I am Ren Drakemore, age 8, the 2nd Prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia, and I have been summoned by an ancient dragon.
"Those are the correct syllables, but the wrong intonation," Willow corrects patiently. "A rising tone for the first and a falling tone for the second syllable would mean . Saying both with a flat intonation, however, would make the word ."
"Well, that explains a lot," I mutter, flipping to the next page of the massive leather-bound tome resting awkwardly on my knees. The book’s cover is aged and worn, the gold metal corner protectors, shaped like little dragon heads, have been dulled by time and the hands of the countless scholars who have preceded me in making it past the first ten pages. Embossed in the center, in regal, yet faded lettering, is the title:
The book is heavy. It's so large that balancing it on my lap is awkward and very uncomfortable—especially in a moving carriage. I prop it against my legs, with my feet braced against the opposite wall, while I lay on my back across the cushioned bench seat, my head resting on Lady Willow’s lap. My scowl deepens as I skim through the cryptic passages.
It’s an unhelpful book; an exhausting collection of vague prophecies from a god who, according to this book, over five hundred years ago. If his foresight was so great, shouldn’t he have and avoided his own demise?
The ones most ambiguous speak of a born from death and destined to become the vessel of the Dragon God. That sounds like a raw deal, condemned to a life of torment just to have your body taken over by a reincarnated god. Who would want that? The only reason I even picked this book back up after giving up on it ten pages in was because it is the sole text I have that is written in both Common and Draconic, side by side.
Willow takes advantage of my position on her lap to smooth out my perpetually unruly black hair, her soft, delicate fingers gliding through it.
"You don't need to do that," I grumble.
"You're right. I don't," she replies calmly, continuing to brush her fingers through my hair anyway.
Our carriage clatters down the stone road from Cairndorn to Stonebrook, heading north. We set off the moment Shadow transmitted his memories of the Kobold calamity to me...
Well… not immediately after. First, I threw up. . Then, I spent another half an hour rolling around on the ground, screaming and writhing in horror—which had really ruined my dinner. I had just started to enjoy one of Willow’s beef pies when it hit me. By the time I came to my senses, the floor, the table, and I were all covered in half-digested steak, vegetables (not friends), and what had been a very flaky pie crust.
I really could have done without the memory of that enormous pile of corpses...
Despite the urgency that had been implied, we aren’t heading straight to meet the dragon. There are a few things that need taking care of first if I am to be properly prepared to negotiate with such a creature.
I have something she wants: knowledge of rare magic and potions to heal her tribe. But that isn’t all. Given the sheer size of her hoard, it is clear that gold is not just a means of trade to her, but an obsession. She has plenty, yet like all dragons, she will always want more. The promise of additional wealth, a steady influx of treasure, could be just as enticing as anything else I have to offer.
I think what I want in return is far more valuable to me than it is to her. I want access to raw mithril from the mine and, more importantly, the Kobolds' help in refining it. From what Shadow saw, they have far more mithril than they could possibly use, leaving vast amounts of it untouched within the mountain.
To the dragon, gold is the ultimate prize, and her hoard is proof of that. She has more wealth than she can ever spend, yet, like all dragons, she will never have enough. If I can offer her a way to amass even more, she may be far more willing to part with a resource she does not actively seek to collect. To me, that mithril is invaluable. To her, it is just another metal buried beneath the gold she truly covets.
Mithril is a rare and incredibly versatile metal, capable of absorbing and storing mana. It serves as the foundation of Arcadia’s enchanted armor and weapons, with armor that resists magic and blades that can cut through magical defenses. Willow believes that if I play my cards right, I could secure a reliable source of mithril, gain a powerful new ally, and strengthen my ties with Lord Griswald.
The dragon and her Kobolds already have plenty of reasons to be grateful to me. Shadow wiped out the goblin horde that had taken over their home, and I supplied the potions that saved many of their injured. They consider me their benefactor, and that gives me an advantage. The dragon may be ancient and powerful, but gratitude is a strong motivator. If I approach this carefully, I can turn their appreciation into a lasting partnership.
Which brings us to why we’re heading to Stonebrook.
Before I can strike a deal with the dragon, I need Lord Griswald’s backing. My goal is to secure a written and signed decree granting me the authority to negotiate trade on behalf of his domain. The official reason? Selling our surplus potions to Hyperion—a move that benefits him as well, since our existing agreement already guarantees him a 10% share of the profits. While that will help us sidestep Lord Fobos’ interference, my true objective is to leverage this decree to broker a trade agreement between Griswald and the Kobolds.
Mithril is the cornerstone of Arcadian military equipment, and securing a steady supply at a lower cost would bring Griswald immense wealth. Not to mention the prestige of providing the kingdom with such a critical resource. If I can convince him and the dragon, this deal could change everything.
So why don’t I just tell Lord Griswald about the mithril in the kobold mine? Simple. If I did, he might insist on negotiating the deal himself. That would be a disaster. The Dragon and the Kobolds have gone to great lengths to keep their home hidden, and I doubt they would welcome an uninvited noble showing up with an armed escort. If Griswald approached with troops, the kobolds could see it as another invasion, and that would end negotiations before they even began.
Even if he managed to secure a meeting with the dragon, he wouldn’t have the same leverage I do. As far as they are aware, I am the one who sent Shadow to rid their home of goblins and provided potions to heal their wounded. They are already in my debt, which gives me an edge Griswald simply does not have.
No, it’s best to keep the mine a secret, at least until after I have secured the deal. That way, Griswald benefits, but he also owes me—and he doesn’t get the chance to bungle everything before it even starts.
“I suppose we should tell the driver,” Willow muses, her expression shifting to one of quiet focus as she gazes at some unseen point ahead through the carriage walls.
“Nah, we need him to act natural,” I say casually, turning to the next page of my book.
T.A.L.O.N. had spotted the bandits up the road some time ago. T.A.L.O.N.—short for —is my razor-wing hawk puppet, and through his eyes, I’ve been tracking their movements.
Five men are gathered on the road ahead of us, their fine garments too suspiciously clean for common highwaymen. Four carry swords, and expensive ones at that. Mirror polished steel that has never seen combat with ornamental hilts; the kind of aesthetic costume pieces that noble brats like Charles parade around with but never actually use. The fifth wields an ornate staff topped with a red focus crystal.
I watched from above as the bandits bumbled their way through an ambush that only worked because their targets were completely defenseless. The three commoners, likely immigrants heading for Stonebrook, had been too focused on pushing their overloaded handcart to notice the five men stepping out from behind a rocky outcrop. There was no strategy, no real attempt at stealth.
The commoners froze, unarmed and outnumbered, they had no hope of resisting.
The bandits shoved their victims to the ground and rained down blows that were more about exerting dominance than efficiency. It wasn’t a battle, just a group of armed men taking advantage of people too weak to fight back. A few kicks, a few clumsy swings with the pommels of their swords, and the job was done. The young woman took a particularly hard strike to the head, slumping forward with a . The mage then waved his staff and cast a simple sleep spell, knocking out the other two instantly.
From there, they lifted the unconscious travelers into the back of a wagon fitted with a metal cage—the kind slavers use. Satisfied that their captives wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon, they turned their attention to looting. They then tossed whatever meager belongings the commoners had from their handcart onto the wagon. All the while the bandits laughed and congratulated themselves, as if their victory had been some grand feat.
We’re approaching them now. I plan to free their victims, but I want to take the bandits alive if possible. Capture them, turn them over to the authorities. That means catching them by surprise.
“I can take care of them,” Willow says, her tone casual but carrying the weight of an undeniable truth.
“If you ‘take care of them,’ we’ll be left with five red smears in the dirt, three traumatized commoners, a terrified driver running for the hills, and four people’s memories to erase,” I counter, closing my oversized tome with a thud and sitting up.
Willow gives me a look that's part indignant, part offended— as my hair slips from her fingers. “I can subdue them without killing them,” she insists.
“I’d rather we take them together,” I say, placing the tome on the seat across from us.
As our carriage approaches the well-dressed bandits, I take quick stock of myself. The enchanted sword Gavin gave me for my birthday rests securely at my left hip. I straighten my tunic, feeling the reassuring weight of the chainmail and padded armor beneath.
I may be putting on a confident front for Willow, but I find that I am of two minds about this. On the one hand, this couldn't possibly be any harder than facing off against an endless goblin horde, packs of wolves, or a bear. But on the other hand, I've never actually done any of those things, not in my own body at least. The thought of facing off against actual people sends my heart racing, something Shadow has never had to worry about. Thanks to him though, I have the memories of slaying those beasts and monsters. Through this vicarious experience, I know what I’m doing——enough to assure myself that I am just as capable. But there is still the unsettling awareness that I've never tested those skills firsthand. I am suddenly and profoundly aware that those adventures and victories are not actually my own, and that I have not yet truly been put to the test.
If I’m being honest, that’s what worries me most. A version of me is brave and strong, but am ? The thought gnaws at me, a quiet whisper of doubt beneath my resolve. But part of me has been waiting for something like this—a real test, an actual fight, a chance to prove that these skills are a tangible part of .
“We’re coming up on them now,” Willow says calmly, glancing out her window.
I follow her gaze and see the road ahead is blocked. It's the bandits.
Looking out my window, I watch as our carriage slows to a stop. The road ahead is blocked by the bandits’ wagon, positioned deliberately across the path. The five men stand just in front of it, their postures stiff, their expressions caught between forced bravado and thinly veiled unease. They’re young, barely even adults
They eye our carriage warily, shifting on their feet like children caught with their hands in the sweets jar, uncertain whether they’ll get away with it or be scolded.
“Pardon, m’lady, sorry for the delay. We will be out of your way shortly,” one of them says, stepping forward with a smile that’s just a little too polite, just a little too rehearsed. Seeing him up close I can see he is wearing fine blue and white clothes with silver embellishments indicative of Arcadian nobles. His hand lingers just above the hilt of his sword, betraying his nerves even as he tries to present confidence.
“We were hired to return these runaway slaves,” he adds gesturing to the two men and a woman lying unconscious inside their wagon’s cage.
Willow smiles kindly, her voice a gentle lull of warmth and patience. “No problem at all, sir… may I please have your name?”
The bandit gives a polite nod, still playing the role of a respectable highwayman. “Of course, m'lady. Thank you for your patience. My name is… is… uh…” His words falter. His smile wavers, confusion flickering across his face. His brow furrows, and his mouth opens once more. “My name… it’s… um…” He takes a step back, rubbing his temples as though trying to dig the answer out of his own skull. His breathing quickens, frustration leaking into his voice. “It’s… I-I know this… I just had it…”
His fellow bandits exchange uncertain glances.
“Hey, boss, what’s wrong?” asks the mage among them, his eyes narrowing in concern.
The nameless one is now pacing and muttering to himself. He’s too lost in his own mounting panic. His hands tremble at his sides, clenching and unclenching as if he might physically grasp the missing answer to his pressing question.
“Oh my!” Willow gasps, pressing a delicate hand to her chest in theatrical concern. “I think your friend needs some help.” Her tone is perfect, sweet, sympathetic and utterly believable.
The man in the throws of an identity crisis whips around toward his companions, his eyes wild with desperation. “Hey, Finley! Tell me what my name is!”
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
While their attention remains locked on their boss’s growing distress, I slip silently from the carriage’s opposite door. Moving with measured steps, I make my way to the front of the carriage, keeping out of sight as I begin silently casting my usual physical enhancement spells.
I feel the familiar sense of being lighter, faster, stronger, and brimming with power.
Our driver, an older man with a greying beard, sits rigidly atop his seat, his knuckles white as they clutch the reins. His eyes are fixed on the unfolding chaos below, his expression a mix of bewilderment and mild horror. The absurdity of the situation seems to have paralyzed him.
“I-I forgot! I don’t know what your name is!” the mage stammers, his face contorting with growing distress.
“How can you just forget my name?!” the apparent leader of the group roars, throwing his arms up in frustration. “We’ve been friends our entire lives! How could you just ?!”
The mage takes a step closer, eyes wide with concern. “How did forget? Its your name!”
The rest of the bandits exchange nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably. What started as confusion has now snowballed into a full-blown existential crisis.
“I think you should go see a healer. Sudden memory loss is a serious condition,” Willow suggests, her voice laced with gentle concern.
“YOU! What did you do to him?!” the mage roars, spinning on Willow, his panic now sharpened into suspicion. He has come to the correct, and painfully obvious, conclusion that Willow is the cause of their little identity crisis.
Willow tilts her head, giving him an almost pitying look. “Sir, you shouldn’t be worried about him. You should be worried about the .”
The moment the words leave her lips, I see his pupils dilate in horror.
“Spiders?” he echoes dumbly, but even as he speaks, his head begins to jerk around, his gaze darting frantically.
I hear his breaths quicken.
He starts to back away and turn around as he stares with intense fear around himself at things it seems only he can see.
“No… no, no! Get back!” he shrieks, his voice cracking as he staggers away, swinging his staff wildly at nothing. His movements grow frantic, his panicked gasps turning into full-throated screams as he thrashes against invisible assailants. His staff clatters to the ground, completely forgotten, as his arms flail, swiping desperately at the air and his own body.
His fellow bandits, already rattled, watch in stunned silence as their mage collapses to the ground, rolling and writhing, his cries rising in pitch as he desperately swipes at his own body.
“GET THEM OFF! ”
“W-What the ruddy hell is going on with Finley and… whatever his name is?” asks a third bandit, staring at one of his companions writhing on the ground in terror and the other pacing frantically, muttering, “Who am I?” over and over.
“You scumbags are going to drop your weapons, I’m going to tie you up, and then I’m going to deliver you to the Stonebrook city guard.” I step out from behind the carriage, sword drawn, my voice calm and assured. “That’s what’s going on.”
The three remaining bandits snap their heads toward me, their eyes widening. They stare, seemingly unsure whether to take an eight-year-old seriously, especially one casually threatening them with a sword.
The closest one, a blond man clad in an ostentatious silver breastplate, decorated with useless gold trim giving me a particularly incredulous look. The jewel-encrusted hilt of his sword glints as he draws it, the pristine blade confirming what I already suspected. This man has never actually fought a day in his life.
“Kid, just get back in the carriage before you get hurt,” he says, waving his sword dismissively. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“So you’re only kidnapping commoners, huh?” I remark, subtly extending my mana into the ground beneath them.
My words hit their mark. The three of them tense, their postures shifting. In an instant, their hesitation vanishes. They realize I know too much, and that letting me go is no longer an option. They grip their weapons tightly, their gazes darkening with intent.
Shiny Breastplate makes the first move, stepping forward, sword raised.
The moment his foot hits the ground, I command the stones beneath him to shift violently in opposite directions under each foot. His legs are wrenched into an abrupt and excruciating split, forcing him into a position his body was never meant to achieve. There’s a sickening ripping sound, followed by a sharp, strangled wheeze as he crashes face-first into the cobblestone road. He curls up, clutching his groin in pure agony, his sword forgotten in the grass beside him.
Another follows right after. The pudgy one with long brown hair tied into a ponytail has his foot redirected, sending him headfirst into the side of their own wagon.
CRACK.
A sickening sound echoes along the road as his skull loses a battle with solid wood. His body stiffens upon impact, then flops lifelessly to the ground in an unconscious heap.
The last bandit was at least clever enough to recognize the danger at their feet. Instead of charging blindly forward, he leaped out of the shifting ground and rolled toward me, springing to his feet in one fluid motion. He immediately slashed at me with his sword, but I met his blade effortlessly, parrying without even needing to shift my stance.
He snarled and attacked again. And again.
Each swing was wild, untrained, and slow—so painfully slow that deflecting his strikes quickly became a dull task. He lacked strength, precision, and even the most basic understanding of proper footwork. It was clear within seconds that he was no threat to me. The only thing he had going for him was sheer determination.
Unfortunately, willpower alone won't get you far in a sword fight. Before long, his strikes slow even further, his breathing grows ragged, and his movements become sluggish. His endurance is pitiful.
I had wanted to prove to myself that I could hold my own in a real fight. However, these idiots barely qualify as a sparring session. It feels more like beating up an aggressive paraplegic. All intent, and no capability.
I could have ended this in an instant, but I had wanted to test myself—to prove that I was strong enough, that I wasn’t afraid. Now that I had, there was no reason to let it continue.
I slashed my sword across his arm, a shallow cut, nothing more.
The bandit yelped and staggered back, instinctively retreating the moment he felt pain. But he only made it three steps before his limbs stiffened. My blade’s enchantment took hold instantly, locking his muscles in place. He collapsed onto the road like a toppled statue, his eyes wide with confusion as his body refused to obey him. He flops to the ground head-first into the stone roadway with a nasty thud.
The bandit mage’s screams have grown raspy and hoarse, his thrashing reduced to sluggish, exhausted jerks. Drenched in sweat, he lies in a trembling heap, his body soaked in a puddle of his own urine. He stares vacantly into nothing, his pupils shrunken to pinpricks, still lost in the nightmare of the spiders that never were.
"Disgusting..." I mutter, approaching with a grimace. The stench alone is enough to make me hesitate.
Lady Willow truly is terrifying.
Looking at his unblinking, terror-stricken eyes, I decide knocking him out would be a mercy.
I hold out my hand and summon a fist-sized stone, hovering it at eye level above him. With a flick of my wrist, I send it hurtling toward his forehead, producing a sharp .
The man lets out a fresh scream, blood gushing from the gash in the center of his forehead.
He isn’t unconscious.
Well… that didn’t work.
I stare at him, stunned, as his high-pitched wails turn into a broken whimper.
This is unnerving. I need to hit him again.
I summon another stone, preparing to try again, when Willow’s voice cuts in smoothly, “Are you trying to kill him, Master Ren?”
I freeze mid-motion, looking up to find Willow standing just outside the carriage, one brow arched in mild curiosity. Beside her stands the bandit leader, locked in a vacant trance, his eyes glassy, mouth slightly open, drool trailing down his chin.
“No,” I answer, frowning at her interruption. “I’m just trying to knock him out.”
“Master Ren…” Willow says with a slight smile and a sigh. “Causing blunt force trauma to a human’s brain to knock them out has just as much chance of killing them as it does of knocking them out.”
“Oh.” I blink, immediately realizing how obvious that is—and how stupid I was for not thinking of it sooner.
“Not that I have a problem with that, mind you,” she adds lightly.
That moment of realization interrupts my focus, and the floating rock I had been holding aloft drops.
Another pained wail erupts from the bloodied mage at my feet.
“Whoops,” I mutter, wincing as I glance down at him. His face is a mess—blood dripping from his forehead, his expression a contorted mixture of pain and terror.
Willow chuckles. “So far, you’ve smashed two men’s heads into the road, slammed another into a wagon, and fractured this idiot’s skull——all while to knock him out.”
She waves a hand toward the still-whimpering mage, and in an instant, his body goes limp. His breathing steadies, his expression relaxes.
“You could have just asked me to put them to sleep,” she says, smiling sweetly.
I grit my teeth, activating my and scanning the unconscious bodies. Sure enough, every one of them has some level of swelling in their skulls. The mage and the one who went face-first into the wagon have signs of internal bleeding in their brains.
Not wanting to turn this arrest into a murder, I sheath my sword and kneel beside the mage, extending my hand and focusing my mana into a healing spell. A soft glow radiates from my palm as the magic seeps into his battered body, mending his fractured skull and restoring his lacerated skin. Meanwhile, Willow strides between the fallen bandits, casually casting sleeping spells over them like she’s tucking children into bed.
One by one, I move to each unconscious bandit, undoing the damage I inflicted. Bruises fade, swelling subsides, and their cuts mend. By the time I finish with the last one, I glance up to see Willow watching with an expression of mild amusement.
With the bandits taken care of, I turn my attention to the metal cage. The lock is undone, so I pull the gate open and climb inside. Three captives sit slumped against the bars: an elderly man with wispy gray hair and deeply wrinkled skin, a younger man with short black hair, and a woman with long auburn hair matted with dried blood.
Their faces are hollow with exhaustion, their bodies covered in bruises, scrapes, and deeper internal injuries that I can sense with my magic. Without hesitation, I kneel and begin casting healing spells on them as well, watching their wounds knit together and color return to their faces.
What I am not able to fix is the stench of old blood, sweat and dirt coming from the three commoners. I of course have become aware of how commoners who lack easy access to baths tend to have an unpleasant smell from my infrequent trips out of the castle. However, these particular commoners seem to have been traveling on foot for a long time without bathing. I know it’s not their fault but it is a bit nauseating.
Looking around I see Willow tilting her head at the bandit boss, who still stands in a blank stupor, utterly entranced by her magic.
“Go to sleep,” she says sweetly.
“Yes, m’lady,” he mutters, then crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.
With an effortless wave of her hand, Willow telekinetically lifts the unconscious bandits into the air as if they weigh nothing, stacking them neatly atop the carriage like pieces of luggage.
I notice our driver, who has been watching in stunned silence, follows their floating bodies with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words but failing to find any. Then his eyes drift over to Willow who is eyeing him suspiciously, as if daring him to complain. Upon locking eyes with her he looks down as if deeply interested in his own shoes.
I finish healing the three prisoners and sit back, assessing my work. Despite the fight and the amount of mana I’ve spent healing both the bandits and their victims, I still have plenty left in reserve. That’s reassuring. The three before me are in perfect health now, their wounds completely mended. They remain under the effects of a sleeping spell, their peaceful expressions a stark contrast to the battered, unconscious state they were in before.
I sigh to myself. I was just starting to feel like I could handle things on my own, fight my own battles without relying on Willow. But here I am, needing her help again. I need to learn how to lift enchantments myself. At least my healing magic has improved—progress is progress.
"Could you wake them up?" I ask as I step out of the cage, glad to escape the stench of filth.
"Of course." Willow approaches with an effortless grace, stopping just beside the cage. With a simple wave of her hand, all three captives stir at once. They sit up slowly, stretching, blinking against the daylight as if waking from a deep, dreamless sleep.
For a brief moment, they remain in that peaceful haze of waking, their expressions blank with groggy confusion. But then, as their surroundings register, the iron bars, the unconscious bandits, the sight of Willow and me standing before them. Their eyes widen.
And just like that, the tranquility vanishes.
"Don't panic."
It’s already too late for that. They’re staring at me like I was the one who attacked them, their eyes filled with uncertainty and fear.
"You’re safe," I say evenly, standing just outside the open cage gate. "I healed you, and you’re free to go."
The old man blinks in confusion, rubbing the back of his head. "What happened? Last thing I remember—"
"You were walking to Stonebrook," I cut in, already losing patience. "We saw those guys attack you." I gesture toward the unconscious bandits, now securely tied down on top of our carriage. The three captives glance up at the pile of defeated men, their expressions shifting from confusion to relief—until their gazes drop slightly, landing on our driver, who still looks utterly petrified. Their expressions tighten again, some of that uncertainty creeping back in.
"Listen," I say, stepping back and hopping off the wagon to make room for them. "We captured those bandits, I healed you, so you can get out of that cage now."
I know my tone is a little impatient, maybe even a little rude, but I’m already over this whole detour. Initially, I was excited about testing my abilities, proving myself in a real fight. But now that it’s over, now that the bandits are dealt with and their victims are safe, I’ve lost interest. I have more important things to focus on—like the dragon.
"Who are you?" the woman asks warily as they step out of the cage.
"He’s Prince Drakemore," Willow answers.
"Call me Ren," I correct.
The young man eyes me suspiciously, his expression shifting from confusion to wariness. "Why would a noble… a prince help us?" he asks, his tone edged with distrust.
The older man shoots him a warning look, as though silently telling him not to provoke me. His expression suggests he shares the same sentiment—that nobles are dangerous—but he at least has the sense to avoid questioning one outright.
"I'm not like other nobles," I mutter, heading back to the carriage.
Willow follows my lead but pauses when she reaches the driver. She places a gentle hand on the side of the carriage, her fingers idly tracing along the wood as she looks up at him. Her expression remains calm, her smile serene, yet something unseen passes between them. A quiet moment stretches on, and then—just like that—the tension in his face melts away.
His knuckles, once white from gripping the reins too tightly, relax. His posture eases, and a blissful, almost dreamy smile spreads across his face.
"There now," Willow says softly, dusting her hands together as if wiping away something inconsequential. "Nothing frightening happened at all, did it?"
The driver blinks, his gaze unfocused for half a second before he brightens. "Ah, of course, M’lady! Just a bit of an unusual stop, is all," he chuckles, tipping his hat before flicking the reins. "Shall we continue on, then?"
Willow hums in agreement and steps into the carriage beside me as we roll forward once more.
Meanwhile, the young man glances at their overturned pushcart, frustration evident in his expression. "What do we do about our stuff? They broke our cart."
I settle into my seat and gesture lazily toward the abandoned bandit wagon. "Well, it seems like these bandits won’t be needing their wagon or horses anymore. And they were even kind enough to load your belongings onto it already."
The woman clasps her hands together and bows her head slightly. "Thank you, sir."
The driver flicks the reins, and our carriage lurches forward, continuing down the road. I lean back against the seat, letting out a quiet sigh, grateful to once again be surrounded by Willow’s gentle floral fragrance.
As we ride, my thoughts drift. When I become king, one of my priorities—after ending slavery and somehow fixing the economy—should be improving sanitary conditions for commoners.
Perhaps public bathhouses would be a good investment. Would mandating daily baths be considered tyrannical? No… I think not.
Satisfied with that conclusion, I distract myself with reading more of , skimming through its cryptic prophecies as the carriage clatters along the road. By the time we reach Stonebrook, I’ve made it about a third of the way through the book.
Upon arrival at the city gatehouse, we inform the guards of the bandits we captured. A group of armored men promptly remove the unconscious criminals from our carriage, hauling them off toward the city jail. The guards look skeptical about how exactly we managed to subdue them, but they don’t question it too much—just grateful to have criminals delivered to them gift-wrapped.
As we wait for the process to be completed, I notice the three people we rescued approaching from behind, having finally caught up. Their testimony serves to verify our story, smoothing over any doubts the guards might have had.
With that business concluded, our carriage sets off once more, rolling deeper into the city. It seems the three refugees were fortunate enough to gain permission to immigrate.
Good for them.
Now, onto the next step of my plan. Time to pay Lord Griswald a visit.
