Raymond displayed the gray silk shawl draped over his left shoulder, a subtle emblem of status. "Can't help our distinction—we're the elite corps, after all."

  A sudden gesture from Mackenzie froze them both mid-stride. In one fluid motion, Ivan had an arrow nocked and drawn, while Raymond's longsword gleamed in the dim light. "Look ahead," Old Mackenzie lowered his hand and pointed forward. "The branch."

  A human corpse hung suspended from a tree limb before them, as if the bough had impaled it through the torso. "Don't do that again, old man," Raymond complained, sliding his blade back into its sheath. "He wasn't hanged," Ivan observed as he advanced cautiously.

  "Let's establish his identity first," Raymond suggested, reaching for a torch, but the old courier stopped him with a firm grip. "Ivan," Mackenzie directed quietly, "get him down first."

  Ivan Northes pulled back his hood and selected a cedar arrow from his quiver. The shaft flew from his Narwhal Bone Bow with deadly precision, striking the corpse's head with barely a whisper. The body dropped with unsettling lightness, making scarcely a sound as it crumpled to the forest floor. "One of our own," Raymond muttered, turning the body over. "A courier." From the man's pack, he extracted a metallic badge that caught the moonlight. "Royal courier, but the dispatches are missing." He shook the empty leather satchel for emphasis.

  "Now perhaps you comprehend our vulnerability," Old Mackenzie dragged the corpse into a patch of filtered moonlight. "Dead for some time, yet strangely light." His weathered fingers probed the neck. "Wounds here. Not of human design."

  Under the silvery illumination, the cause of death revealed itself—two deep punctures in the neck, like bottomless wells in the pale flesh. "No human weapon leaves such marks," Ivan concurred. "The surrounding tissue is desiccated, completely drained." He examined the withered remains. "He bled out, that's for sure."

  "The peculiarity lies in what's absent," Raymond noted, crouching beside them. "If some predator did this, why is the body intact? Hunger clearly wasn't the motive." A realization struck him. "What of his weapon?"

  "Still on his person." Ivan extracted a dagger from the corpse's belt—its hilt fashioned of fine steel overlaid with gold and adorned with intricate engravings. "Examine the blade carefully," Raymond instructed.

  Moonlight danced along the polished metal, almost blinding. "No blood stains the edge, but..."

  "Scratch marks and wood fragments instead?"

  Ivan nodded silently.

  "Fascinating. Old man," Raymond turned to Mackenzie, "Our colleague fled pursuit, using his blade to scale the tree."

  "Astute observation, young man," the veteran courier acknowledged, gazing upward. "Yet it fails to explain his arboreal demise."

  "Those neck wounds indicate he was ultimately caught," Ivan said, rising to his feet and studying the tree's contours. "Logic presents only two scenarios: either another predator ambushed him in the branches, or his pursuer possessed climbing abilities. However," his fingers traced the bark's surface, "beyond the knife marks, there's no additional evidence."

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  Old Mackenzie listened to their methodical analysis with quiet appreciation. (As expected of the elite unit—vastly superior to those dullards from before.) "Good thinking, but we don't have time to chat," the old man cautioned. "Duke Dear commanded us to deliver these dispatches to Crivi with utmost haste. We shouldn't linger..."

  "Just a moment longer," Ivan insisted. "What manner of creature dwells in trees and preys upon humans? Your thoughts, Raymond?"

  "...Child Ghouls are accomplished climbers and leave minimal traces. But they only..."

  "Only attack when provoked or denied their games," Old Mackenzie interjected. "The bane of every courier's existence—child-sized specters that, once encountered, require considerable effort to shake off."

  "Impossible that Child Ghouls caused this," Ivan declared with certainty. "They're incapable of inflicting wounds of this nature..."

  A sudden rustling from the nearby undergrowth silenced them. Old Mackenzie was still turning to draw his dagger when Ivan had already trained his bow on the disturbance, arrow at full tension.

  The creature burst forth—a Long-eared Lynx, its distinctive tufts so elongated they nearly brushed the ground like elegant tassels. Violet eyes glimmered with eerie intelligence, seeming to appraise the deceased courier with unnatural interest.

  The three men stood motionless. Mackenzie's hand hovered over his weapon while Ivan's aim remained unwavering, the arrowhead perfectly aligned with the beast's skull—a shot he could deliver in the space between heartbeats.

  Yet he held. The Long-eared Lynx advanced no further. Its magnificent ear tufts bristled upright, as if detecting some distant signal beyond human perception. With a low, guttural growl, it pivoted abruptly and vanished into the darkness.

  Ivan lowered his bow gradually. "Long-eared Lynxes possess extraordinary auditory sensitivity, particularly to subsonic frequencies. It detected something we cannot." Raymond swung himself onto his mount. "The old man's caution is warranted. This place holds danger."

  Old Mackenzie solemnly arranged the corpse at the tree's base, removing the courier's insignia with reverent hands. "I'll safeguard this until it can be returned to command. Your service will be remembered, brother." He traced the Sacred Sword Triangle across his chest. "May the Triad guide your spirit to peaceful harbors."

  Resuming their journey, the trio adopted a measured trot. "When we reach Borna Plain, we'll need to accelerate," Old Mackenzie reminded them. The plain served as a natural boundary, bisecting the East Wymar Forest while simultaneously marking the frontier of Godma's influence—beyond it lay territory where aid would be scarce or nonexistent.

  "We should identify what killed our fellow courier," Ivan pressed. "This was no random misfortune."

  "And the missing dispatches," the old man added, unconsciously tightening his grip on the pouch concealed beneath his cloak. "What non-human entity would slay a man, then... appropriate his correspondence?"

  "Difficult to accept, yet," Ivan reasoned, "maybe the enemy killed him and made it look like an animal attack."

  A sonorous rumbling reached their ears. Mackenzie's hand shot up in warning. "Something slumbers ahead. Proceed with caution," he whispered.

  They guided their mounts with painstaking care, minimizing the percussion of hooves against soil. Beside the path lay a dragon's lair, its occupant nestled contentedly in its warm sanctuary. "Riftjaw Dragon—underdeveloped dentition, juvenile specimen," Raymond observed clinically.

  Only when the dragon's rhythmic breathing faded behind them did the couriers resume their pace. "A question has been troubling me, young men," Old Mackenzie said, removing his hood to reveal his weathered features. "Why would Duke Dear assign elite soldiers as mere messengers?" He gestured toward them meaningfully. "You aren't simply escorts—you yourselves carry dispatches. Yet these aren't even red-priority communications."

  "We received no explanation," Ivan admitted, extracting a cylindrical container from his satchel—a wooden tube approximately a foot in length, sealed with a slightly wider cap. "This is bullshit," Raymond grumbled. "We just got to camp, our asses are killing us, and now we're mailmen. Makes no sense." His eyes narrowed at the container in Ivan's hands. "Handle that with care. Remember Raveirmom's warning—incorrect opening procedures will trigger the letter's self-destruction."