The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the dusty road as Eamon, Seraphine, and Rowan journeyed toward the city of Eldridge. The landscape around them bore the scars of recent turmoil—burned-out cottages, trampled fields, and abandoned carts lay scattered like forgotten relics of a happier time.

  As they rounded a bend, they were met with a harrowing sight. A sea of weary faces stretched out before them—hundreds of refugees trudging along the road, their belongings bundled on their backs or piled onto makeshift carts. Children clung to their parents, their eyes hollow and cheeks smudged with dirt. The elderly shuffled slowly, leaning heavily on walking sticks, each step a monumental effort.

  Rowan halted abruptly, his eyes wide with disbelief. "By the gods," he whispered. "I knew things were bad, but this..."

  Eamon exchanged a grim look with Seraphine. "This is what we've been trying to tell you," he said softly.

  Seraphine's gaze swept over the refugees, her expression etched with sorrow. "These people have lost everything," she murmured. "Their homes, their livelihoods... some, even their families." She wrapped her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill. "I was one of them, not so long ago.”

  Rowan's jaw tightened. "No one should have to endure this," he said, his eyes lingering on a mother attempting to soothe her crying infant. "We must reach the city quickly. Perhaps we can send help once we're there."

  They continued down the road, weaving through the slow-moving crowd. The atmosphere was heavy with despair. Whispers of uncertainty drifted through the air—questions of where to find food, where to sleep, and whether safety was even attainable.

  As they walked, they noticed several groups of well-dressed men stationed along the roadside. Each had a small booth or a simple banner advertising their services. One such man, tall and sharp-eyed, stepped forward as they approached.

  "Travelers!" he called out with a practiced smile. "Headed to Eldridge, I presume?"

  Rowan eyed him warily. "We are."

  "You're in luck," the man continued smoothly. "For a modest fee, we offer transport and protection straight to the city gates. With the roads as dangerous as they are, it's the safest way to travel."

  Eamon glanced around, noticing others handing over coins in exchange for seats on crowded wagons. The refugees looked desperate, clutching at any semblance of hope.

  "What's the fee?" Rowan asked cautiously.

  The man named a sum that made Eamon's eyes widen. It was exorbitant, especially for those who had lost so much.

  Rowan frowned. "That's steep."

  The man shrugged, unperturbed. "Supply and demand, my friend. With the influx of people, the city's becoming rather selective about who they let in. Those who arrive under our care have a much better chance."

  Seraphine stepped forward, her eyes flashing. "You're exploiting these people in their time of need."

  He met her gaze without flinching. "I'm providing a service. Without us, many wouldn't make it at all. Bandits and worse roam these parts."

  Eamon felt a hand tug at his sleeve. He looked down to see a young girl, dirt-smudged and hollow-eyed. "Please, sir," she whispered. "Do you have any food? My brother is sick."

  His heart clenched. Before he could respond, a chorus of voices rose around them.

  "Help us!"

  "Please, take my children!"

  "Have mercy!"

  They were surrounded by desperate faces, hands reaching out in supplication. The weight of their pleas pressed heavily upon them.

  Rowan's expression hardened with resolve. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a pouch of coins. "We'll pay for three," he said to the man, pressing the money into his hand.

  "Rowan—" Eamon began, but Rowan cut him off.

  "It's safer with a large group," he explained. "And if the situation is as dire as it appears, we can't afford any delays."

  The man pocketed the coins with a satisfied nod. "Wise decision. We'll be departing shortly."

  As they moved toward the caravan, Seraphine cast a lingering glance back at the sea of pleading faces. "We can't help them all," Rowan said gently, noticing her distress.

  "I know," she replied softly. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

  They were directed to a sturdy wagon near the center of the caravan. Around them, nearly a hundred people were preparing to depart—families huddled together, solitary travelers staring blankly ahead, and the sick and elderly resting wherever they could find space.

  Eamon climbed onto the wagon, helping Seraphine up before taking a seat beside her. Rowan settled across from them, his gaze scanning the perimeter. Ten guards patrolled the caravan, their armor polished and weapons gleaming. They carried themselves with an air of confidence, exchanging jokes and lighthearted banter as they moved among the travelers.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  As the caravan lurched into motion, Eamon couldn't shake the unease that gnawed at him. The guards seemed competent enough, but the sheer number of people under their protection felt overwhelming. He glanced at Seraphine, who sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap.

  "Are you alright?" he asked gently.

  She offered a faint smile. "Just thinking. Seeing all of this... it's hard not to wonder what will become of them."

  Eamon nodded, unsure of what to say. He looked out over the passing landscape, the sun dipping lower and painting the sky with hues of orange and purple.

  Night fell, and the caravan came to a halt in a wide clearing near a babbling brook. Campfires sprang to life, casting flickering shadows across weary faces.

  Most of the refugees huddled together, sharing thin blankets and scarce provisions.

  Rowan stood apart from the crowd, a practice sword in hand. "Eamon," he called. "Let's continue your lessons."

  Eamon joined him, eager to distract himself from the pervasive hopelessness surrounding them. He picked up a wooden sword, its weight unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

  "Remember," Rowan instructed. "Footwork is just as important as your swing. Keep your stance balanced."

  They began slowly, Rowan demonstrating basic moves and Eamon attempting to mimic them. His movements were awkward, his grip uncertain. He had only started learning the day before, and it showed.

  A group of guards sauntered over, their armor gleaming in the firelight. One of them, a tall man with a crooked grin, chuckled. "Look at this little chick trying to play warrior."

  Another smirked. "Swinging a sword in a camp is one thing, kid. But when a real blade's pointed at you, you'll wet your pants."

  Before Rowan could intervene, Tobias, the stockier guard with a kinder expression, stepped forward. "Ease up, lads," he said, glancing at his companions. "No harm in the boy learning. In fact," he turned to Eamon with a raised eyebrow, "how about we see what he’s got?"

  Eamon looked at Tobias, unsure, but the guard’s offer seemed genuine. Rowan gave him an encouraging nod. "It’ll be good practice," he said quietly. "You’ve got nothing to lose."

  Tobias grinned and grabbed a pair of wooden swords from the pile. He tossed one to Eamon, who caught it, the weight familiar in his hands. Tobias took a few steps back, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. He was far larger than Eamon—broad-shouldered and well-muscled, his years of training and battle evident in the way he carried himself.

  "Alright, lad. Let’s see what you can do," Tobias said, settling into a ready stance. He was clearly confident, his posture relaxed, almost casual. He wasn’t taking Eamon seriously, not yet.

  The others gathered around, watching with mild curiosity, their smirks still in place. They expected a short, one-sided match.

  Eamon mirrored Tobias’ stance as best as he could, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he reminded himself to stay calm, to remember what Rowan had taught him. Even though he had only been training for a day, his newly refined body gave him a sense of strength and balance he had never felt before.

  Tobias moved first, stepping forward with a measured swing. Eamon raised his sword to block, and when their wooden blades collided, the sound rang out sharply in the night air.

  Tobias’s grin faltered.

  The moment their weapons connected, Tobias felt it—a surge of force so unexpected that it jolted up his arm, sending a sharp ache through his wrist. Eamon held his ground, his face set in concentration, seemingly unaffected by the clash. For a brief second, Tobias stared at him in surprise, his mind racing. This kid is strong.

  The guards watching from the sidelines quieted, their jeers fading into confused murmurs as they noticed the intensity of the clash.

  Tobias, still stunned by the sheer strength Eamon had displayed, pulled back and adjusted his stance. He launched another attack, this time with more force, expecting to overpower the smaller, less experienced opponent. But once again, when their swords met, the impact was jarring. Tobias winced as his wrist throbbed, the strength of Eamon’s block far beyond what he had anticipated. He was putting real pressure into his swings now, and yet Eamon wasn’t budging.

  Eamon, on the other hand, felt surprisingly steady. The power coursing through his limbs felt natural, as though his body had been remade for this. His arms absorbed the blows effortlessly, his feet rooted to the ground like tree trunks. He wasn’t using any magic, no enhancement from the Blood Reservoir—this was just his raw, refined strength. And it was more than enough to match Tobias’s size and muscle.

  The smirks on the other guards’ faces disappeared, replaced by raised eyebrows and looks of disbelief. They exchanged glances, clearly not expecting this outcome.

  Tobias narrowed his eyes. Alright, time to take this seriously. He wasn’t about to be shown up, not even by a kid with surprising strength. Shifting his stance, he began to move with more precision, testing Eamon’s defenses with faster, sharper strikes.

  Eamon tried to keep up, his sword clashing with Tobias’s in a rapid series of exchanges. But now, Tobias wasn’t just using brute strength—he was using skill, experience, and years of training. His strikes became more intricate, feints and quick footwork designed to throw Eamon off balance.

  Eamon did his best to follow, but he was still rough around the edges. His footwork lagged behind, and his parries weren’t as fluid as they needed to be. Tobias exploited every gap in his defense, slipping his blade past Eamon’s guard and tapping his shoulder, his side, his leg—all light hits that didn’t hurt, but made it clear that Tobias was in control of the fight.

  "See, lad," Tobias said between strikes, "strength isn’t everything." He pressed the attack, his movements swift and practiced. Eamon found himself on the defensive, struggling to keep up with the flurry of blows. His muscles ached from the exertion, and he felt his grip on the sword slipping.

  A few of the guards chuckled quietly, their confidence returning as Tobias began to dominate the match.

  But even as Tobias pressed his advantage, there was a flicker of admiration in his eyes. Eamon might have been inexperienced, but his raw power—his sheer physicality—was impressive. Each time Tobias struck, he felt the resistance in Eamon’s blade, the strength behind every block and counterattack.

  Finally, after a particularly sharp maneuver, Tobias disarmed Eamon, sending his sword clattering to the ground. The match was over.

  Eamon panted, his chest heaving as he wiped sweat from his brow. He glanced at Rowan, who gave him a nod of approval.

  "You did well," Tobias said, handing Eamon back his sword. "Better than I expected."

  Eamon looked up, a little surprised. "Really?"

  Tobias chuckled, rubbing his sore wrist. "You’ve got strength, lad. I wasn’t expecting you to hold your own in the early exchanges like that. Gave me quite a shock."

  One of the other guards, clearly trying to save face, muttered, "He’s strong, sure, but he’s still green. Needs a lot of work."

  Tobias shot him a look. "Everyone needs work. But for someone who’s just started training, this kid’s already got a solid foundation."

  Eamon couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride. He knew he still had a long way to go—his lack of skill had shown clearly in the second half of the sparring match—but hearing praise from someone as seasoned as Tobias meant something.

  Rowan clapped a hand on Eamon’s shoulder. "You’ve got a lot of potential. We’ll keep training, and you’ll refine your technique."

  Eamon nodded, feeling a new sense of determination. The spar had exposed his weaknesses, but it had also shown him what he was capable of. His strength wasn’t just an advantage—it was something he could build on, something that could make him a formidable fighter once he learned to wield it properly.