The road opened into a wide, cracked path flanked by dry stone and dead grass. A collapsed watchtower stood crooked on the left, its top half missing—devoured long ago by some forgotten beast or time itself.
Lucas sat at the back of the cart, hood over his head, arms folded across his chest.
The morning was cold.
The silence between him and the mercenaries had held since the day before. Varnis whistled quietly up ahead on horseback, too content for a man hiding something in chains.
Then the bells rang.
Not loud—but deep, ceremonial.
Lucas lifted his head just enough to see it.
From the eastern ridge, a procession approached.
Dozens of riders in formation. Armored guards mounted on silver-clad beasts. Flags and banners bearing the seal of a noble house—a silver tree over a crescent moon.
The air shifted.
Nobility.
And not just any.
He recognized the sigil.
House Elyndra.
A noble line tied to the ruling family of one of the most powerful Strongholds in The Crucible. Known for their mages, their military discipline… and their heir.
Lyss.
Lucas's stomach twisted faintly.
He sank deeper into his hood.
'Of all the people to run into…'
The merchant's caravan slowed to a stop, wheels grinding to a halt. Dust floated up around them. Varnis cursed under his breath and straightened his coat, waving a hand toward his mercenaries.
Everyone stood still.
Protocol.
When a noble convoy crossed paths with a common one, the lesser was expected to halt, show deference, and wait for permission to pass.
Varnis dismounted and began a forced, smiling approach to the noble riders.
Lucas didn't move.
He stayed exactly where he was.
Still. Silent.
Unseen.
Or so he hoped.
The noble convoy slowed with practiced grace, hooves clopping in unison as their mounts formed a loose semicircle around the dusty crossroads. Banners fluttered in the wind, shimmering slightly with protective enchantments.
Inside one of the central carriages—sleek, polished, warded with layered runes—sat Lyss.
She rested her chin on her palm, watching the exchange through the half-drawn curtain.
Her guards stood at attention outside. Two older nobles discussed trade and route permissions just a few paces away. Boring.
She sighed.
'Politics.'
Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the window. She was used to these formalities. Every stop on the journey toward her family's Stronghold had been the same: pomp, empty gestures, and hidden expectations.
She leaned back—
Then paused.
Something.
A noise.
Faint. Barely audible.
It came again—softer this time. A choked sound, like someone struggling to breathe through clenched teeth.
She frowned and sat upright.
The sound had come from the other caravan… the one stopped beside theirs.
She pushed the curtain aside further, scanning the wagons. One cart carried covered goods. The second cart looked different—more fortified. Metal frames. Runic lines.
A container.
Her breath caught.
'What are they transporting with that much reinforcement?'
Lyss narrowed her eyes.
Then stood.
She opened the door, ignoring the surprised glance of her escort.
"Lady Lyss—" one of the guards called.
She raised a hand to silence him. Her steps were measured but direct as she crossed toward the second cart of the merchant convoy.
The two mercenaries turned at once.
The one with the spear stepped forward, blocking her path with an outstretched hand.
"Apologies, my lady. This is a private caravan. We kindly ask you return to—"
"Move," Lyss said without raising her voice.
The guard blinked.
But didn't move.
Behind her, a ripple of motion.
Her own escorts had followed, closing the distance in seconds.
Four soldiers in House Elyndra armor drew blades—not in aggression, but readiness.
Steel rang faintly in the air.
Tension snapped into place like a taut string.
Lyss stepped closer to the mercenary, her eyes glowing faintly with contained æther.
"I don't ask twice."
The spear wielder hesitated… then stepped aside.
Lyss passed him without another word.
The humming came before she even reached the crate.
It was subtle, like a breath trapped inside stone.
And then she felt it—an energy under the metal that pulsed wrong. Violated. Shackled.
Her fingers touched the wood, trailing along the runes etched in blackened silver.
They were slave seals. Old magic. Not human-made.
And very illegal under noble law.
'What the hell are you carrying...?'
She pressed her palm flat against the surface.
The crate responded. A flicker of light ran along the edges, and the lock mechanism clicked once.
It was opening.
The rune lock cracked with a soft hiss, and a faint shimmer of violet light pulsed through the metal framework as the enchantment unraveled.
The air turned colder.
Lyss narrowed her eyes.
She moved with care—no grand gestures, no hesitation—as she unlatched the secondary seal and slowly opened the crate's front panel.
The heavy wood creaked.
A breath escaped from within.
And then…
Silence.
Inside, curled like a discarded doll, was a girl.
Her skin pale under the grime. Hair silver-blonde, tangled and dulled by dirt. Ankles and wrists shackled in glowing cuffs. A runic brand burned just below her collarbone, its edges raw and inflamed. Her chest rose and fell in shallow movements—barely conscious, barely there.
And unmistakably elven.
Lyss didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Everyone around the cart went quiet.
The guards of House Elyndra tensed, expressions darkening.
The mercenary with the axe took a step forward. "That crate is protected cargo under merchant contract," he growled. "Our employer has the papers—"
Lyss raised a hand, and the air itself stopped responding to him.
The æther shimmered around her, crackling with noble authority and unspoken threat.
"Protected?" she repeated, her voice cold. "You've branded and shackled a native of this land and locked her in a box like livestock."
Varnis rushed forward from the front of the caravan, sweat already pouring down his face.
"M-My lady, I assure you! This is all perfectly legal under Crucible trade regulation 17-A! She's—she's not a citizen! She's—"
"She's a person," Lyss cut him off.
Her gaze didn't move from the elf. Her voice didn't rise.
But something in the world listened when she spoke.
"You will release her. Now."
The merc with the axe twitched, hand moving toward his weapon. "She's our responsibility. If we fail to deliver, we lose more than a paycheck. Our heads are on the line."
"Then you should have chosen better employers," Lyss replied.
And that was all it took.
The axe left his back in a blur of motion.
But it never reached her.
Steel clashed as one of her guards intercepted him, blades sparking in a flash of trained precision.
The fight erupted in a heartbeat.
Screams and grunts. Boots slamming into dirt. Sparks of æther and metal. The other mercenary joined in, but the guards of Elyndra moved like wolves—coordinated, fast, unforgiving.
In less than a minute, both mercs were on the ground. One unconscious. One bleeding, groaning, barely alive.
Varnis tried to run.
He didn't make it far.
A single word from Lyss and her guards pinned him face-first to the ground.
Lucas had watched it all from the cart.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He waited until the fighting started… then slowly began to slide down from the back of the wagon, feet hitting the ground quietly.
He turned and tried to vanish into the shadows of the nearest rock formation, hoping the chaos would cover him.
But he didn't make it far.
A firm hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.
A blade pressed to his chest.
And a soldier stared at him with narrowed eyes.
"You. Come with me."
The soldier pushed him forward, firm but not brutal.
Lucas didn't resist.
The moment the mercenaries had drawn their weapons, he knew it was over. There was no path out of this without being noticed—without being dragged in.
Now here he was.
The chaos had calmed. Varnis knelt in the dirt, hands bound behind his back, muttering panicked excuses. The wounded mercs groaned under guard watch.
And she stood in the center of it all.
Calm. Controlled. Radiant in a way that made her presence feel inevitable.
Lyss.
She turned as Lucas was brought into the circle of torchlight.
Her gaze met his.
Recognition flared in her eyes, subtle but undeniable.
"You," she said softly.
Lucas blinked, not sure if she was addressing him or herself.
"I knew I'd seen you before." Her tone wasn't hostile—just… disappointed. "The inn. You saw me."
He said nothing.
The guard beside him glanced between them but stayed silent.
Lyss stepped closer.
Her expression was unreadable—no rage, no condescension. Just a sharp clarity behind her eyes that pinned him in place harder than the soldier's grip ever could.
"You were in that cart," she said. "Weren't you?"
Lucas didn't answer.
She tilted her head slightly.
"You knew what they were carrying."
He looked away.
Not a word. Not a nod.
But silence said enough.
The pause between them stretched long.
Then she took a slow breath and stepped back.
"To think," she said quietly, almost to herself, "you looked like someone who hated chains."
She turned to her guards. "Release the elf. Give her food. Clean water. No restraints."
Then to the soldier holding Lucas:
"I'll handle this one personally."
The guard hesitated. "Are you sure, my lady?"
"Yes. He's mine now."
Her words hit harder than a blow.
Lucas's jaw tightened.
'Mine?'
But before he could protest, her gaze slid back to him, and her tone dropped just slightly.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just… decisive.
"You stood by while she was in chains," she murmured.
Then turned and walked away, leaving him no choice but to follow.