearby.
“Raiders?” the soldier muttered.
Arthur crouched, eyes on the man’s boots. One sole had come off, stitched back with copper wire. He grabbed a stick, tapped the man’s cheek with it.
“Look at that,” he muttered. “You robbed someone’s clothes just to die in them.”
He stood. But the bodies don't add up. Drakkens. Snatchers. Were they working together against raiders? Why bother? They didn’t even touch the supplies.
“Hey there, wanna play a game?”
Arthur flinched. A voice—young, female, too close. But soft. Almost playful.
He turned. Nothing but wreckage. Soldiers still worked, heads down. A breeze pushed the smoke sideways. No one reacted.
He stepped further and scanned the trees. Listened.
Nothing.
Arthur rolled his shoulders, grounding himself again.
“Captain Arthur.” A voice from the other carriage. He moved over. Tenha was speaking with an Ursaborn soldier.
“Look at this sigil,” Tenha said, tapping a scorched panel. “This carriage belongs to one of the trade guilds, doesn’t it? Think any of them are still alive?”
Not likely, but worth a try. Alright, we're done here.
He gave the soldier a nod. “Good work. Pass it on—everyone, gather up.”
He broke the platoon into search parties—eight smaller units, each with a mix of humans and lupins.
“Don’t stray too far,” he said. “If there’s danger, pull back and alert the rest. This isn’t even our mission.”
The Ursaborn had already begun hauling carriages. Broad shoulders, twice the size of any man, horses to match. The wrecks shifted with effort but no complaint.
Tenha came up beside him, brushing ash from his sleeves.
“Now,” he said, “where do we camp, Captain?”
Arthur didn’t answer right away. He was still watching the tree line. A shiver passed through the brush. He clicked his tongue once and turned back to the men. “We go off the road, to the north.”
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(The hill north of Crown Road.)
Arthur sat by the fire, a skewer of meat in one hand and a tin of hot water in the other. The flame burned low and orange, fed not by wood but a single nightflame rune etched into a stone at the center.
He waited. The last search party hadn’t returned yet.
“Relax a little, Captain,” Tenha said, walking up from the carriage. “Still one more group out there. Maybe they found the missing people.”
“Anything on your end?” Arthur asked, not looking up.
“No. Thought we might get lucky with a stash of coffee or something, but—” Tenha made a noise of disappointment and plopped down beside him, patting the log. “Move over.”
Arthur sighed but shifted anyway.
“Shit, my back’s killing me. Twenty-four hours riding, then this mess? I’d sell a toe for a massage right now.” Tenha leaned forward, unlatching part of his breastplate. It hissed softly from trapped sweat and heat.
Arthur took a bite from the skewer. “Take it easy. We hit the Triangle tomorrow.”
A shout rose from the slope. The last party was back.
Arthur stood. “We’ll get a proper treatment once we hit the first village. Maybe even that coffee.”
Tenha pushed himself up with a grunt, and they moved toward the entry point of the hill.
But the hope didn’t last long. The returning party shook their heads. No survivors. No guards. No trace of the merchants. Just more questions.
“Alright, move along, soldier. Take your rest and get to your post with the others,” Tenha ordered, giving a tired wave.
Then came the scream.
A crash, loud and sharp, echoed from the center of camp. Shouts followed—confused, panicked. Soldiers scrambled toward the noise.
An Ursaborn soldier was thrashing, eyes bloodshot, mouth foaming. He’d gone feral.
He grabbed one soldier by the throat and hurled him like a rag. Another tried to restrain him—only to be flung into the side of a cart.
Two more Ursaborn rushed in, locking arms around their kin, trying to pin his massive limbs.
It wasn’t enough.
Arthur was already moving. No time to think. He dropped his tin, tore off his sidearms, and ran.
The Ursaborn let out a guttural roar just as Arthur closed in. He leapt and drove a fist straight into his jaw. The impact jolted his whole arm—but it staggered the soldier.
The camp froze. Eyes widened. A human, hurting an Ursaborn? That wasn’t supposed to happen.
He snapped toward Arthur, wild and seeing nothing but red. He ripped free from the two holding him, throwing one into the bonfire. The other crashed into a crate with a splintering crack.
He charged.
Arthur braced—then, from the side, a blur of black fur slammed into the Ursaborn’s ribs. A Lupin, heavyset, low to the ground, claws sunk deep into the Ursaborn’s side.
The two wrestled, power against power. The Lupin soldier tried to force the larger fighter to the dirt, teeth bared. But the Ursaborn was stronger—he stayed upright, feet digging in, trying to twist free.
Arthur didn’t wait.
He moved behind them, fast and low, ducking under a swinging arm. He jumped, wrapped both arms around the Ursaborn’s thick neck, and locked in a choke.
The Ursaborn thrashed. Arthur clenched tighter, legs wrapped around the torso, all his weight pulling down.
The Lupin held on from the front. Together they brought him down—first to a knee, then face-first into the dirt.
Arthur held the choke until the Ursaborn stopped moving.
Heavy breaths. Silence. Then, slowly, soldiers gathered again.
The Lupin coughed. “...What the hell just happened?”
“I was hoping one of you could tell me.” Arthur stood, spitting blood, “You, boy, what’s your name?”
“Vorkin, captain.”
He wasn’t as tall as other lupins, only slightly taller than Arthur himself.
Arthur extended a hand, “Well done, Vorkin.”
“Thanks.” he accepted it and got up.
The Ursaborn soldier was tied. Wrists shackled behind his back, pulled down, and chained to his ankles. His legs were bent, knees forced out to the sides, heels drawn tight against his back.
Another chain ran from his neck to his knees, locking his torso forward—face nearly to the dirt.
He stirred.
Groaned.
His eyes darted, pupils wide. “What... What are you doing? Guys? Why am I tied like this? This isn’t funny—release me.”
He doesn’t remember anything, as expected.
“Calm down, soldier,” Arthur said.
He stepped forward, drawing his greatsword with one arm—a six-foot slab of metal, blackened steel with a faint blue pulse down the fuller. The air crackled. “Just tell me what you remember. Start from the top.”
The Ursaborn strained against the chain, wincing. “Yes, Captain. I... I was talking. I think. I don’t know. I heard something... a voice?”
“Ease up the chain,” Arthur said over his shoulder. “He's hurting.” He lowered the blade and sat in front of the soldier, legs folded. “Sorry, soldier. Can’t let you go fully. Not yet.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He straightened as much as the bindings allowed. “What did I do, sir?”
Arthur met his eyes.
“You tried to crush one of your squadmate’s throats. Would’ve snapped it too, if your kin didn’t hold you down in time.”
The Ursaborn’s face fell. “Th-thank you, everyone. I’m... I’m sorry. Deeply sorry.”
“Report everything you remember. Leave nothing out.” Arthur motioned for the stationed soldiers to take over.
He turned back to Tenha.
“You didn’t tell him it was you who stopped him?” Tenha asked.
I need them to bond over something. These people aren’t my usual squad after all.
“What difference would it make?”
Tenha shrugged, rocking his head side to side. “Eh. Fair enough.”
“Hihihi, well done, Captain.”
That laugh again. Like a child's giggle wrapped in barbed wire.
Arthur stilled.
…