The caravan creaked through the forest, slow and heavy, as if it too felt the weight of the hour. Midnight had long since passed. Darkness pooled thick between the trees, their crooked limbs crowding the dirt path like silent witnesses. Fog clung low to the ground, curling over roots and snaking around wagon wheels like searching fingers.
Lucian rested in his seat, his hood drawn low. His travel cloak was damp from forest dew, but the lanterns inside warmed him from the cold night. With head bent low and the steady rise and fall of his breath, he looked like a boy half-asleep, sword resting across his lap.
But one eye remained open.
Always.
Erza sti slept against his shoulder, soft breath warming the chilled air. She had drifted off sometime after the wagons started moving, mumbling something about home. Lucian had not replied. He couldn't.
Not with this feeling.
It had started subtle — like a wrong note in a familiar song. The absence of crickets. The way the trees leaned just a little too far over the road. The way the mist lingered, unnaturally thick near the roots. It felt wrong.
He tried to ignore it. Failed
Instead, his mind began to go over his arcane arsenal for the tenth time this journey.
Sensory Drift. Mana Bolt. Ignis. Flamma. Minor Telekinesis. Lumin.
He ticked them off in his mind, each spell like a brick in a fragile wall.
Sensory Drift , his sensory type cantrip. Spread consciousness outward. No visuals. Just impressions.
Mana Bolt ,raw mana, shaped into velocity. Simple. Efficient. Punchy.
Ignis , a tier one spell. Pure flame. Reliable… in theory.
Flamma ,the tweaked version. Could manipulate mundane fire. He designed it himself. Right in the wagon.
Minor Telekinesis ,a flicker of force, no more than a tug or a push.
Lumin , floating lights. Soft, harmless. Mostly used when camping or in underground tests.
Spells he used to play with six years ago.
Some, he hadn't touched in years.
His fingers flexed over the sword's grip.
I'm rusty. Too rusty.
He told himself it didn't matter. He wanted to believe the guards would handle any threats. This route was "secured." But something g felt off.
The traders seemed calm. A toddler slept nearby, curled against a sack of dates. An old woman whispered prayers to a string of red beads. Someone laughed. Somewhere up front, an oxen huffed.
It should've been comforting.
But Lucian couldn't shake the tension coiling behind his ribs.
Then — a soft clip-clop. From the iron bars, Lucian noticed one of the riders peel off from the front. Not hurried. Not loud. Just a gentle veer into the treeline.
Lucian blinked once.
No signal. No hand sign.
None of the other guards reacted.
His skin prickled.
The quiet pressed in thicker. The mist seemed to listen.
Lucian closed his eyes for a moment — and cast Sensory Drift. Lightly. Suddenly, his mind bloomed soft ripple outward. His awareness brushed the edges of the convoy, the woods, the rear wagon wheels, the people in the wagons…
Nothing.
But the forest felt… compressed.
Like something was waiting.
You're overthinking. He drew a long breath. It's not a test. You're tired. Fog's playing tricks. Get a grip.
He wanted to believe himself badly.
Then—
The wagon stopped.
A jolt. A groan from the oxen. Wood creaked under shifted weight.
"Log in the road! Sit tight, we'll clear it!" someone called from up front.
Lucian's eyes snapped forward.
Traders muttered. One of them stood to stretch. Another offered dried fruit around. A few guards dismounted casually — too casually.
Then one of them passed by the wagon. Leaned toward another. Whispered something low. A nod.
Too fast.
Lucian's fingers tapped once against the wood. His spell instincts flared.
Sensory Drift — again, deeper this time, more focused. He swept wider, circling the treeline. Feeling. Searching.
And then he felt it.
Ripples.
Something beneath the veil. Not footsteps. Not threats. Just… disturbance. Like watching calm water churn from below.
Then, something long and fast tore through his sensory zone at terrifying speed. He gasped, brows furrowed.
Thwip.
An arrow zipped through the mist. Too fast. Too clean. It struck the side of the wagon — thunked against the frame.
Everyone froze.
Then a scream.
"They're in the trees!"
The quiet shattered.
Lanterns flared. One was dropped — fire bloomed on dry leaves before a boot stamped it out. Shouts erupted. Murmuring and tension began to bloom among the passenger's. Steel hissed from sheaths. The toddler began to scream. A trader clutched a carving knife with white knuckles.
Lucian didn't move.
He stared through the bars.
He reached — reflex — for Ignis. The spell formed behind his teeth, ready to surge through his hand.
But…
Too many people.
His mana crackled. Unused. Untested. He forced himself to breathe. Erza stirred beside him. She blinked up, saw his face , the sharp eyes, the tension in his jaw , and flushed when she realized where she'd been sleeping.
"I—sorry, I—" she began.
Lucian didn't answer. His heart pounded in his throat. His instincts screamed.
Something's wrong.
This wasn't an ambush. Not yet. It was a setup. The arrow didn't aim to kill. The scream had come too early. The fog was too thick for aim.
It was staged.
Then...
"Bandits!" someone shouted from somewhere around the third wagon.
Another gasp — louder. Closer. Not fear.
Recognition.
Lucian's stomach sank.
Lucian's eyes narrowed. Sensory Drift — now.
He pushed harder, extending his awareness like a net into the woods.
There—
Movement.
Fast. Focused. Coordinated.
Seven... no — eight... nine… ten.
Figures emerging from the treeline with terrifying rhythm. They moved like clockwork. No shouting. No chaos. Just boots on damp earth, cutting through fog like wraiths. Blades drawn. Faces masked.
Predators. Bandits.
Lucian's blood went cold.
But that wasn't the worst part.
He snapped his gaze to the nearest guard.
Nothing.
The man sat tall in his saddle, eyes forward, hand resting lazily on his sword hilt. Not a twitch. Not even a glance toward the incoming threat.
The bandits were right there — ten paces from the wagons — and the guards acted like they didn't exist.
Lucian's thoughts crashed to a halt.
They see them.
They have to see them.
So why—
No one shouted orders. No one raised an alarm. No horns. No draw of weapons. Just ten silent shadows closing in — and not a soul lifted a finger.
The fear didn't spike — it sank.
Deep.
Like a stone through water.
Because now, he understood.
No one was going to help them.
The guards were in on it.
Lucian's hands trembled.
His mana flickered under his skin, wild, unshaped. He couldn't risk Ignis. Too volatile. Mana Bolt? Maybe. His shortsword felt like a twig in his lap.
Erza looked up at him, her voice a whisper.
"L-Lucian…?"
He didn't look at her.
Couldn't.
He watched the masked figures fan out. Two flanked left. Three slid behind a wagon. One crouched beside a wheel, slipping something under it — oil, maybe. A trap.
Routine. Practiced.
Predatory.
And the guards…
They just watched.
Some even laughed.
Lucian closed his eyes for half a breath, muttering under his breath:
"We're already surrounded."