Lucian lingered after paying, offering a nod as the old man and his granddaughter climbed aboard the rear wagon. He stayed back as the caravan began final preparations—oxen secured, ledgers rechecked, wheels braced. The other travelers were focused on getting comfortable or staking claim to the better seating planks inside the wagons.
But Lucian? His eyes were on the guards.
Something was wrong.
He had spent most of his life in the manor, surrounded by soldiers. Real ones. And if there was one thing he learned watching them drill, eat, and loaf around for years—it was that familiarity bred boredom. Guards who did this sort of thing every day moved with a certain laziness, a rhythm of habit. They yawned. They slouched. They joked around when their superiors weren't looking.
These ones didn't.
They were alert. Too alert.
Their footsteps were quiet, measured. Their eyes didn't wander lazily; they tracked. Not once had Lucian seen one scratch his chin, lean on his spear, or light a pipe. They moved like they were on patrol—not escort.
And when they passed each other... they slightly nodded. Always. Like subtle affirmations in a language the rest of the world wasn't meant to speak.
He frowned and drifted from wagon to wagon, pretending to inspect the carvings on the wheels or the supply bundles stacked on the sides. One of the lead oxen snorted at him, but Lucian barely noticed—he was too busy looking for something.
The locks caught his attention.
Each wagon had lock mechanisms on both the front and back. Standard design. Smart for travel—you could lock it from the inside for safety, or from the outside when hauling goods. But when he stood by the fourth wagon and ran his eyes across the inner bolt latch...
Broken. Bent. Split clean across the middle.
He checked another. Same. The inner latches—the ones meant to keep people safe inside—were all damaged. Useless.
But the outer locks? Untouched. Functional. Clean.
That's not wear and tear.
That was sabotage.
A faint breeze stirred the edge of his cloak as Lucian stood slowly, heart beginning to thrum. He felt panic.
Then sudden calm. Cold, precise calm.
Something was horribly wrong here.
He turned back toward the sixth wagon, mind racing, but face unreadable. The girl was sitting near the back, legs dangling off the edge, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. When she saw him approaching, she straightened slightly.
"Are you okay, good sir?" she asked, voice softer now. Less fiery. A little unsure.
Lucian paused mid-step, then exhaled—long and low.
He gave her a small, crooked smile, more tired than reassuring.
"...Yeah. Everything's fine," he said.
A beat passed. He glanced toward the caravan's lead wagon, where the guards had just finished sealing a crate with too many chains for something that rattled like cloth.
His smile faded slightly.
"I hope."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moon was out by the time everything was set for departure.
Lucian stepped into the wagon just as the last horn sounded—a single low note that rippled across the caravan yard like thunder from behind a closed door.
Ten passengers inside, tightly packed but not suffocating. Most sat in pairs along the wooden benches that lined the wagon's interior. Crates and bundles lined the middle aisle, stacked just low enough to see over, though not much room remained for stretching legs.
He moved past a pair of traveling merchants muttering over ledger sheets and took a spot near the rear, beside the girl and directly opposite her grandfather. The old man offered him a quiet nod of thanks, eyes heavy with exhaustion but laced with cautious respect.
Lucian gave a subtle nod in return before settling in.
The bench creaked slightly as he sat, their shoulders barely brushing. She was quiet, legs tucked beneath her, fingers nervously tapping the edge of the seat.
"You're not really a noble, are you?" she asked under her breath.
Lucian didn't look at her at first. He stared at the canvas flap still tied open, watching the last flickers of torchlight vanish outside as a guard moved to seal the rear.
"…Does it matter?" he said eventually, voice low.
The girl smiled faintly and looked away, hugging her knees to her chest.
"No. I guess not."
With a grunt, the wagons lurched forward, wheels groaning as the caravan began its slow roll toward Drea. Six guards on horses lined the wagons, tgree on each side. The sounds of the city behind them faded with each turn of the wheel—replaced by the rhythmic crunch of dirt road and creaking wood.
A hush fell over the wagon. No one spoke.
Lucian leaned back against the canvas wall, eyes half-closed. He wasn't resting. Not really. Just listening. Every jolt, every clatter of armor outside, every footfall of the oxen pulling the wagons.
Beside him, the girl yawned into her sleeve and shifted. Her shoulder brushed his again.
"You never told me your name," she murmured sleepily.
"Lucian."
She gave a tired chuckle but didn't press. Her head tilted against the side of the wagon, curls catching the moonlight that peeked through a flap slit. Her eyes blinked slower. He could feel the weight of fatigue pulling at her frame. "I'm Erza, good sir."
A few more minutes passed.
Then, gently—without warning—her head dipped sideways.
And landed softly against his shoulder.
Lucian tensed… just slightly. He glanced down at her.
She was asleep. Mouth parted just a bit, lashes still catching flecks of torchlight. One hand remained curled in her lap, the other loosely resting by his forearm. Peaceful. Vulnerable. Completely unaware of the danger just outside the wagon.
Lucian didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But his eyes stayed open.
And his hand shifted—just enough to rest beside his short swords leather grip.
Something was bound to go wrong. And he was prepared, or so he wanted to believe...